Buying Time (18 page)

Waverly wanted to tell Leon Barrett to kiss his ass. Instead, his eyes turned into slits and he smiled. “Like I was saying, I have a meeting.”

“Deidra told us about you coming home with your brother all battered and bloody. I understand he still has that drug problem and a gambling habit, too. It would be a shame if you got all mixed up with that stuff. I certainly wouldn’t want my daughter exposed to something like that.”

“Neither would I.” Waverly stood up, towering over his father-in-law. “I hate to be rude, Leon, but like I said, I have a meeting to prepare for.”

I
n less than three weeks after his first visit with Waverly Sloan, Jon drove back to Sloan’s office and picked up the biggest check he had ever had the pleasure of holding in his nimble little fingers. One hundred and fifty thousand big ones.

Angela had instructed Jon to take photographs of the check, then head straight to the bank to deposit it into a special account set up by the Postal Inspection Service. He ambled out of Waverly’s office like the dying man he was supposed to be. He wasn’t sure he believed Salina’s theory that Live Now was murdering its policyholders, but just in case someone was watching him, he didn’t want to blow his cover.

He took his time driving to the bank, wanting to savor the feeling of having such a big check with his name on it. After making the deposit, Jon called Angela from the parking lot outside the bank.

“Just made the deposit.”

“Great. Did you take pictures?”

“Yep. I’ll email ’em to you when I get home.”

“How did it feel to be loaded for a few hours?”

Jon chuckled. “I gave some serious thought to skipping town.”

“Yeah, right. Any new information? Did he pressure you in any way?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Jon said. “You still thinking about sending someone else in to see if they get the same treatment?”

“Definitely. The whole theory of our investigation falls apart unless you can save the day. Now go home and play sick.”

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

Jon pulled into the driveway of his two-bedroom home in San Pedro just as a light rain started to come down. By late evening, as he was watching his favorite sitcom,
Two and a Half Men
, he suddenly craved a beer. He peered out of his living room window. The rain was coming down pretty hard now. If anyone had been watching him, they’d probably knocked off for the evening. A quick beer run wasn’t going to hurt anything.

He picked up his keys from the coffee table, slid his gun into the holster at his waist, and headed outside to his Camaro.

Jon roared along 25th Street until he reached a 7-Eleven about two miles away. He parked in front of the store and hopped out. He grabbed a six-pack from the coolers, handed his ATM card to the clerk and was in and out in less than five minutes.

He placed the beer on the floor behind the driver’s seat and was about to close the door, when someone stuck what felt like a gun into his lower back.

He instinctively turned, but a raspy voice stopped him.

“Don’t turn around,” the voice ordered. The man quickly patted him down, then snatched Jon’s revolver from his waist.

“Get in the driver’s seat and do exactly what I tell you to do. If you don’t, you’re dead.”

Jon stayed put as the rain began to dampen his clothes. He had hoped it was just some kid trying to rob him, but the voice belonged to a mature man. Probably older than him. “Hey, man, if you want my car or my wallet, just take it.”

“What I want is you behind the wheel.”

Jon still didn’t move. He looked into the store where the clerk was stocking a shelf on the back wall. Not a single customer was inside. Jon caught a glimpse of his assailant’s reflection in the store window. He was shorter than Jon, white and clean-shaven.

“I said, get in!” the man seethed, jamming the gun deeper into his back.

Jon finally complied, slowly opening the door and climbing in. Fear pounded his chest with the force of a gong. Then it hit him. Live Now
was
killing its clients and he was about to be the next victim.

“Just tell me what you want?” Jon could feel his heart beating at double its normal pace.

“We’re going for a ride,” the man said, opening the back door and positioning himself behind the driver’s seat. “Make a right out of the lot and just keep driving.”

As soon as he started up the car, Jon detected the scent of some chemical that he was unable to precisely pinpoint. His mind was frantically trying to figure out how he was going to get himself out of this situation.

A few miles up the road at Palos Verdes Drive East, the man directed him to make a U-turn.

“Pull over,” he said, when they reached a turnout area past the Trump Golf Course. “And cut off the engine.”

As Jon followed his captor’s instructions, he looked off to his right. He could see very little, but knew it was at least a fifty-foot drop to the bottom of the embankment. Was the guy going to throw him off of it?

“Look, let’s talk about this. What do you want? I can—”

Without warning, the man looped a damp towel across his face, snapping his head back against the headrest, restraining him. Jon tugged at the towel, but the man held it firmly in place. Jon finally recognized the smell. It was chloroform! He continued to fight for air, but realized he was about to lose consciousness.

The man loosened his grip and Jon slumped forward against the steering wheel.

He exited Jon’s car as a second man, who had been following in a blue truck, joined him.

“You got it?” the first man asked, as the rain pelted his face.

“Yeah,” his accomplice said. “Hurry up so we can get the hell out of here.”

The accomplice, a small, bearded man, pulled something from his back pocket and handed it to the gunman, who bent down to attach it underneath the Camaro, near the gas tank. He then opened the car door, reached across Jon’s limp body and turned on the engine. After looking around to ensure there were no witnesses, he called out to his partner. “Let’s do this.”

He turned the steering wheel to the right, and with his accomplice pushing from the rear, they steered the Camaro toward a section of the guardrail which they had removed earlier in the day. Together, they shoved the car off the cliff, then watched as it tumbled down the hill, landing nose first before bursting into a vibrant ball of orange, yellow and purple flames.

Job done, they walked calmly to the truck, hopped in and sped off.

E
rickson and Becker were enjoying dinner at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse in Beverly Hills, celebrating the flawless execution of their plan. But now they needed a strategy to deal with the collateral damage.

“We have to get Ashley under control,” Erickson said, his face and voice heavy with worry.

Becker waved a hand in the air. “I’m not worried about Ashley. She was bluffing when she called the funeral home. I made some calls. There isn’t going to be any autopsy. The coroner’s office is busy enough with all the real crime in L.A. They’re not looking for any extra work.”

“God, I hope so.”

“You don’t have to hope,” Becker said. “That was a nice memorial service you held for Claire on Saturday. Once this autopsy nonsense is behind us, you can proceed with the cremation and the rest of your life.”

Erickson took a sip of his drink. “Ashley claims she contacted the D.A.’s Office, too.”

Becker hunched his shoulders as if that threat was no big deal either. “Are you forgetting who you are? You’re chairman of one of the most influential law firms in the world. You think somebody at the D.A.’s Office would be stupid enough to touch this? Unless Ashley can produce some hard evidence—and she can’t—no deputy D.A. with half a brain would risk his career going after you based on the ravings of an obviously emotionally distressed young woman.”

What Becker had just said made sense. Erickson was worrying for nothing. “I guess I’ve just been having second thoughts about—”

Becker raised a stern hand. “I told you before, we’re not going to talk about this.” He aimed a finger across the table. “You had a problem and now the problem is gone. That’s what you wanted, right?”

Erickson stabbed at his steak with his fork, then nodded.

“If you’re having regrets, that’s only natural. You
were
married to the woman for thirteen years. You just need to complete the grieving process, then move forward.” Becker took a sip of ginger ale.

“You’re right,” he said. But he really wasn’t grieving at all and certainly had no regrets about disposing of his problem. He was pleased, however, that even Becker was buying his depressed widower act. Actually, he already had his eye on Mandy Mankowski, a new temp in the real estate department.

“I had some great news I wanted to share with you,” Becker said. “But I’m not sure you’re in the mood for it.”

Erickson glanced up, but didn’t speak.

“Remember that list you’re on?” Becker said with a wink. “I know for a fact that it’s down to just two candidates and you’re still the front-runner.”

That news did indeed perk him up. “Who’s my competition?”

“I wish I knew. I asked, but Wrigley wouldn’t tell me. You don’t get to be Chief of Staff with a pair of loose lips.”

Erickson hoped the announcement came soon. Moving off to Washington and taking on the challenges of the Justice Department would help kick start his engine. Since getting the call from the President, his litigation practice almost seemed mundane.

Until his selection was announced, maybe he would use the time to focus on his personal life. As Attorney General, there would be receptions and parties and fundraisers to attend and he did not like flying solo. He needed a replacement for Claire and this time, he would make a much wiser choice. Children, or even the desire for them, would be the first disqualifier.

Since Claire’s death, the single secretaries at the firm, and a few of the married ones, were suddenly much more friendly and flirtatious. But aggressiveness in a woman disgusted him.

Mandy, the temp, was quiet and shy, traits Erickson favored. She practically blushed when he greeted her as he walked past her cubicle on the way to his office every morning. He pegged her to be in her mid-twenties, maybe even early thirties. She was just a smidge above plain-looking, primarily because she never wore makeup and dressed on the conservative side. He was glad that she hadn’t ruined her body by gluing a pair of cantaloupes to her chest. She was probably an A-cup, if that.

Erickson emptied his glass. “How much time is appropriate before a widower starts dating again?”

Becker grinned. “You got a prospect lined up already?”

“No, not really,” he lied. “Just wondering about protocol.”

“I say give it four or five months. And keep looking sad like you’ve been doing around the firm. People really feel sorry for you. When it’s time, you’ll have your pick of attractive, intelligent women from L.A. to D.C.”

Erickson smiled and took a bite of his steak. He didn’t want another attractive woman. Beautiful women had options. His new wife would have no alternatives beyond him. And Erickson most definitely did not want a woman with above-average intellect.

The next Mrs. Erickson would be one thing: completely controllable.

W
ithout question, delivering checks to his clients was the best part of Waverly’s new gig. It gave him a chance to play Santa Claus year round.

Only hours after brightening Jerry Billington’s day, Waverly met Britney at a coffee shop not far from the Sizzler where they’d talked the night after his presentation. When he handed over the check, she thanked him profusely, explaining that his timing couldn’t have been better. She had just been fired for excessive absenteeism.

Her firing was not good news for another reason. The insurance premiums Rico would have to pay to maintain her policy would more than double. Waverly decided that he would worry about that when the time came.

The business part of their discussion had lasted less than twenty minutes, yet they had now been chatting for over an hour. Waverly sipped black coffee while Britney drank some strange concoction of caramel and soy milk.

Conversation came easily to them.

“You have a great job,” Britney said. “You get to help people.”

“I do like it,” Waverly said. “I actually got a call this morning from an
L.A. Times
reporter who’s doing a feature on the viatical industry. She wants to interview me. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to do it.”

“Why not? It should be good for business.”

Actually, he could use the publicity. But he couldn’t risk having the reporter dig into his background and find out that not only had he been disbarred, but that he’d gotten his viatical license illegally and was laundering drug money to boot. “We’ll see.”

A little voice in Waverly’s head kept telling him to end the chitchat and go home to his wife. But something else kept him glued to the chair. It was ego-boosting to be in the presence of an attractive young woman, especially one who showered him with gratitude. He wanted to know more about her and she seemed willing and open to sharing.

“How’d your last radiation session go?”

Britney took a sip of her drink. “The doctor says I’m in remission now.”

“That’s great news,” he said.

Her face grew melancholy and Waverly got the feeling that she wanted more than words of comfort. He repositioned himself in the small wooden chair and tried to plan his exit.

“I don’t expect to be in remission forever,” Britney said. “I know the cancer’s probably going to kill me before I’m forty. My father died of colon cancer and he was only thirty-five.”

“You’re not going to die,” Waverly said, trying to sound empathetic. This time, he leaned forward and gave her hand a quick squeeze. When he tried to pull away, Britney placed her other hand on top of his and held it there.

“It’s my fault,” she said, finally releasing him. “I never went in for checkups despite my family history.”