“I usually give all my clients a mini-lesson. Investing in the market is like going to a casino. You only invest what you can afford to lose.”
“I lost more than I wanted to lose.”
“Did you ask your broker to give you a printout of your account activity?” Duncan asked.
When he’d worked for CEMS he’d made it a practice to give his clients a monthly statement. When the CEO discovered what he’d been doing he was given a verbal dressing-down. But when Duncan reminded the arrogant executive that there was no written company rule that he couldn’t send out a monthly statement to his clients, a memorandum was circulated before the end of the day that only accounting was authorized to mail out statements. A written request from a client for a statement other than the bi-annual ones needed the CEO’s signature.
“I got the ones for the period ending June thirtieth, December thirty-first and the first six months of this year.”
Lowering his leg, feet planted apart on the area rug, Duncan gave her a long, penetrating stare. “I want you to submit a written request for a printout of your monthly activity for the past eighteen months. Address the letter, certified return receipt, directly to the CEO. Make certain you indicate a deadline date as to when you expect to have the statements. I also want you to request an audit. Not an internal audit, but one done by an outside firm. Once you get them, call my executive assistant to set up another appointment.”
“What would you look for, Duncan?”
“I’m not certain.”
It was a half truth. He suspected CEMS executives were concealing risky transactions, thereby misleading their clients. The statements may have posted losses when there may have been gains. And if Duncan discovered an irregularity, then he would refer Gail Hamilton to Chatham and Wainwright. Kyle Chatham and his partner Jordan Wainwright were well-versed in securities fraud; they’d worked together at a prestigious New York law firm handling cases ranging from corporate espionage to capital murder. He stood up, indicating the meeting had concluded, and extended his hand to assist the flirtatious widow.
“Would you mind joining me for lunch? My driver is waiting outside.”
Duncan angled his head, smiling. “I wish I could, Mrs. Hamilton, but I have another appointment.” He released her hand. He was scheduled to meet with another client, but not until later that afternoon.
“When we meet again, I’d like it to be at my pied-à-terre.”
Resting a hand in the small of her back, Duncan steered Gail Hamilton toward the door. “We’ll talk about it after I go over the statements.” He refused to commit to a meeting in one of her two homes. She owned a Fifth Avenue condo and a Long Island mansion overlooking the Sound. Mia Humphrey stood up when he gave her a surreptitious wink. His executive assistant was more than familiar with the gesture.
“Mrs. Hamilton, Ms. Humphrey will escort you out.”
Mia’s stoic expression didn’t change. “Please follow me, Mrs. Hamilton.” She’d taken an instant dislike to the woman who appeared to look down her nose at her. And when Mrs. Hamilton called for an appointment she’d insisted on calling her boss Duncan rather than Mr. Gilmore. Duncan insisted on formality whenever clients were present. The only time she, Augustin and Duncan addressed one another by their given names was when they were out of earshot of clients. Formality fostered professionalism, familiarity a lack of respect.
Duncan walked back into his office, closed the door, slipped off his jacket, loosened his tie and activated the Do not Disturb feature on his phone. He strode over to the alcove and lay across the leather sofa. Closing his eyes, he willed his mind blank and fell asleep. His mind had been in tumult since he’d left the message on Tamara’s voice mail and she hadn’t gotten back to him.
A fear that something had happened to her reopened a wound and rekindled fears he believed he’d put to rest.
CHAPTER 9
Duncan swung his legs off the sofa. Reclining had allowed him to relax. He was scheduled to meet with a new client, and initial meetings were usually long, with a litany of ongoing questions. Many of his Harlem clients couldn’t afford to take the risks as he’d executed with those who’d signed with CEMS.
Clients like Gail Hamilton were self-centered, greedy and impatient. They expected their brokers to work miracles. Anytime their portfolios were in the seven-figure range their attitudes changed, they became more demanding and at times quite aggressive. They checked the stock prices on the Internet, television cable channels dedicated solely to finance and read the Wall Street Journal from the first page to the last.
The longer Duncan had worked at CEMS the more he’d come to respect the clients who tended to micromanage their accounts. Who better to watch one’s own money than oneself?
However, the risks he initiated on behalf of the firm’s clients did not apply to him when he set up his own portfolio. Duncan invested only what he could afford to lose. He’d begun with an initial investment of twenty-five-thousand dollars, doubled that the second year, and within four years the bottom-line figure in his personal portfolio was staggering. After purchasing the condo, he withdrew all but ten percent, reinvesting in treasury bills and municipal bonds, also known as “munis.”
He returned to his desk and buzzed Mia. “Do I have any messages?”
“You have four, Duncan. Micah Sanborn called from the Kings County DA’s office. He said you can call him back at your convenience. He left numbers where you can reach him.”
Duncan knew Micah was calling him about his aunt’s former tenant, who was out on bail, out of the classroom and living with his mother in Queens. “What’s the second one?”
“It’s from Ava Warrick. She asked for your e-mail addy because she’s sending a mailing list you’d asked for.”
Clicking a button on the wireless mouse, Duncan saw that Kyle’s fiancée had sent him the names and addresses for the get-together at his condo. He downloaded the attachment and printed out two copies. One he would leave in the office and the other he would take home. Ava had sent him a list of twenty-three names. The starred ones indicated those who would bring a guest.
“I got it, Mia. Who else called?”
“A Mrs. Fletcher called to say your order is complete, and you can pick up everything tomorrow morning any time after ten.”
A smile of complete satisfaction deepened attractive lines around Duncan’s eyes. “Please call the car service and have a driver pick me up at my house tomorrow morning at nine.”
Duncan never had to follow up on whatever he told Mia. She’d been referred to him by a social services agency which sought to employ Harlem residents in Harlem-based businesses. When Mia had come in for an interview, her only marketable skill was the ability to answer the telephone in a businesslike manner. Her computer knowledge was limited to the Internet.
When he suggested she take some part-time business courses to improve her skills, courses he’d offered to pay for, Mia had told him she couldn’t afford to pay a babysitter to watch her toddler daughter who attended a state-funded daycare center during the day.
Duncan paid for the business courses and the cost of babysitting and his investment in Mia Humphrey was repaid tenfold. Her organizational skills proved invaluable during the tax season. “What’s the last call?”
“Dr. Wolcott. She wants you to call her because she needs a referral for a divorce attorney.”
He whispered a silent prayer of gratitude. She’d gotten back to him. “Did Dr. Wolcott leave a number?”
“Yes. It’s her cell.”
“Please give it to me.”
Duncan wrote down the number and then repeated it. When Tamara had called him, the number that had come up on his ID was her home number. He didn’t have her cell number or a number at the hospital. He knew it was probably easier to reach her through the hospital but hadn’t wanted to breach the boundaries Tamara had established. If she’d wanted him to have her alternate numbers she would have offered them.
“The receptionist
s are ordering lunch for the building. Do you want anything?”
“No, thank you. My one o’clock meeting won’t be in the office.” Duncan had made it a practice not to see first-time clients in the office because he discovered people were more relaxed when conducting business while eating and drinking. “I’m going to return these calls, then I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day.”
Duncan decided to call Micah first. He called his office number, but was informed that the ADA was meeting with a judge, and wouldn’t be available until later that afternoon. He hung up without leaving a message, knowing he could always reach him at home.
Taking a quick glance at his watch, Duncan noted the time. He had to leave within fifteen minutes to get to the Upper-East-Side restaurant before his potential client arrived. He’d learned early in his business career that he should always arrive at a designated location at least a quarter of an hour before his client. A late arrival indicated not only a lack of respect, but also a total disregard for the other’s importance.
He dialed the number of Tamara’s cell, his fingers drumming nervously on the top of the desk as he waited for the connection. “Hello, Duncan,” she said in singsong.
Duncan smiled. “Hello, Tamara. How are you?”
“I’m good. Did your secretary give you my message?”
“Yes she did. Did you get my message?”
“What message, Duncan?”
“I called you Monday.”
“I’ve been away since Monday, and I hadn’t bothered to pick up my messages. What did you say?”
“You’ll find out when you listen to the message.”
“That’s not fair, Duncan.”
“What’s fair is once you get a boyfriend you should always check your voice mail.”
There came a beat. “Is that what you are? A boyfriend?”
“What else can I be, Tamara? I’m definitely not your lover.”
Another pause ensued before Tamara said, “I can’t respond to that now because I’m in a public place.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the waiting room of a train station. I’m on my way back to the city.”
Duncan sobered. He’d hoped she would respond to his reference to being her boyfriend. “You were asking about a divorce attorney.”
“Yes. I know someone who’s thinking of divorcing her husband and she would like a consultation before she files the necessary papers.”
“I know Kyle doesn’t take on divorce cases, but I’ll let you talk to him. I’m going to put you on hold while I call him.” Duncan hit speed dial for Kyle’s private number and listened to a recording that Kyle Chatham would be out of the office and would return the Tuesday following the holiday weekend. He reconnected with Tamara. “He’s out of the office until after Labor Day.”
The entire building would be closed the following day. He, Ivan and Kyle had agreed when they’d set up their businesses in the brownstone that they would give their employees the day off the Friday before a holiday weekend. They would be given a four-instead of a three-day weekend.
“Damn,” she whispered, “I suppose I’m not going to get anyone until after the holiday.”
“If you’re really anxious to talk to Kyle, then come with me to his place this weekend.”
“What’s happening this weekend?”
“He and his fiancée are hosting a cookout on Sunday.”
“Duncan, I’m certain he’s not going to be in a mood to talk business at a cookout.”
“He will if I ask him.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“No, Tamara, I’m not kidding. Kyle, Ivan and I are as close as brothers. If one of us needs something, then the others step up and do it. No questions asked.”
“You guys must have an awesome bond.”
“We do,” Duncan confirmed without a hint of guile. “Now to change the subject. When am I going to see you again?”
“Are you free tomorrow night?”
He smiled. “It just so happens that I am. In fact I’m free all day tomorrow. What do you want to do?”
“Are you ready for your cooking lessons?”
“Yes. But we don’t have to start tomorrow night.”
“Yes, we do, Duncan. It’s futile to avoid the inevitable.”
“We’re going to have to go food-shopping.”
“Don’t worry about that, darling. I’ll call in an order and have it delivered to your place. I plan to give you a crash course in preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
Duncan wondered whether Tamara was aware that she’d called him darling. “Are we going to cook at your place?”
“We can’t. Remember, I have a roommate.”
“Well, since I don’t have a roommate, then you can stay with me.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for a house guest?”
“If the guest looks like you, then the answer is yes.” Duncan took another glance at his watch. “Look, baby, I’d love to talk some more, but I have a meeting out of the office and I have to leave now or I’ll be late.”
“Call me at home tonight and we’ll set a time to meet tomorrow.”
“You’ve got it. I’ll talk to you later.”
“La-ter, Dun-can,” she sang in singsong.
“La-ter, Ta-ma-ra,” he intoned, smiling. He was still smiling when he walked out of the brownstone to hail a taxi to take him to his favorite East-Side restaurant.
* * *
Tamara heard the music on the fourth-floor landing, and it became louder and louder as she approached the top floor. There were only two apartments on the fifth floor—hers and that of an elderly couple who’d moved in during the rentcontrol era. The driving baseline beats of hip-hop, approaching earshattering decibels was coming from her apartment.
Groaning inwardly, Tamara unlocked the door. The volume on her sound system was so high that she was unable to understand the lyrics or identify the hip-hop artist. She had to talk to Rodney about the loud music because the last thing she wanted or needed was problems with her neighbors.
She kicked off her shoes, set her bag on the floor and dropped a stack of mail on the foyer table. Walking on bare feet, she made her way through the living room, coming up short when Rodney walked out of the bathroom without a stitch of clothing on.
Her jaw dropped. “Whoa!”
“Sorry.”
She and Rodney had spoken in unison.
Tamara recovered first and turned on her heel, heading for her bedroom. She didn’t mind Rodney staying with her, but he couldn’t walk around naked, and he couldn’t play his music that loud. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when the music stopped.
Sitting on the padded bench at the foot of her bed she thought about the three days she’d spent in Wheatley Heights with Renata when she’d wanted to spend that time with Duncan.
Tamara smiled. Even when she spoke to him by phone she felt as if he was right there with her, that a vaguely sensuous sensation came through the phone to wrap her in a cocoon of longing and protection.
She remembered he said he’d left a message on her voice mail. Moving off the bench, she reached for the phone and punched in the code to retrieve her messages. There were three—one from Renata, who thanked her for being there for her. The second was from a clerk at a bookstore who’d called to say the book she wanted had come in. The last one was from Duncan: “Tamara, this is Duncan. Please do not invite me to share your bed again, and then expect me to walk away without making love to you.”
She closed her eyes as the impact of his sensual warning seeped into her, bringing with it heat, then chills. When they’d gotten into bed together to watch the movie she hadn’t planned on falling asleep. She hadn’t known when he’d turned off the television, the bedside lamp or when he had left her apartment.
“Wolcott.”
Tamara turned to find Rodney standing outside the bedroom. He’d put on a pair of jeans with a T-shirt. “Yes, Fox?”
“I’m sorry about flashing my naked ass.”
She smiled. “Try and remember I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t need to see your family jewels. And, you can’t play your music that loud. I have elderly neighbors at the end of the hall who—”
“I understand,” Rodney interrupted. “It won’t happen again. By the way, I have a couple interested in the condo. The bank has preapproved them because they’re willing to offer a thirty-percent down payment. I hope I’ll be out of your hair by the beginning of October.”
Tamara stared at her friend, thinking he seemed more boy than man. He looked even younger with his shorn scalp. “I told you before that you can take all the time you need to find a place.”
“That sounds good now, but what’s going to happen when you invite a man home? He’s not going to be that understanding when you tell him your roommate is a man. I know I wouldn’t if you were my woman.”
“I’m not your woman, Rodney.”
“Whose woman are you, Tamara?”
“Mind your own business, Fox.”
“He better be good to you.”
“Or what?” she asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Fox.”
Rodney shook his head. “I’m not jealous. Just think of me as your overprotective older brother.”
She winked at him. “Okay, big brother.”
Rodney returned the wink. “I’d better get going.”
“Are you working tonight?” Tamara asked.
“Yeah. But this is the last night. On Tuesday I start days.”
Tamara stared at the space where Rodney had been. She had to get up and unpack her luggage, sort laundry for a pickup and call in a grocery order for a Chelsea delivery. Duncan had reassured her that she’d be able to talk to his friend about her sister’s marital problems, and as much as she hadn’t wanted to be drawn into the domestic fray, she had to support Renata. After all, blood was thicker than water.
* * *
Duncan, waiting for Tamara to exit the elevator, schooled his expression not to show what he was feeling at that moment. It was as if he’d been waiting an eternity for someone like her to fill up the empty space in his life left by the loss of not one but two women.
Man of Fortune Page 12
