Forty Acres: A Thriller (3 page)

CHAPTER 7

A
s Martin wheeled his Volvo into his leaf-strewn driveway, he saw with new eyes the handsome two-story brick house that he and Anna called home. Two years ago, when they had closed on the Forest Hills property, they were thrilled as could be. For both, it was their first experience purchasing a property. The price matched their budget, the square footage exceeded their expectations, and although the neighborhood was predominantly Caucasian, there were enough nonwhite households in the area to make Anna and Martin feel comfortable. Most of all, though, the little brick house symbolized that Martin’s career was finally taking off and held the promise that someday soon they’d be able to start a family. But now, with Martin looking at undreamed-of success, he realized that in a few months he’d be able to afford three or four houses just like it and could live in almost any neighborhood he wanted.

*   *   *

Martin headed straight for the kitchen and started rummaging through the refrigerator. Anna frowned. “Why didn’t you eat something at the party?”

“I did,” Martin said. “I’m still hungry.”

Anna shook her head as Martin pulled the makings for a sandwich out of the fridge.

“I can’t wait to see what’s on the menu at Damon’s house,” Martin said as he put the finishing touches on his sandwich.

Anna frowned again. “I feel kinda guilty about Glen and Lisa. Don’t you?”

Martin tugged Anna into his arms. “Damon’s party is nothing,” Martin assured her. “Lots of exciting things are going to happen for us now. For Glen and Lisa too. Trust me.”

Anna purred, “Would one of those exciting things need to be potty-trained?”

Martin smiled. “Besides being beautiful and smart, are you a mind reader too?”

“Absolutely. You didn’t know?”

“Okay, tell me what I’m thinking.” Then Martin kissed her. Long and deep. “Well?”

Anna wore a wicked smile as she pressed her body closer to his. “I don’t need psychic powers to tell what you’re thinking. I can feel it.”

Martin grabbed Anna by the hand and pulled her up the stairs toward the bedroom.

CHAPTER 8

W
hoa! Check that out!” Martin pointed to a sleek black helicopter perched on a stretch of rolling lawn as he drove through the gates of Damon Darrell’s Bedford, New York, estate. Other residents of the affluent hamlet, like Donald Trump and Ralph Lauren, might not be impressed by such a sight, but Martin gaped like a kid at the Macy’s parade.

After passing the aircraft, Martin wheeled his Volvo around a broad circular driveway lined with luxury automobiles.

“That one cost almost as much as the helicopter,” Martin said, pointing to a midnight-blue Bugatti Veyron.

“That’s wonderful,” Anna murmured without looking up from her dress. She was way too nervous to give a damn about rich boys’ toys. She and Martin had decided to crack the piggybank and splurge on new outfits for the dinner party. Martin bought himself an Armani tuxedo, which he looked fantastic in, and Anna found the perfect Chanel evening gown. The simple black dress was the most expensive piece of clothing that Anna had ever owned. But now, as they wound closer and closer to Darrell’s magnificent home, Anna had the sinking feeling that her little Chanel just wasn’t enough.

Martin noticed Anna’s anxious expression. “Don’t worry, baby. You look fantastic.”

“You’re my husband, you’re supposed to say that.”

“You’re right. Actually, you look terrible.”

“Not funny.”

Martin chuckled as he pulled to a stop in front of the sprawling Georgian gray-stone mansion. The ivy-laced columns that lined the facade were so tall that they seemed to hold up the night sky.

Two uniformed valets assisted the couple out of their car. As Martin and Anna approached the elegant wrought-iron front door, Martin whispered to Anna, “You really do look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Anna took her husband’s hand and held her breath. “Here we go.”

A smiling servant opened the door before they could ring the bell and beckoned them inside with a sweep of his hand. Martin and Anna stepped through the door.

CHAPTER 9

T
hey were all black. That’s the first thing Martin noticed when he and Anna entered the parlor where the other guests were chatting while enjoying wine and hors d’oeuvres.

The house was even more beautiful inside than Martin had imagined. He didn’t know the first thing about interior design, antiques, or paintings, but he was certain that everything inside the Darrell home was the best. But as fantastic as the mansion was, nothing impressed Martin more than the roomful of guests.

There were four other couples besides Martin and Anna in attendance. The men wore perfectly tailored tuxedos. The women were all draped in designer gowns and adorned with glittering jewelry.

And they’re all black
, Martin kept mentally repeating to himself. He just wasn’t expecting that. Of course, with Damon Darrell hosting, he knew that at least a few of the couples would be of African descent. But all of them? The idea had just never entered his mind.

The queer smile he got from Anna told Martin that she too was surprised by the complexion of the guest list.

“There they are,” Damon bellowed as he strode across the room with a beautiful woman by his side. Damon thanked them both for coming, then introduced his wife, Juanita.

Martin had seen photographs of Juanita Darrell in magazines, but nothing had prepared him for just how stunning she looked in person.
Statuesque
is the word that popped into his mind. Like a fashion model in one of those two-inch-thick women’s magazines that Anna always thumbed through but never seemed to read.

Juanita welcomed them with a smile worthy of a queen and complimented Anna on her gown. Anna countered by praising Juanita’s beautiful home, and their hostess seemed genuinely flattered by the comments.

“I apologize for rushing off,” Juanita said, more to Anna than to Martin, “but there are still a few fires to put out. We’ll chat later.” Then she was gone.

Damon took Anna’s arm. “Come on, let me introduce you two to everyone.” He ushered them to where the rest of the guests were gathered. “Attention, please,” Damon proclaimed in a booming, formal tone that made Martin smile. “May I present Martin Grey and his beautiful wife, Anna.”

Martin and Anna were greeted with smiles and warm hellos. The oldest couple in the group was the first to step forward. They were probably in their sixties but wore their age well. The distinguished-looking man shook Martin’s hand firmly.

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Solomon Aarons and this is Betty, my wife.”

Martin paused, surprised. Did he hear right? “Did you say Solomon Aarons? CEO of AFG?”

Solomon smiled kindly. There was a calmness about the man, as if he owned the world and it wasn’t a big deal. “That’s what it says on my office door.”

Martin couldn’t help appearing a little stunned. The financial world wasn’t something that he kept track of, but even he knew that American Financial Group was a big deal. After the recent economic meltdown, it was maybe one of the biggest brokerage firms on Wall Street, and Solomon Aarons, its savior CEO, was known as a financial genius.

“Everything okay?” Solomon asked.

“Sorry,” Martin said, “it’s—well—”

“Say it,” Damon prodded Martin with devilish grin. “You didn’t know that the CEO of AFG was black.”

Martin smiled sheepishly to Solomon. “He’s right. I mean I’ve heard of you, but wow, I had no idea.”

Solomon laughed along with other guests. “No need to apologize, young man. Believe me, I’m quite used to it.”

Martin noticed Anna smiling at him along with the others. “Did you know Solomon Aarons was a black man?”

Anna nodded. “Of course I did. He was profiled in
Time
and
Fortune
last year, baby.”

Betty Aarons chuckled at Martin’s touch of embarrassment, then bowed her head to Anna. “Good for you, young lady. Looks like us girls take the early lead tonight.”

A man sporting a mane of shoulder-length dreadlocks, wire-rim glasses, and an African beaded necklace over his tux stepped forward and laid a sympathetic hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, my brother. The sad truth is 57 percent of black males over the age of thirty would not be able to name the CEO of any corporation.”

“Black CEO, white CEO, doesn’t matter,” the attractive woman at his side added.

“Is that a fact?” Martin said, intrigued. “I must admit I’ve never heard that statistic before. I wonder if the numbers would be different for whites.”

“Ah, now there’s an interesting question,” the man said with a smile. He stuck out his hand. “Kwame Jones. And this”—he gestured to the woman beside him—“is my queen, Olaide.”

Olaide’s gown was a unique mix of a haute couture cocktail dress and African tribal ceremonial dress. Anna gushed over the outfit, and Olaide confided that it had been made for her by an up-and-coming designer who only worked with 100 percent natural fabrics and dyes.

Martin noticed that unlike the other guests, who were all sipping wine, Kwame and Olaide were drinking sparkling water.

“Kwame and Olaide are co-owners of one of the biggest advertising firms in the country,” Damon said. “They specialize in the African American market. You want to sell something to black people, you have to go through them.”

“Got it,” Martin said. “That explains the statistics.”

“Statistics, demographics.” Olaide shrugged. “Same difference.”

“True, true,” Kwame said. “And to answer your question, the white male in the exact same economic subset is far more likely to be familiar with—”

“Kwame, for Christ’s sake,” a tall bear of a man interrupted. “Give the man a chance to anesthetize himself with a few drinks before you pummel him with one of your social science lectures.”

Kwame laughed along with the others. “Fine, fine. Just trying to elevate the conversation a little.”

Damon introduced the big man as Tobias Stewart, founder and owner of Tobias Media. Martin didn’t know much about the company except that they owned and operated an insane number of cable networks, radio stations, and newspapers in every corner of the United States and Europe.

The media giant was something of a giant in the flesh as well, but despite his three-hundred-plus pounds, Martin thought that Tobias appeared quite dignified in what could only be a custom-made tux. The svelte beauty dangling from Tobias’s arm, his wife, Margaret, helped a great deal to tame the burly man’s appearance.

Tobias gave Martin a slap on the arm. “I’m ten grand richer because of you.”

“Glad I could help. But I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I placed a little bet on the trial,” Tobias explained. “I knew Damon couldn’t win ’em all.”

“You bet on the trial? I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“You gotta get out of the courtroom more often, counselor. People will bet on anything. You just gotta know who’s taking the action.”

“Let me guess,” Martin said. “I was a thousand-to-one shot and you dropped ten bucks on me.”

Tobias’s thunderous laughter was as jolly as he looked. “No. It wasn’t that lopsided, but close. Hey, tell you what, next time you got a sure winner, you give me a call. I’ll cut you a percentage.”

Martin wasn’t quite sure if Tobias was joking or not, but he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and just laugh it off. “Thanks but no thanks. Disbarment’s not exactly good for business.”

Everybody laughed, Tobias louder than all the rest combined. The big man swatted Martin on the arm again. “You’re all right for a lawyer.”

Martin winced and resisted the urge to rub his arm. “Ah, thanks.”

Finally Damon introduced the last couple, Carver Lewis and his wife, Starsha. They were the youngest couple at the party. If Martin had had to guess, he would have said that they were both in their late twenties. Various tattoos peeked from beneath Starsha’s clingy gown as if they were anxious to come out and join the party.

For Martin, Carver Lewis needed no introduction. Whenever Martin burned the midnight oil to prepare for a case, he liked to leave the muted television on for company—something other than a legal document or law book to glance at once in a while. Often when Martin would look up, he’d see Carver Lewis on an infomercial hawking his get-rich-quick real estate books and DVDs.

Carver was a high-profile real estate speculator who had found a lucrative niche by specializing in what some of his competitors called insanely risky deals. Then Carver got really clever. Instead of selling properties, Carver began to peddle his reputation as a real estate guru. Martin remembered reading somewhere that Carver Lewis had made ten times the money from his late-night infomercials than he ever had with his broker’s license.

“I recognize you from TV,” Martin said as he shook Carver’s hand. “You’re very convincing.”

Carver replied wearing a strained smile. “Thanks . . . I think. I’m not sure ‘convincing’ is a compliment.”

“I just mean that you’re a good salesman,” Martin said.

“The only thing I’m selling is a way for ordinary people to dramatically improve their quality of life,” Carver said. “It’s a legitimate business like anything else. I’ve made a lot of people rich. No ‘convincing’ needed.”

“I’m happy for you,” Martin said, with only a twinge of sarcasm. It was obvious that the young entrepreneur felt a need to prove something to his older and more accomplished friends, but Martin was not about to let the insecure punk walk all over him. Martin reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “In fact, you totally sold me. Do you take Amex or MasterCard?”

While the other guests laughed, Carver’s eyes drilled into Martin. “Funny. That’s real damn funny.”

“Carver!” Solomon barked at the younger man. “Enough.”

Carver deflated, his deep respect for Solomon apparent.

Damon broke the tension by wrapping an arm around Carver. Then Damon winked at Martin. “Don’t mind Carver here. He works too hard. I keep telling him, ‘Relax. Take it easy.’”

“What do you mean?” Carver said with a smirk. “Easy’s my middle name.”

They all laughed, including Martin and Anna.

Juanita glided into the parlor. “So, is everybody nice and hungry?”