Man of Fate

He filled a cup with coffee, adding a dollop of cream, and carried it to the table, which had been covered with place mats to protect its surface. Sitting down, he stared at his staff. Kyle marveled at the fact that he’d inherited an intelligent, experienced group of people who came to work on time and utilized their skills to grow the practice. With the exception of Cherise, who’d recently celebrated her thirty-fifth birthday, everyone else was older than him.

He opened a file. “We’re going to start with Hector Lonzo’s hit-and-run.” Kyle looked at Mercedes Quiñones, the full-time bilingual paralegal. “Did you get Mr. Lonzo’s wife’s statement?”

Mercedes nodded. She’d recently cut her curly black hair, much to the chagrin of her husband of twenty-eight years, because she claimed long graying hair made her look older. “I spoke to her late Friday night. I have everything on tape, and I just have to translate it.”

Kyle smiled. “Good.”

It took less than an hour to go over the case-file updates, and when everyone stood up to leave the room Kyle asked Cherise to stay. “I need you to send a bouquet of flowers to someone.” He scrawled Ava’s name and address on a sheet of paper, handing it to her.

Her reddish eyebrows lifted. “What kind of flowers do you want?”

He thought for a moment. “See if they have peach-colored roses. If not, then pink. The message should read: Hope you are feeling better, and my name.”

“How many roses do you want to send, Kyle?”

“Two dozen and I’d like them delivered before this evening.”

“I’m on it.”

A hint of a smile parted Kyle’s lips at Cherise’s trademark rejoinder. “I know you are,” he said.

She blushed furiously then turned and walked out of the room. Kyle knew he’d embarrassed her but he hadn’t meant to. When he’d bragged to Duncan and Ivan that his employees were superior to theirs it had begun an undeclared cold war among the childhood friends. Kyle felt closer to Ivan and Duncan than to his career-army-officer brother Kenneth, with whom he seldom spoke. Although Kenneth was stationed stateside, it was his sister-in-law who sent Kyle Christmas cards with updated pictures of his school-age nephews. His sister Sandra had a special place in his heart. She’d recently moved to Arizona with her husband and toddlers, and never failed to e-mail pictures of her adorable little girls.

He’d poured his second cup of coffee when Duncan Gilmore walked in. Duncan was the most complex of the trio. An even six feet, he cut an incredibly handsome figure in his Brioni suit and accessories. However, all of the sartorial splendor couldn’t disguise the sadness in Duncan’s beautifully modulated voice and occasionally too-bright smile. Women of all races and ethnic groups were drawn to his olive coloring, chiseled features and close-cropped curly black hair.

His friend had suffered a series of losses, beginning with his single mother, who died from a blood clot in her lung the year Duncan turned fourteen, to losing his fiancée on September eleventh. Having never known his father, Duncan had gone to live with a schoolteacher aunt in Brooklyn who had recognized his mathematical genius and encouraged him to work beyond his potential. He graduated with honors from Brooklyn Technical High School, then enrolled in Baruch College for a degree in business. He had returned to college five years later to earn an MBA from Pace University.

It’d been eight years since Duncan had lost the love of his life, and he had yet to form a lasting relationship with any of the women he dated. He had been the least commitment-shy of the three, but that had changed.

Kyle was shocked when Duncan had announced after his fiancée’s death that he intended never to marry or father children. Ivan went from being a friend to being a therapist, but Duncan had refused to listen to him. They’d allowed their friend to grieve in private, and nearly eight years later he was still grieving.

The two men bumped fists, a gesture they used when greeting each other. “What’s up, DG?” Kyle asked Duncan.

“That’s what I came to ask you,” Duncan countered. “How was the wedding?”

Kyle smiled. “It was spectacular. The bride was beautiful, the groom handsome and the bridal attendants were luscious-looking.”

“Did you meet anyone?” Duncan asked, smiling.

“The bride’s sister was really gorgeous, but unfortunately I didn’t know at the time I was trying to hit on her that she was already taken.”

“I guess you win some and you lose some.”

“It’s okay, because she’s what I consider geographically undesirable. The lady lives in White Plains.”

Duncan whistled softly. “Westchester County roads can be a bitch. Some of their parkways flood quickly and the one time I tried driving along one of the local roads in the snow I almost wrecked a rental car.”

Attractive lines fanned out around Kyle’s eyes when his smile widened. “I don’t have a problem dating Big Apple sisters or those from the other boroughs.” Duncan nodded, but didn’t say anything. “What are you doing for the Fourth?” This year the Fourth of July fell on a Saturday and Kyle planned to close his office that Friday and not reopen until Tuesday to give his employees a four-day holiday weekend.

Duncan picked a stray raisin off the table and popped it into his mouth. “Right now I’m open, but Ivan mentioned something about having a cookout at his place.”

Ivan owned a brownstone in the Mount Morris Historic District two blocks from their offices. “If he doesn’t want to do it, then I will,” Kyle volunteered. “I haven’t sat outside or used the grill since last year.”

Resting a hand on Kyle’s shoulder over a starched white shirt, Duncan leaned closer. “Please tell Ivan you’ll do it. If I have to eat another hockey puck masquerading as a hamburger I’m going to go ape-shit and hurt Dr. Ivan Campbell. The man can’t cook for nothing!”

“Hear! Hear!” Kyle intoned, bumping fists with Duncan. “That settles it. We’ll hang out at my place.”

Duncan flashed a wide smile. “Thanks, buddy. You just saved a thirty-year friendship.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to meet a client in a few minutes. We’ll talk later.”

Kyle waited for the financial planner to leave before gathering his files and returning to his office. There was something Mercedes had said that made him believe Rashaun Hayden was covering for someone, someone who might have threatened him if he decided to snitch. The street code of “snitches get stitches” prompted many defendants to take the rap for someone else.

The elder Haydens had emptied their bank account to hire private legal counsel for their only child, feeling that a public defender wouldn’t fight to keep their son out of jail. Kyle was charging them half his hourly fee because he believed Rashaun was innocent. Sitting down at his desk, he picked up the phone and dialed the Hayden residence. Rashaun answered after the second ring.

“Hey, this is Ras.”

“It’s ‘Hello,’ Rashaun. How do you expect a jury to believe you when you come across like that?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. C. I thought you was one of my boys.”

Kyle wanted to ask the teenager if he cut English classes, because he invariably screwed up his verb tenses. “The name is Chatham, not C, and, Rashaun, I need to see you.”

“When, Mr. Chatham?”

“I want you to ask either your mother or father to call me so I can set up an appointment.”

“Do I have to come?”

“Yes, Rashaun, you have to come.”

“What do you want to talk about, Mr. Chatham?”

Kyle leaned back in his executive chair. There was a thread of anxiousness in his client’s voice that hadn’t been there before. “You’ll find out when we all meet.”

“Have you found out who really jacked up that lying bitch?”

“I want you to listen real good, Rashaun, because I’m only going to say this once. Clean up your mouth or I’ll have the judge revoke your bail and you’ll find yourself back in Rikers at the mercy of some inmate who’d be happy to make you his bitch before he passes you around to his buddies for cigarettes.”

There was complete silence on the other end of the line. Kyle knew he had gotten through to the cocky young man who believed doing a “bid” would enhance his street cred. What Rashaun failed to understand was that going to prison was not a walk in the park. He was facing a sentence of ten to fifteen years, with the possibility of parole in eight years. And a lot could happen to him in eight years.

“Now that I have your attention, please let your parents know I called and that I want them to contact me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, Mr. Chatham.”

“Thank you, Rashaun.”

Kyle ended the call, annoyed that he had to go there with the young man. He didn’t know where Rashaun had gotten the idea that going to prison was a badge of honor. Kyle had grown up with boys who’d gone to prison, only to return either hardened or broken men. Some were never able to assimilate afterwards and become a part of society, shut out from certain jobs because of their criminal backgrounds.

The intercom rang and he pushed the speaker button. “Yes, Cherise?”

“I ordered the flowers. They’ll be delivered to Miss Warrick before three today.”

“Good.” Kyle made another call to the owner of one of his favorite neighborhood restaurants.

“Good morning. This is Leroi’s”

“Good morning, Pearl. This is Kyle Chatham. Is your husband available to come to the phone?”

“Sure, Kyle. Leroi’s right here.”

“What’s shaking, brother?” said a deep, booming voice.

“I need a favor.”

“Name it,” Leroi said without hesitating.

“I want to buy a steak from you.”

“Buy a steak or you want me to cook a steak?”

Kyle knew Leroi probably thought he was losing his mind. “I want to buy two uncooked strip steaks from you. I’d prefer if they were aged.” He usually ordered his steaks directly from Peter Luger’s butcher shop, but the dry-aged strip and porterhouse steaks in his freezer were frozen solid. He’d suggested to Duncan they have the cookout at his place because it’d been a while since he’d entertained outdoors and he wanted to broil those steaks before they developed freezer burn.

“How large do you want them?” Leroi asked?

“Not too large.” Kyle planned to make steak au poivre.

“I have a few aged ones weighing approximately sixteen and twenty ounces.”

“Don’t you have anything smaller?”

“Nope. It sounds like a lot of meat, but it won’t be after you broil it.”

“Wrap up two for me, and I’ll pick them up around five.”

“I can have someone run it over to you, Kyle.”

“You don’t have to do that, Leroi.”

“Yeah, I do. After all, you helped me out when you got that fraud to drop her lawsuit when she claimed she found bugs in her salad. I’m sending the steaks and think of them as a gift from me and the missus.”

“Only this time, Leroi.”

“No problem, brother.”

Kyle hung up. Normally he wouldn’t accept a gift or gifts from his clients, but he knew it was useless to argue with Leroi, and he needed a premium cut of thawed beef.

The morning and afternoon passed quickly for Kyle. He stopped long enough to order a Caesar salad with grilled chicken from a nearby deli. Mrs. Hayden returned his call, and he set up an appointment to meet with her, her son and husband the following week.

Tonight his focus was on seeing Ava again. He stopped at a local grocer to pick up what he needed to go with his steak dinner, and then he hailed a taxi to take him to Morningside Heights.

A different doorman was on duty when he stepped out of the taxi. He gave the man his name, waiting while he called Ava’s apartment. “Miss Warrick is expecting you, Mr. Chatham.”

The doors to an elevator opened as he approached and Kyle stepped inside and punched the button for the fifteenth floor. When the doors opened and he saw Ava Warrick standing there waiting for him, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her or how fast his heart was beating.

Chapter 4

Ava gave Kyle a dazzling smile. “What on earth did you bring?” she asked, pointing at the shopping bags he held in each hand.

Kyle winked at her. “Dinner.”

It’d been a little more than twenty-four hours since he’d last seen Ava, and she’d changed dramatically. Her hair was a mass of tiny curls that hugged her head like a cap. She wore a pair of black cropped pants that showed off her shapely legs, black ballet-type flats and a white sleeveless V-neck blouse that displayed toned arms and shoulders. There was still a hint of swelling along the left side of her face and the angry bruise was changing color from deep purple to a sickly greenish-yellow.

Ava reached for one of the bags, but Kyle tightened his grip on the handles. “I’ve got this.”

She flashed an attractive moue. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Lowering her head, he pressed his mouth to her uninjured cheek. “Yes, it is. Where’s the kitchen?”

“Follow me.” Ava led the way through a hallway and into one of the two kitchens in the duplex.

Kyle walked into a kitchen designed for cooking and entertaining. Hollyberry-red cabinetry was a shocking contrast to stainless-steel appliances and neutral-colored walls, granite gray-and-black countertops and backsplashes resembling a mosaic. There was a built-in microwave/convection oven, sub-zero fridge, a wine cellar and a side-by-side commercial refrigerator.

“I love your kitchen.” He was unable to disguise the surprise in his voice.

Folding her arms under her breasts, Ava leaned a hip against the countertop. “I wish I could claim it as mine. I’ll live here until next summer. After that I’ll have to look for another apartment. I’ve been thinking about buying a co-op but I’m not certain where I’d like to live.”

Kyle took off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a stool. Removing his cufflinks, he rolled back his cuffs and began emptying the canvas bags. “Where are the owners?”

“They’re involved in a project in Saudi Arabia. Professor Servinsky lived in this apartment with his first wife for more than twenty years before she passed away in her sleep. After several years he began dating his neighbor, who was also a widow. He didn’t want to give up his apartment and it was the same with her, so they renovated, turning the two into a duplex. There are three bedrooms on this floor and three upstairs. Each also has a small bedroom off the kitchen, commonly known as the maid’s room. Mrs. Servinsky removed the wall between two upstairs bedrooms and set it up as a solarium.”

“Where do they sleep?”

“They sleep down here and entertain upstairs.”

“Where’s your bedroom?”

“Upstairs. I’ll show you around later,” Ava promised. “Would you like some help?”

Kyle gave her a sidelong glance as he emptied plastic bags of cucumbers, bell peppers, a lemon, tomatoes, scallions and baking potatoes into the sink. The contents of the other bag yielded small containers of fresh mint, garlic, feta cheese and bottles of olive oil and red wine. Her gaze widened when he unwrapped strip steaks with a liberal amount of marbling.

“No. I want you to sit and do absolutely nothing. How do you like your steak?”

“Well done.” The seconds ticked off as she watched Kyle navigate his way around the kitchen as if it were something he did often, opening cabinets for bowls and platters and a drawer with an assortment of knives.

Unable to tolerate complete silence, Ava got up and turned on the radio positioned under a cabinet. The melodious sound of Whitney Houston singing “You Give Good Love” filled the kitchen.

Shifting, she stared at the width of Kyle’s broad shoulders under the white shirt. “I want to thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

The flowers had been delivered to the apartment when she’d been on the telephone with her supervisor. Earlier that morning she’d scanned the doctor’s note and faxed it to her office. Within an hour she was inundated by a number of telephone calls from her coworkers asking if she was okay or if she needed them to do something for her. The outpouring of support was somewhat unexpected because the atmosphere in the agency had been somewhat strained under the current administration. Threats of resignations were rampant, and Ava was seriously considering looking for another position at the end of the year. She’d had another offer to work for a private agency, but hadn’t wanted to leave the city-funded agency and the disenfranchised clients who came with a myriad of social and mental-health issues.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I’m glad you like them.”

She approached Kyle, watching as he manipulated the pullout kitchen faucet, rinsing the vegetables. The heat from his body and the subtle scent of his cologne wafted into her nose. He looked and smelled good.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

Kyle gave Ava a quick glance. “Before my dad retired, he worked as a chef for the railroad. My mother loved when he was home because she didn’t have to cook. Once we were tall enough to look over the stove he taught his children.”

“At what age did you learn?” Ava asked.

“I had to be eight or nine. My younger brother flat-out refused, while my sister and I became proficient enough so that we could put together an entire meal by the time we were teens. Are you an only child?” Kyle asked, deftly switching the topic from himself to Ava.

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