Buying Time (6 page)

“The surgery I’m talking about is completely above board,” Becker continued. “UCLA Medical Center is one of only two hospitals in the country performing the procedure.”

“So how would Claire be—” Erickson could not bring himself to say the word. “How would her demise occur?”

“After the procedure, there would be unexpected complications.” Becker took a seat and expanded upon his plan. When he finished, there was a glint in Erickson’s eyes. The plan, like Becker, was brilliant.

“It won’t be cheap,” Becker continued. “As a matter of fact, much of it won’t be covered by insurance. You’ll have to shell out at least a quarter of a million dollars of your own money.”

That number was daunting. Erickson had invested well, but blowing two-fifty on an operation he really didn’t want to work wasn’t a sound financial move.

Becker must’ve read his mind. “Don’t worry, it won’t cost you a dime. You told me years ago that you insured Claire for five hundred thousand. You still have the policy, right?”

Erickson nodded.

“You’re going to sell it.”

“Sell it? To who?”

“I’m amazed that people don’t know about this.” Becker quickly explained how viatical settlements worked.

The more Erickson listened, the more he liked what he was hearing.

“The fact that you encouraged Claire to sell the policy removes financial gain as a motive,” Becker said. “Not only are you taking extreme measures to save your wife’s life, you’re giving up hundreds of thousands of dollars in insurance proceeds in the hope of keeping her alive. No one would ever suspect you of killing her.”

“Becker,” Erickson said, grinning, “you’re amazing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Attorney General.” He stood up. “And before you ask, I’ll take care of everything.”

Erickson’s eyes held his friend’s. He quickly interpreted that everything meant
everything.
His law partner was a gift from God.

“You ever consider putting Claire in a hospice?” Becker asked. “Those places have way too many people to really keep a close eye on anyone. There would be easier access that way.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Erickson said, mulling over the suggestion. “I’d have to sell Sophia, Claire’s sister, on it first. Caring for Claire around the clock is really wearing her down. I can’t guarantee she’ll agree to it, though.”

“If you can make that happen, great, but even if you can’t, things will still be taken care of. I promise you that.”

Becker stood up and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slapped it on Erickson’s desk.

“What’s that?”

“Information about the surgery. Give me some time to check around for a referral to a viatical broker. It’ll be several weeks before the White House announces their selection for AG, so we have plenty of time to plan everything to prevent any screw ups.”

Erickson smiled. Becker was a detail man. Nothing would be left to chance.

“Now go home,” Becker ordered, “and convince your wife how much you want to save her life.”

J
oanna Richardson sat at the Formica table in the kitchen of her Leimert Park home. Early afternoon was her favorite time of the day. She enjoyed sipping herbal tea and soaking up the glorious sunrays that seeped through her kitchen window.

She was feeling particularly strong today. No nausea and her appetite was back. When you were fifty-six and dying of kidney disease, a day like today was a reason for celebration.

A copy of
Our Weekly
newspaper was open on the table in front of her. She had circled three items on the Events Calendar. There was a flower show at Exposition Park, a Walter Mosley signing at Eso Won Books, and a Farmer’s Market on King Boulevard. Too bad she couldn’t make all three. But it wouldn’t make sense to tire herself out.

Though her doctor was constantly sugarcoating her prognosis, Joanna had thoroughly researched acute renal failure on the Internet for the real story.  Her one good kidney wouldn’t hold out much longer.  

At least she could take comfort in the money sitting in her bank account. Thank God for the nice man from Live Now who had helped her sell her insurance policy. After paying off some bills and buying a new bedroom set, a nice burgundy casket, and a spacious plot with a marble headstone, Joanna still had thirty-four thousand dollars left.

The phone rang and she let the answering machine pick up.

“Hey, Mama, I’m just checking on you. Hit me back.”

Her son, Damien, called from time to time, but rarely dropped by to see her. Young people today didn’t have time for anybody but themselves. Joanna blamed herself, not Damien, for the way he’d turned out. She raised him wrong. Gave him too much.

Other than her son, she was pretty much alone in the world. The Sick and Shut-in volunteers from Faithful Central checked on her from time to time, but friends could never replace family.

Joanna thought about the will she’d just revised and chuckled to herself. Damien would be shocked to learn that she’d only left him five thousand dollars. The boy just wasn’t responsible enough to handle any more than that. The money probably wouldn’t last him a month as it was. He’d also be upset to find out she’d gotten a reverse mortgage on the house. Damien could barely pay the rent on his studio apartment in Gardena. Why leave him the house and let it end up in foreclosure? Joanna’s will left the rest of her money to the church.

After finishing her tea, she walked into the bedroom. She planned to take a short walk before commencing her day. Slipping into a pair of yellow sweat pants and a T-shirt, Joanna went looking for her iPod. She selected the playlist with her favorite gospel songs, plugged in the earphones and headed out of the house.

Joanna hummed along with Kirk Franklin as she headed north on Roxton Avenue toward 39th Street, thankful to be able to put one foot in front of the other. Some people her age didn’t like all that finger-snapping gospel music, but Joanna would rather see young people praising God than singing that rap mess.

A blue truck crossed her path just as she turned right onto 39th Street. She’d finally made up her mind to check out the flower show. After a nap, she might just have the energy to attend the book signing, too.

As she strolled and hummed, she spotted the blue truck again. There were two men inside. The driver sidled alongside her and rolled down the window.  She saw frustration on his face.

“Ma’am, can you tell us where Mountain Street is?”

Joanna stopped, always willing to help a stranger. “I don’t think there’s any Mountain Street in this neighborhood.”

The man looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “They told us it was south of Rodeo.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for fifteen years. Somebody steered you wrong.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The man frowned and rolled up the window.

Joanna continued her walk, finally reaching 2nd Avenue. Before her illness, she could make it past Arlington. She turned back and marched toward home. She was surprised to see the blue truck again. It had slowed to ten or fifteen miles an hour now and seemed to be trailing her.

Joanna snatched the earphones from her ears. Were the men out to harm her? She picked up her pace, but quickly became winded.

As she approached the intersection at 3rd Avenue and 39th Street, her throat suddenly felt dry and scratchy and she began to wheeze. For the first time, she took note of her tranquil surroundings. Should she run up and bang on somebody’s door? Or at least scream to alert someone? It was just after two o’clock on a Thursday. Most people were at work. Where were all the nosey neighbors when you needed them? She couldn’t believe that not even one retiree was outside tending to a garden or sweeping a porch.

She glanced back at the truck, which was still meandering along behind her. Maybe she was overreacting. Nobody would try to snatch her off the street in a nice neighborhood like this. Anyway, that only happened to kids. Who would mess with a sickly, middle-aged woman like her?

Still, her heart would not stop pounding. She looked over her shoulder a second time and saw that the men were half a block behind her now. At the next intersection, Joanna stepped off the curb, desperate to reach the safety of her home. She was halfway across the street when she heard the gunning of the truck’s engine. It picked up speed and seemed to be heading straight for her.

Instead of running, Joanna froze. She tried to move, but fear molded her feet to the asphalt right there in the middle of the intersection.

She watched in horror as the truck barreled toward her at full speed. The impact of the bumper against her left hip hurled her high into the air. The pain was so intense it seemed that every bone in her body had shattered all at once. Joanna flailed in midair like a wounded bird. Then, the pavement began careening toward her.

Good God! This was not how she wanted to die!

I
t was almost nine on Saturday morning and Waverly was sitting in his home office in a pair of silk pajamas, punching numbers into a calculator. He purposely set his sights low. If he sold just three policies a month with a face value of one hundred thousand dollars, his ten percent cut would mean thirty grand in commissions. Finding a few dying people in need of cash couldn’t be
that
hard.

He leaned back in his chair as a feeling of hope washed over him. Getting disbarred might actually turn out to be a good thing.

Deidra appeared in the doorway carrying two cups of coffee. “What’s that big smile all about?” She handed him a cup and took a seat across from him on a small couch.

Since she was leaving for Paris later that evening, they planned to spend the day together. Their tiff earlier in the week had been forgotten after Waverly brought home roses and a new Prada purse.

“Remember that career switch I mentioned a few days ago?” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, I’ve been looking into some things.”

Waverly watched Deidra’s hands tighten around the coffee cup.

He was about to repeat the same spiel Vincent had given him, but stopped. Selling the insurance policies of dying people sounded too morbid. He wanted to give his new venture a positive spin.

“It looks like this insurance investment business might be pretty lucrative, which means we should be able to buy our dream house sooner rather than later.”

Deidra set down her coffee and jumped into his lap. “You’re amazing and that’s why I love you!” She planted a wet kiss on his lips. “When can we start looking?”

“Hold on a minute,” Waverly said. “Let me get my feet wet first.” He immediately regretted his exuberance.
What if I can’t get licensed?

“Okay, okay,” she said. “But you better keep your promise.”

Waverly didn’t recall making a promise. Rather than point that out, he kissed her.

He knew Deidra wouldn’t demand any specifics about his new business venture. In that respect, she was her mother’s daughter. As long as the bills were paid and she had an American Express card with no spending limit, Deidra wasn’t concerned about the particulars of how he earned his living. He just prayed everything worked out.

“You going to miss me while I’m strolling the streets of Paris for three weeks?” she asked.

Waverly buried his face in the crook of her neck and kissed her. Her skin was always soft and warm to the touch. “You have no idea.”

He had wanted to make love to her last night, but Deidra was already asleep when he climbed into bed. He felt the urge coming on now and kissed her again, more deeply this time.

Deidra slipped off his lap, crouched next to the chair and eased her hand past the elastic of his pajamas. Waverly immediately swelled in anticipation of what was to come. She gently took him in her paraffin-softened hand and slowly moved up and down.

Lately, Deidra had resorted to jacking him off. Her body, she said, could not tolerate the heavy pounding of sexual intercourse on a regular basis. She typically reserved blowjobs for special occasions, like Christmas or his birthday. If he could swing that new house, he’d probably get head every night for a week.

Waverly rocked back in his chair, closed his eyes and smiled. He’d take it any way he could get it.

Hours later, when Waverly pulled their BMW to a stop in front of Bradley International Terminal at LAX, he spotted Deidra’s father two cars away hoisting Rachel’s luggage from the trunk of his Lincoln.

“Perfect timing,” Leon said, walking up to them. “I don’t know why you didn’t let us pick you up.”

Waverly wrapped a protective arm around Deidra. “I wanted my wife all to myself for these last few hours. We’ve never been apart for more than a couple of days. This is going to be rough.”

They said their good-byes and Leon and Waverly watched as the two sisters disappeared inside the airport terminal.

“You’re welcome to join us for dinner tonight,” Leon offered.

“Can’t,” Waverly said. “Got a business meeting.”

“On a Saturday evening?” Leon sounded skeptical.

Actually, he was scheduled to meet two executives from Live Now for drinks. Instead of elaborating, Waverly jumped into his car and drove off.

Waverly sat at the bar near the lobby of the Luxe Hotel on Sunset Boulevard nursing a beer.

Vincent was late. He had promised to make some calls to gauge Waverly’s chances of getting through the licensing process. Waverly wanted to know the results of his efforts before the executives arrived. If he couldn’t get licensed, why waste everyone’s time?

Finally, he spotted Vincent walking into the hotel.

“So?” Waverly said, as soon as Vincent reached him. “Am I in?”

Vincent smiled, but didn’t answer. He hopped onto the stool next to Waverly, flagged the bartender and ordered a beer. “I can get your license,” he began, “but it’s going to cost you five grand.”

Waverly’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vincent interrupted. “I’ll front the money and we can take it out of your first commission payment. I have faith in you.”