A Butler Summer Read online

  A Butler Summer

  A Naim Butler Romantic Suspense, Volume 2

  Rahiem Brooks

  Published by Prodigy Gold Books, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  A BUTLER SUMMER

  First edition. July 3, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Rahiem Brooks.

  ISBN: 978-1939665270

  Written by Rahiem Brooks.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  C H A P T E R 1 | SUNDAY

  C H A P T E R 2 | MONDAY

  C H A P T E R 3

  C H A P T E R 4

  C H A P T E R 5

  C H A P T E R 6

  C H A P T E R 7

  C H A P T E R 8

  C H A P T E R 9

  C H A P T E R 10

  C H A P T E R 11

  C H A P T E R 12

  C H A P T E R 13

  C H A P T E R 14

  C H A P T E R 15

  C H A P T E R 16

  C H A P T E R 17 | Tuesday

  C H A P T E R 18

  C H A P T E R 19

  C H A P T E R 20

  C H A P T E R 21

  C H A P T E R 22

  C H A P T E R 23

  C H A P T E R 24

  C H A P T E R 25

  C H A P T E R 26

  C H A P T E R 27

  C H A P T E R 28

  C H A P T E R 29

  C H A P T E R 30

  C H A P T E R 31

  C H A P T E R 32

  C H A P T E R 33

  C H A P T E R 34

  C H A P T E R 35

  C H A P T E R 36

  C H A P T E R 37

  C H A P T E R 38

  C H A P T E R 39

  C H A P T E R 40

  C H A P T E R 41

  C H A P T E R 42

  C H A P T E R 43

  C H A P T E R 44

  C H A P T E R 45

  C H A P T E R 46

  C H A P T E R 47

  C H A P T E R 48

  C H A P T E R 49

  C H A P T E R 50

  C H A P T E R 51

  C H A P T E R 52

  C H A P T E R 53

  C H A P T E R 54

  C H A P T E R 55

  C H A P T E R 56

  C H A P T E R 57

  A Killer Citizen

  C H A P T E R 58

  C H A P T E R 59

  C H A P T E R 60

  C H A P T E R 61

  C H A P T E R 62

  C H A P T E R 63

  C H A P T E R 64

  C H A P T E R 65

  C H A P T E R 66

  C H A P T E R 67

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  Further Reading: Life After Death: A Romance Suspense

  Also By Rahiem Brooks

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  C H A P T E R 1

  SUNDAY

  NEW YORK, NY—HECTOR’S Brazilian Bistro

  Sunday evening, Naim Butler, Derrick Adams, and their depression settled into their regular corner four-top at Hector’s Brazilian Bistro. Their favorite waitress dropped off champagne glasses and a bucket with chilled bottles of their favorite stress medication: Dom Perignon coupled with shots of Ciroc red-berry vodka. They enjoyed the therapeutic concoction while reflecting on their eventful day.

  Easing through their second dose, they were joined by Hector, the restaurant’s namesake and their close friend. He threw them a suspicious smile. “Well, aren’t you two on your sartorial worse. Costumes? It’s only August.”

  “On-demand movers,” Naim said, smiling, raising his eyebrows. He cocked his head to the side.

  “We delivered the boys to Columbia today to start their freshman year. They’re the school’s problem now,” said Derrick, laughing.

  “Good, it’s not Halloween?” Hector said. “Dumped them off at college, so now your misery begins. Drink up.”

  “How?” Naim asked, pouring himself another Perignon/Ciroc mix.

  “Empty-nest heartache,” Hector said. “And good luck with the thoughts of what they’ll be doing. Jesus. Do you recall our freshman year at Tulane?”

  “I was fucking my brains out,” Naim replied.

  “As was I,” added Derrick, sipping and chuckling.

  “And remember, I’ve been a dad barely nine months, so I’ll manage,” Naim said.

  “Still can’t believe Sinia didn’t tell you that she had a baby by you for seventeen-damn-years. Tragedy,” Hector said, shaking his head.

  “Indeed. Grateful that we’re over that. He has to reside on campus for his freshman year, but he lives in the former maid quarters attached to my house—”

  “Mini-manse,” Derrick said, interrupting him. “Where you live is hardly described as a house.”

  “Words are powerful,” Naim said sarcastically. “Has anyone ever told you how impeccable you are with words?”

  “Well, a judge or two complimented me on my closing.”

  “You’re an ass,” Hector said, laughing.

  “That he is,” Naim said. “What prosecutor isn’t? I’ll be teaching a Criminal Law class at Columbia, too, so I’ll be on the campus keeping an eye on my boy.”

  “Now you’re a spy?” Derrick asked, laughing. “First you get a license to practice law, and now you’re an investigator.”

  “Better than all of those clowns investigating at your office.”

  “You two are crazy,” Hector said. He stood and asked, “What are you two eating tonight? After moving stuff all day, I know you’re famished.”

  “Something healthy for us,” Derrick said, “because I’m trying to lose my gut.”

  “I have a six percent body fat, so he’s speaking for himself,” Naim said. “I’ll have a fully-loaded Hawaiian flatbread pizza. Give him water and a Hydroxy Cut Black pill.”

  They laughed and Hector walked away in time to avoid a tall, almond-hued, bottle-blonde in an expertly tailored Chanel tweed suit. She was headed for their table. Arriving she sat. “Well, hello, boys,” Sinia Love said, leering a little.

  Naim furrowed his brows. “Hello, Sinia. We’re men by the way.”

  “Tomatoe. Tomatah,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

  “What brings you into this fine restaurant?” Naim asked. A large gulp of vodka straight from the bottle followed the question.

  “This is where the New York upper-assholes, oops, I meant, Upper East Siders, that can afford to eat here hang out, right?”

  “I live in Brooklyn,” Derrick said flatly, sipping his cocktail.

  “Then I’m not referring to you, right?” Sarcastic smirk followed an exaggerated wink.

  Her emphasis of the word right crawled beneath Derrick’s skin. “Let’s start over,” he said, clasping his hands together. “Why are you here?”

  “Not to see you,” Sinia replied.

  The last time she had been in Hector’s, she created a Broadway musical scene, and was asked to leave.

  To Naim, she said, “I need to hire an attorney of the criminal defense kind.” She gently pat Naim’s hand. “I need to hire you because—”

  “Wait,” Naim said, holding up a hand. He pinched his bushy eyebrows together and blinked uncontrollably. “I cannot discuss a case, rather, a potential case, in front of a prosecutor. Ethics and privilege conundrum.” He had only passed the bar exam months ago, but he knew that much.

  “How sad your life must be, Naim. I mean, a prosecutor for a best friend has to be miserable,” she said, curling her lips, and throwing eye-daggers at Derrick.

  “No, what’s sad is...You being the sad mother of his child, I’ll co
ntain my atrocious comments out of respect for Naim and Marco, but know—” Derrick began as the waitress placed plates on the table interrupting him.

  The waitress asked, “Can I get something for you, ma’am?”

  Sinia stood and said, “No, I was just going.”

  “Thank God,” Derrick said.

  Ignoring him, she looked down at Naim, and said, “I’ll be at your home office tomorrow at ten-thirty a.m.”

  “No, you’ll call my secretary tomorrow and schedule an appointment,” Naim replied, tucking a cloth napkin into the collar of his T-shirt.

  “Look at you all professional and stuff. You’ve always had epic etiquette.” She playfully tapped his shoulder. “I won’t be handled by your people like I’m a stranger.”

  “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, your boyfriend held me, our son, and our dates at gunpoint in my home. Our son killed your lover. Ring a bell?” Naim asked, smiling.

  “If Marco wasn’t under eighteen and unable to make his own decisions, you’d have a restraining order lodged against you,” the prosecutor added.

  “Naim,” she said, clutching imaginary pearls. “Is this how you allow a man to talk to your child’s mother? Does the pathetic prosecutor talk to Brandy Scott with such venom?”

  Both men were amazed at her animation. She was an aloof, uncreative woman, and quite predictable. This new person was a bit much.

  “Sinia...Sinia,” Naim said, frowning. “Tomorrow, I have to teach and I have other engagements, so you will call my secretary. Or not. Your call. But you’re not welcome to my home.” Another scorching gulp of vodka. Pain spread across his face.

  “Trespassing is a crime in New York City,” the prosecutor said, biting into a crunchy slice of vegetable flatbread pizza to punctuate the threat.

  “Congrats on the professorship, Naim,” she said, ignoring Derrick again. “Your class is at eight a.m. You have a conference at Baker and Keefe at eleven-thirty. I’ll be at your office, your home office at ten. Toodles.” She pivoted and walked away.

  “How’d she know your schedule?” Derrick asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Not quite. My guess involves nefarious methods. Hacking. Home invasion. Crimes that I’d go above and beyond to lock her ass under the jail for committing.”

  C H A P T E R 2

  MONDAY

  WASHINGTON, D.C.—SUPREME Court of the United States

  Monday morning David Thurman walked along First Street Northeast in Washington, D.C. He was a towering man, stopping in front of the United States Supreme Court, wearing a dark denim blazer that concealed a brass Henry Arms Big Boy Lever Action Centerfire .44-caliber rifle. Climbing three of the eight marble steps, leading to the court’s entrance, he shifted a briefcase from one hand to the other. The case didn’t contain legal briefs to present to the highest court or any papers at all. It did hide two more weapons—a Sig Sauer MPX 9mm pistol and a Ruger LC9 9mm. Trained to go!

  A class of high schoolers crowded the Court’s elevated marble plaza: an oval terrace spanning two hundred fifty-two feet long and ninety-eight feet wide, paved in gray and white marble in a pattern of alternating circles and squares similar to the Roman Pantheon’s floor. All of the students donned business attire, visiting from Germantown High School’s Law and Government Magnet Program in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. David Thurman watched the future Philadelphia lawyers marvel at the plaza’s two fountains and two flag poles. He had a seat on one of the six marble benches next to an elderly couple. He counted the steps that ascended from the plaza to the building’s portico, leading to the magnificent bronze doors that served as the main entrance into the building. Thirty-six. A low wall surrounded the plaza and encircled the rest of the building, providing cover for an assault on the building that sat across the street.

  The United States Capitol.

  Thurman, an ex-army captain—dishonorably eighty-sixed—gazed indifferently at patriots and visitors taking pictures of the famous buildings. They took selfies for social media postings to chronicle their visit to the world’s most powerful capital. Stupid ingrates, he thought with little effort disguising his disgust for their enthusiasm. Imbeciles, blind patriotism, just ignorant fools everywhere, including, these old cows next to me.

  The elderly man caught Thurman staring at him and nodded. The man had no idea that he had spoken to a killing machine. Thurman was the lone gunman in the attack on a New York City police precinct. Thirteen officers were murdered. Ten men. Three women. Four rookies. He smiled at the memory. Palatable.

  Since then, he had continued to make a name for himself amongst blood-thirsty media hounds with attacks on other police targets in Cleveland, Indianapolis, Detroit, Chicago, and St. Louis—his swing through the Midwest. It was time to feed American’s fear of home-grown terror right in Washington, D.C. His new targets were a justice of the Court and a U.S. Senator. Both of them had two things in common.

  One, they were African-American Democrats.

  Two, they were against criminal justice reform.

  This may be the end of my murderous roller-coaster ride. Successful or not, the psychological-fear resulting from what he planned was more important than the outcome. Surely, a clean-cut, freckle-faced, blue-eyed, redhead could kill at will, thanks to media clowns. The bogeyman of home-grown radical Islamic terrorists was out of place in the capital—and airports, train stations, office parties, university campuses, gay clubs, and coffee shops. Thurman however, had carte blanche to do as he pleased without racial or religious scrutiny. Ah, the privilege of being white in America.

  Thurman’s musings were interrupted when a United States Capitol Police officer’s car passed. The sight caused the killer to smile. The policeman moved fifteen miles per hour. An easy target for the expert marksman. Two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan gave him ample opportunity to practice. Practice makes perfect.

  He brushed beads of sweat from his brows and glanced nervously at a young Asian man strolling by with earbuds in his ears. The man was in his own world and minding his business. I should kill you first, then, the Capitol policeman. Top that off with the old couple and the high schoolers. But I won’t. Bigger fish in the sea!

  C H A P T E R 3

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK—COLUMBIA University

  Columbia University, an Ivy League powerhouse with a corpulent endowment, and an exceptional law school had hired a dark-chocolate hued, pearly-white teethed, legal eagle, Naim Butler. Born in the Chicago, Illinois slums, he graduated summa cum laude and class valedictorian with a combined bachelors and masters from Tulane University. He graduated with honors from his law school class at the University of Pennsylvania, where he was the editor of the law review and received the Benjamin Jones Award for Public Service. Though he earned a living as a professor of law at Columbia U, it was the Law Offices of Baker and Keefe that monopolized the lion’s share of his professional livelihood. For the past two years, he had been a partner of Manhattan’s second-largest firm, despite not being licensed to practice law. His specialty sentencing mitigation, an area that he dutifully contributed to the firm as an excellent investigator (sometimes sleuth), legal researcher and writer.

  Last spring, though, he earned a Ph.D. at Yale University and finally had the sitting senior New York senator request—as quid pro quo—the sitting United States president, Jackson Radcliffe, to pardon him for committing fraud crimes as a young adult. The president obliged, Naim aced the bar exam and was set to rack up acquittals as a defense attorney—particularly in the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York.

  He owned dozens of suits and was in a sleek, pinstriped, blue number, sitting in the third row of a large Columbia lecture hall. He was amongst the students that he was set to teach the art of garnering lenient sentences. Sentencing Mitigation 305.

  His mentor, Max Devers, the law school’s associate dean continued introducing Dr. Naim Butler. “You ladies and gents have the honor to be the first group taught by
a man who rewrote the sentencing mitigation rules. His playbook is as deep as Bill Belichick’s, but Naim has a better record. Below guidelines sentences were granted one hundred percent of the times, Butler was on the case. That’s why I brought him aboard. Defense attorneys must be prepared to effectively highlight the upbringing, education level, and psychological background of their clients. Oftentimes we fail to adequately and uniquely mitigate for our clients—especially the poor ones—but Butler has the tools to help you all master this. Amazing, right?” Applause from eager students filled the room as Devers let that sink in. “At Baker and Keefe, Butler worked under me at the prestigious firm. A firm that some of you are headed; and, a word from Professor Butler would go a long way to achieve that.” Bright smiles spread across the student’s faces. Going from college to Baker and Keefe was like going from high school to the NBA. It was reserved for a select few. “Without further delay, Professor Naim Butler,” he said over a quiet applause.

  Students looked at the huge stage expecting their lecturer to magically appear from behind the curtain. Tada. He didn’t. Naim stood from amongst their ranks and casually strolled to the stage. Whispers were followed by another applause.

  “Thank you,” he said as they settled down. His baritone voice was clean and concise. “My first time teaching. Truly honored. Who would have bet on me accomplishing this? One person for sure, the attorney that argued to a federal judge to give me a chance to relocate from Chicago to New Orleans to attend Tulane...”

  Boos boomed around the room at the mention of the rival university, causing him to chuckle.

  “Tough crowd,” he said, smiling. “Know that I am tough, too. Very. Mediocrity and I are mortal enemies, and with that said, let’s get to it. You’ve all been e-mailed syllabus and sample client profiles crafted for you to come up with mitigating arguments to garner them lower sentences. Why, because ninety percent of your cases will result in guilty plea negotiations and require sound sentencing strategies; ergo, it is imperative to be creative and innovative during the sentencing phase. The best hostage negotiator wins. Yes, hostages, because with criminal sentences run amuck, defendants are akin to hostages used as political election talking points from criminal justice reform, but nothing significant has been done to move the ball on that front since 1994. And what significant criminal reform act occurred in 1994?”