Atlanta.
Twenty minutes later he turned into the entrance of Reid Corporate Park.
It was an impressive sight. Gently winding roads flanked with elms and dogwoods. Lush, manicured islands of grass. Walking trails curving around a gleaming lake and shady trees. The headquarters, located near the middle of the park, was a gray, two-story structure with lots of windows.
The building looked exactly as it did in the pictures he'd examined for so long.
Late-model cars filled the parking lot, as though everyone employed there was earning lots of money-or saddled with debt.
Isaiah cruised along the front of the building. There was a row of three reserved parking slots at the front. Expensive foreign automobiles occupied the spots belonging to the CEO and CFO.
Isaiah's gaze lingered on the black Mercedes sedan parked in the CEO's slot. The Georgia license tag read HNIC.
Head Negro in Charge, huh? We'll see about that.
The third parking slot, for the VP of operations, was vacant.
Isaiah frowned.
He parked in the far corner of the lot, dialed a number on his cell phone.
A woman answered, "Good morning, Reid Construction. How may I direct your call?"
"May I speak to Gabriel Reid, please?" Isaiah said, using his best Corporate America voice.
"Mr. Reid is out of the office today. Would you like his voice mail?"
"Oh, he is? Gosh, I'd wanted to chat with him about the proposal he submitted," he lied. "Do you know when he might return, ma'am?"
"Tomorrow, hopefully," she said. "He had a car accident yesterday and he's home recovering."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope he gets better soon"
"What did you say your name was, sir?" the woman asked, no doubt realizing she had shared personal information with a complete stranger.
"Pardon me? My cell's breaking up... ."
As she repeated her question, Isaiah hung up.
Gabriel Reid had gotten into a car wreck on his thirtieth birthday. What tough luck.
But Isaiah would continue with his plan. It was time to make his next stop.
Gabriel Reid's house.
Gabriel Reid lived in a subdivision that oozed buppie money. Big brick houses and large, trimmed lawns. Driveways full of Cadillac Escalades, Benzes, Lexuses, and BMWs. He knew black folks lived in these cribs because the licenseplate frames boasted colleges such as Morehouse, Spelman, Florida A&M, Howard, and Tuskegee, and Greek organizations such as Alpha Phi Alpha, Delta Sigma Theta, Alpha Kappa Alpha, and so on, ad nauseum.
Isaiah curled his lip. Uppity-ass Negroes. Why did they have to advertise their educational backgrounds and Greek affiliations for the whole world to see? It proved that no matter how much money they made, they were still insecure.
He cranked up the volume on his Alpine car stereo, to let these bougie folks know that someone outside their caste had invaded their precious real estate. The speakers pumped out an early song by Cypress Hill, "How I Could Just Kill a Man" An anthem to homicide and ghetto insanity.
Nodding his head to the bass, he drove past Gabriel's house. His brick home was impressive for a man who lived alone and had just turned thirty.
A blue Corvette convertible was parked in front of the garage. The Georgia plate read MYVETT, which seemed, to Isaiah, insufferably conceited. "My Vett " As if he'd earned it.
As if he'd earned anything.
Isaiah completed a pass of the house, busted a U-turn, and parked against the curb, a couple of residences down from Gabriel's house. Since Gabriel was apparently home, he would keep a safe distance.
There would be plenty of time, later, for face-to-face conversation.
He opened the duffel bag that lay on the seat beside him. He removed a pair of Bushnell high-powered binoculars. He focused them on the house.
He spied Gabriel through a window on the first level.
The man was sweeping the floor. A bandage was wrapped around his head.
Isaiah's hands shook.
He had seen Gabriel before, in pictures, but viewing photos hadn't prepared him for the experience of
Twenty minutes later he turned into the entrance of Reid Corporate Park.
It was an impressive sight. Gently winding roads flanked with elms and dogwoods. Lush, manicured islands of grass. Walking trails curving around a gleaming lake and shady trees. The headquarters, located near the middle of the park, was a gray, two-story structure with lots of windows.
The building looked exactly as it did in the pictures he'd examined for so long.
Late-model cars filled the parking lot, as though everyone employed there was earning lots of money-or saddled with debt.
Isaiah cruised along the front of the building. There was a row of three reserved parking slots at the front. Expensive foreign automobiles occupied the spots belonging to the CEO and CFO.
Isaiah's gaze lingered on the black Mercedes sedan parked in the CEO's slot. The Georgia license tag read HNIC.
Head Negro in Charge, huh? We'll see about that.
The third parking slot, for the VP of operations, was vacant.
Isaiah frowned.
He parked in the far corner of the lot, dialed a number on his cell phone.
A woman answered, "Good morning, Reid Construction. How may I direct your call?"
"May I speak to Gabriel Reid, please?" Isaiah said, using his best Corporate America voice.
"Mr. Reid is out of the office today. Would you like his voice mail?"
"Oh, he is? Gosh, I'd wanted to chat with him about the proposal he submitted," he lied. "Do you know when he might return, ma'am?"
"Tomorrow, hopefully," she said. "He had a car accident yesterday and he's home recovering."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope he gets better soon"
"What did you say your name was, sir?" the woman asked, no doubt realizing she had shared personal information with a complete stranger.
"Pardon me? My cell's breaking up... ."
As she repeated her question, Isaiah hung up.
Gabriel Reid had gotten into a car wreck on his thirtieth birthday. What tough luck.
But Isaiah would continue with his plan. It was time to make his next stop.
Gabriel Reid's house.
Gabriel Reid lived in a subdivision that oozed buppie money. Big brick houses and large, trimmed lawns. Driveways full of Cadillac Escalades, Benzes, Lexuses, and BMWs. He knew black folks lived in these cribs because the licenseplate frames boasted colleges such as Morehouse, Spelman, Florida A&M, Howard, and Tuskegee, and Greek organizations such as Alpha Phi Alpha, Delta Sigma Theta, Alpha Kappa Alpha, and so on, ad nauseum.
Isaiah curled his lip. Uppity-ass Negroes. Why did they have to advertise their educational backgrounds and Greek affiliations for the whole world to see? It proved that no matter how much money they made, they were still insecure.
He cranked up the volume on his Alpine car stereo, to let these bougie folks know that someone outside their caste had invaded their precious real estate. The speakers pumped out an early song by Cypress Hill, "How I Could Just Kill a Man" An anthem to homicide and ghetto insanity.
Nodding his head to the bass, he drove past Gabriel's house. His brick home was impressive for a man who lived alone and had just turned thirty.
A blue Corvette convertible was parked in front of the garage. The Georgia plate read MYVETT, which seemed, to Isaiah, insufferably conceited. "My Vett " As if he'd earned it.
As if he'd earned anything.
Isaiah completed a pass of the house, busted a U-turn, and parked against the curb, a couple of residences down from Gabriel's house. Since Gabriel was apparently home, he would keep a safe distance.
There would be plenty of time, later, for face-to-face conversation.
He opened the duffel bag that lay on the seat beside him. He removed a pair of Bushnell high-powered binoculars. He focused them on the house.
He spied Gabriel through a window on the first level.
The man was sweeping the floor. A bandage was wrapped around his head.
Isaiah's hands shook.
He had seen Gabriel before, in pictures, but viewing photos hadn't prepared him for the experience of
Similar Books
