Buying Time (39 page)

“Hi, Dre.” Britney’s body language was way too flirty.

“What’s going on in here?” Angela was standing in the doorway that separated the living room and the hallway. She looked Britney up and down. “Who’s she?”

“Angela, this is Britney,” Waverly said. “She’s one of my clients. She’s also the witness who saw the shooting.”

“Hi, Angela,” Britney said cheerfully.

Angela ignored her greeting. “How’d she get here?”

“Dre sent a friend to pick her up,” Waverly said. “I couldn’t just leave her at the hotel.”

Angela didn’t acknowledge Dre’s presence in the room and directed her question to Waverly. “What possessed you to bring her here?”

“Because there was no place else for her to go. Her life’s in danger, too.”

“Well, she’s in even more danger now.” Angela studied Britney’s face.

“It’s okay,” Britney said. “I wanted to come.”

Angela raised her hand and pointed at Britney. “I recognize you. You were in the garage when I first drove in. You were carrying grocery bags out of the garage.”

“Yep,” Britney said. “That would be me.”

“I’m actually glad you’re here. Have a seat. I want to know everything you saw and heard in that garage.”

Suddenly, Britney’s cheerful demeanor vanished. They all sat down and focused their attention on her.

“It’s okay.” Waverly gave her shoulder a squeeze. “You can talk to them. They’re going to help us.”

Angela switched to prosecutor mode. “You told Waverly that I shot Cornell, not Dre. Is that right?”

Britney nodded, no longer talkative.

“How could you see who shot Cornell when all three of us were wrestling for the gun?” Angela asked.

“Uh . . . well, I didn’t actually see that part.” Britney ran her fingers through her hair. “I only saw when the guy slammed you against the car and you pulled out a gun and told him you were going to blow his guts out. That’s when I got scared and closed the garage door. I grabbed my groceries and ran upstairs.” Britney pointed at Dre. “I didn’t see him there at all. I never told you that I
saw
the shooting. I only heard the gun go off as I was running up the stairs.”

Angela looked at Waverly with ice in her eyes. “It sounds like you don’t have any information that disputes our version of the shooting. Was this some kind of scam you were trying to pull?”

Waverly couldn’t believe this was happening. He shot Britney a dirty look. “I didn’t realize that she didn’t actually see the shooting.”

Dre whistled. “Man, you’re a piece of work. Did you even ask her if she saw the whole thing?”

“Not really,” Waverly said, clearly embarrassed. “I guess I just assumed she did.”

Britney clasped her hands. “Sorry.”

No one spoke for several seconds.

“Did you guys see yourself on the news?” Britney asked, her face full of excitement.

“Yeah,” Angela said. “And we aren’t happy about it. I know my mother and sister are someplace freakin’ out. I just sent my sister a text message letting her know I’m okay.”

Dre stood up. “We ain’t goin’ to solve anything tonight. Let’s just get some sleep and put our heads together in the morning.”

He disappeared down the hallway and returned with blankets. “Angela, you can have the bedroom. Britney, you take the love seat, and Waverly, you can use the couch. I’ll make myself a pallet on the floor.”

He handed a blanket to Britney, another one to Waverly, and dumped the others near the door. “Towels are in the hallway closet. I’m goin’ to wash up.”

B
ecker pulled up in front of Sophia’s house in West L.A. and turned off the engine. He hoped this meeting was more successful than his earlier visit with Erickson.

When Becker dropped by to check on him, Erickson was a drunken mess. It looked as if he’d been wearing the same clothes for a week. He badly needed both a shower and a shave.

Becker had banged on the front door for a full five minutes before walking around to the back of the house and finding Erickson sitting on the patio, staring off into space. Becker could smell the stench of alcohol five feet away.

“Didn’t you hear me knocking?” he asked, as he walked up and took a seat at the patio table. Becker glanced over Erickson’s shoulder and into the family room. The place was still almost as much of a wreck as it had been after the police search.

“I don’t think you need anything else to drink.” He eyed the unopened scotch bottle on the table and spotted an empty one on the grass. “And you probably need to eat something.”

Erickson finally turned to face him, but said nothing.

“I’m going to help you out of this,” Becker vowed. “I promise.”

“Sure you are.”

Becker hated weakness. Especially in a man. If he was in Erickson’s shoes, he wouldn’t turn into a pissy-ass drunk. He’d fight to prove his innocence. This was his role model? After learning of Erickson’s betrayal, he simply wanted enough devastation to befall him to boot him from his coveted position as Attorney General and, hopefully, from the chairmanship of the firm as well. By the time it was all over, though, Erickson would be both professionally and mentally destroyed.

“I’m on my way to Sophia’s place to discuss my suspicions about Ashley,” he said. “I want to find out exactly what Sophia knows before I go the police.”

A string of saliva dripped from Erickson’s chin. “Be careful,” he slurred. “You go over there accusing Ashley, and Sophia will probably call the police on
you.
”

Now, as he climbed out of his Range Rover, Becker thought about the news he had to deliver. Sophia would have a hard time accepting that her niece was guilty of murder. But Becker was now convinced that she was. There was simply no other possible suspect. He no longer believed that Erickson could have killed his wife. The man didn’t have the guts. Neither did Waverly Sloan. He may have been killing his other clients, but Ashley, not Sloan, murdered Claire.

Becker glanced at his watch. He was right on time. At least Sophia had been civil when he called to suggest the meeting.

She opened the door only seconds after he knocked. Becker stepped inside the small comfortable home off Olympic Boulevard in a primarily Jewish neighborhood.

“I made coffee. Would you like some?” Sophia asked.

“Sure. I take it black.”

Becker took a seat in the living room. She returned shortly with two steaming mugs and a tray of homemade cookies just out of the oven.

“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.” He reached for the mug and took a sip.

“I guess you’re here to talk about Larry.”

He set the mug back on the table. “In part.”

“I understand that you don’t think he murdered Claire.”

“No, I don’t,” Becker replied. “Actually I know who killed her and I suspect you do, too.”

Sophia settled back on the couch. “Ashley told me about your visit.”

“Then you know that I think she drugged her mother.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sophia replied. “Did Larry put that nonsense in your head?”

“Ashley discovered her mother’s body, so she had opportunity. And she definitely had motive. She despised Larry so much, I don’t think it’s too farfetched to assume that she’d like to send him to prison for the rest of his life. She set him up.”

“That’s supposition, not evidence,” Sophia said. “Ashley loved her mother. She wouldn’t have killed her.”

“Her mother was dying. Frankly, I think she despised Claire as much as she did Larry. Her mother chose to be with him rather than her. A jury could easily be convinced that Ashley killed her mother to frame Erickson, knowing she was going to die anyway.”

“From what I’ve seen of you lawyers, I’m sure you could convince anyone of anything.”

Sophia was absolutely right about that. Becker took another sip of coffee.

“So why are you here?” Sophia asked. “Hopefully not to urge me to turn on my niece. Because that’s not going to happen. I know for a fact that she didn’t kill her mother.”

For a second Becker’s eyes met hers and he saw something evil in them. Was he wrong about Ashley? If Ashley didn’t kill her mother, then Sophia was the only other person who would have had access to Claire. As the possibility settled in, he grew uncomfortable looking into the woman’s menacing green eyes.

“If Ashley didn’t kill Claire, then who did?” Becker asked uneasily.

“Larry killed Claire. He killed them both.”

“Both?”

“Claire and Ashley.” Sophia raised the coffee mug to her lips. “He killed their spirit. He was an awful stepfather and a domineering husband. Neither of them had much of a life after he entered the picture.”

Becker was careful not to show his growing alarm. Was he looking at Claire’s murderer? Did the jealous spinster sister take Claire’s life?

“There are many things about the Erickson family that you don’t know,” Sophia said. “Things about Larry that you could never fathom. Awful things. Things Larry would never share with you, his closest friend, or anybody else.”

Sophia sounded so mysterious that he almost didn’t want to know.

Becker gripped his mug with both hands. “Perhaps you should share them with me.”

A sarcastic smile graced her lips. “You idolize the man so much, I’m not sure you could handle it.”

“I assure you that won’t be a problem.” He set the mug down on the antique coffee table that separated them. His mind was whirling with possibilities.

“Go ahead,” Becker urged. “Tell me everything.”

S
hortly after five the next morning, Dre opened his eyes to the sound of a low foghorn. It took a second before he realized the sound was Waverly’s snoring.

He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot down his back. He did not intend to spend another night sleeping on the floor. He would just have to come up with some brilliant solution to get his uninvited guests out of his crib.

A rustling sound made him jump. In the near darkness, he could see Britney sitting on the love seat, digging around in her purse.

Just as she turned in his direction, Dre pretended to be asleep. He watched through slitted eyes as she tiptoed past him down the hallway and into the bathroom.

Dre gingerly got to his feet and stepped into the hallway. Britney was talking to someone on the phone, but Dre could not make out what she was saying.

When Dre heard her stop speaking, he rushed back to his pallet on the floor. Britney walked back into the living room as Dre pretended he was just waking up.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Britney said cheerfully.

“Hey,” Dre grumbled.
This girl is too damn happy to be a cancer patient.

He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He opened a protein shake and took a sip. Dre pretended to look away, but he could see Britney slipping her cell phone back into her purse.

“Want me to cook us some breakfast?” Britney asked.

Dre looked at her like she was crazy. “This ain’t no pajama party.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“But you actin’ like it is.”

“You’re such a party pooper.” Britney flopped down on the love seat.

Dre returned to the floor, but sat up with his back against the wall, facing her. “Who were you talkin’ to in there?”

“In where?”

“In the bathroom. Just a minute ago.”

“I wasn’t talking to anybody.” Britney locked her arms across her chest.

“I know what I heard.”

Britney blinked in rapid succession. “You heard the phone, but I wasn’t talking to anybody. I was just listening to my voicemail messages.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me. Who you gotta talk to this early in the morning?” he asked again.

“You need to get your ears checked. I had the speaker phone on. Maybe that’s why you thought you heard me talking. I went in the bathroom so I wouldn’t wake anybody up.”

The girl is straight up lyin’.

“Who you expectin’ a call from?”

“Nobody in particular.” Britney pranced barefoot into the kitchen. “I’m hungry. Mind if I check out the fridge?”

“Yeah, help yourself.”

“There’s not much in here,” Britney said, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. “Want me to go get some gro-ceries?”

“Nobody’s leavin’ here,” Dre said firmly.

“Okay, fine.” She took an apple from the vegetable bin.

Dre got up and went to the bathroom to take a piss. As he washed his hands, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was thirty-six years old, lived in the hood all his life and slung drugs for the last eight years and had never once had a reason to shoot anybody or get shot at. Lo and behold, he hooks up with a lawyer and in less than forty-eight hours, he’d not only taken the rap for shooting a judge, but almost had his own lights put out in a high-speed chase. Only in L.A.

He could hear Britney banging around pots and pans in the kitchen. He had a bad vibe about the girl. And when the vibe was this strong, it was usually right.

Dre picked up his toothbrush, then suddenly set it on the sink and marched down the hallway to his bedroom. He knocked on the door and waited for Angela to give him the go-ahead before entering.

When he stepped inside, Angela was sitting up against the headboard, Yoga style, watching the television on the opposite wall. She was wearing one of his tank tops and she looked sexy as hell. He could see the outline of her nipples through the thin cotton fabric. Dre tried, but couldn’t take his eyes off of her exposed thighs.

She obviously noticed him staring, but made no move to cover up.

“I took the liberty of borrowing a T-shirt from your drawer. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No problem.”

“You wouldn’t believe the things they’re saying about us on the news,” she said. “Someone supposedly saw the three of us trying to cross the border into Tijuana.”

“You shouldn’t stress yourself out watchin’ that bullshit.”

“You’re probably right.” Angela folded her arms as if to block his view of her chest. “So what can I do for you?”

Dre hated it when she gave him attitude, but decided to let it slide. He rested his back against the door. “I ain’t feeling the white girl.”