Sunday for everyone to recover from their revelry before beginning a new week.
It wasnât until he was seated behind the wheel of the black-on-black two-seater BMW roadster that he abandoned his initial intent to drive down I-95 to hang out in D.C. until Sunday, and he decided to go to his office in the brownstone in Harlemâs Mount Morris Historic District.
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Donald Ennis waited for Raymond Humphries to return to the phone. Heâd heard Minerva Jacksonâs voice in the background, so he assumed Raymond was at her place. He wouldâve thought the real estate mogul wouldâve been at home with his wife instead of with his secretary, who obviously was his mistress.
Donald had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jordan Wainwright. There was nothing the young lawyer had done that had set off alarm bells, but that was only his opinion, and Raymond Humphries did not want or pay him for his opinion. Heâd agreed to contact Humphries every other Friday. If something out of the ordinary happened, then he was to contact him immediately.
âSorry about that, Ennis. I had to tell Minerva something. What do you have for me?â
âNot much. Wainwright went to his grandfatherâs place Christmas Eve and hung out there for a couple of days. When he did leave it was with his sister and another kid about his sisterâs age. They walked to the Met, stayedabout three hours and then walked to 72nd and Third Avenue. He only interacted with the girls.â
âHe had to do more than hang out with a couple of teenage girls for the past week.â
âYou didnât let me finish,â Donald snapped.
âWatch your tone, Ennis.â
The P.I. counted slowly to ten in an attempt to bring his temper under control. When heâd first done investigative work for Raymond Humphries, heâd had to remind the man that he wasnât one of his employees who relied on him for a paycheck. Donald Michael Ennis was a highly regarded intelligence operative whose career had ended when heâd been diagnosed and had failed to seek treatment for Ménièreâs syndrome. The recurring dizziness, tinnitus and slight loss of hearing in his left ear had led to early retirement. Heâd allowed six months of feeling sorry for himself before deciding to set up a private investigation agency. Heâd hired a streetwise friend and a cousin, both of whom had one foot in the criminal world.
âYou pay me, Humphries. Not own me.â
âPoint taken,â Raymond drawled.
âMy man told me Wainwright returned to his place New Yearâs Eve, then left again later that night. He went into a building where Brandt Wainwright owns a penthouse. He was seen again sometime after one when he was talking to a woman before she got into a limo.â
âDo you know who she is?â
âNot yet. But I have the limoâs license plate number. As soon as we track down the driver, weâll know who she is and where she was going.â
âWhereâs Wainwright now?â
Donald shifted on the park bench across the street from Jordan Wainwrightâs apartment building, stretching out his legs and staring at the scuff marks on his boots. Hepressed the cell phone closer to his ear for warmth. Heâd spent the better part of an hour sitting on the bench after his friends reported that Jordan Wainwright had returned home earlier that afternoon. It wasnât easy casing out a building facing the park because of ongoing police patrols. He didnât want to be questioned about watching residents who paid seven figures for their condos and co-ops. Doormen were very protective of their tenants, but there were always a few who were willing to provide a little information on the comings and goings, if the price was right.
âMy man just sent me a text that heâs heading uptown. If he goes anywhere other than his office, then Iâll get back to you with his
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