When she heard Cornell reenter the bedroom, she calculated that their adult time-out was almost over. She jumped into the shower and was dressed in minutes.
She found Cornell in the kitchen, engaged in another morning ritual. He laid out a multiple vitamin, along with one vitamin E, two Cs and a B-12. He repeated the same lineup for her, adding a calcium tablet and a birth control pill. Cornell wanted children, but only when he was ready for them.
“Morning,” he said, brushing his lips against hers.
He smelled fresh and clean and looked striking in his black suit and burgundy tie. His lean frame, closely cropped hair and wire-rimmed glasses gave him a professorial look. He tossed the pills into his mouth all at once, followed by a swig of orange juice.
Angela took a cinnamon raisin bagel from the breadbox on the counter, sliced it down the middle and dropped it into the toaster.
“How many points is that?” Cornell asked, placing his glass on the counter.
Angela tensed. She did not need a points monitor and had told Cornell as much. More than once.
“I’m using fat-free cream cheese,” she said curtly.
“But how many points is it?” Cornell always demanded straight answers. Whether in his courtroom or at home.
Angela slapped the eject button on the toaster and the bagel sprang up.
“I was just trying to help,” he said.
Cornell’s own success had been fueled by a childhood of constant criticism, so he knew no other way to motivate anyone else. He bent to peck her on the cheek, then headed for the door.
As soon as he was gone, Angela pressed the toaster button again, then peered into the refrigerator. She was about to reach for the fat-free cream cheese, but grabbed the raspberry jam instead.
Zack and Jon convened in Angela’s office to discuss Jon’s new identity as a terminally ill businessman.
Angela handed him a thick manila envelope. “That file contains your life story, so memorize it. Your name is Jerry Billington and you have lung cancer. We’re working on finding an actual doctor who can pose as your personal physician just in case they ever want to talk to someone.”
Jon pulled a medical file from the envelope. “Looks like you’re pretty screwed up,” Zack said, peering over his shoulder.
“That’s the point,” Angela noted. “You’re selling your policy to fulfill your lifelong dream of sailing around the world before you die.”
Zack offered only lukewarm approval. “I guess that’s a plausible story.”
Just then, Salina burst into the room, her face brimming with excitement.
“You know that woman you wanted me to interview who filed the report with the Department of Insurance claiming her mother was murdered?”
Angela nodded.
“She’s dead,” Salina said. “The police think she may’ve been murdered and so do I.”
All three of them gave Salina their full attention.
“The woman was shot at home in bed,” she continued. “Whoever did it, set it up to look like she committed suicide, but the police aren’t buying it.”
Salina went on to explain that Veronika Myers supposedly shot herself with her right hand, but was actually left-handed. “Someone broke a window latch to get in. It looks like they tried to fix it on the way out.”
“That’s not exactly proof of murder,” Jon replied.
“There was also evidence of a struggle,” Salina added. “A table was knocked over in the hallway and the comforter on her bed was all twisted up, which could mean she’d been trying to fight off an attacker.”
“This might turn out to be a decent case after all.” Zack was close to salivating now. “Sounds like something we should definitely check out.”
Angela gave him a dismissive look, then turned to Salina. “Is the D.A.’s Office looking into her death?”
“They’re all over it.”
Zack looked crushed. “It won’t hurt if we just—”
“No,” Angela said, raising her hand. “We don’t have the resources. Let’s wait and see what the D.A.’s Office finds out. If the police conclude that the woman and her mother really were homicide victims and find a connection to Live Now, then we’ll take a closer look.”
Angela left the office just before seven, stopped off for a quick weigh-in at Weight Watchers, then headed for the Spectrum Club in Westchester.
She had been wanting to try out the cycling class and decided that tonight would be the night. After changing into her work-out gear, she hurried upstairs and awkwardly climbed aboard a bike on the second row, only because the bikes in the back of the room were all taken. Within five minutes of the start of the blaring hip-hop music, Angela was ready to bail. She repeatedly had to stop to catch her breath and mop the sweat from her eyes.
During her fifth rest break, she locked eyes with a man riding a bike at the end of her row. This wasn’t the first time she had noticed him. She sensed that he was nothing like Cornell. There was something about his shaved head, neatly trimmed goatee and hazel eyes that made him both fascinating and sexy.
He leaned forward and smiled, revealing deep-set dimples. Angela couldn’t help but smile back.
By the time the music stopped, Angela was huffing and puffing so hard she was sure she had sweated off at least ten pounds. When she climbed off the bike, every muscle in her body quivered in pain. As she reached out to open the door, someone on the other side opened it for her.
“Your first time?” It was the man on the bike. He was even more handsome up close.
“Yep.” Angela could barely speak. “Was it that obvious?”
“Naw. You rode like a pro.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, really, you did. Most people quit after five or ten min-utes.” He extended his hand. “I’m Andre. People call me Dre.”
“Angela,” she said, still winded.
As they headed downstairs to the locker rooms, Angela quietly moaned with each painful step.
“You okay?” Dre gently took her upper arm and guided her down the last few steps.
To her surprise, his touch shot a flutter of arousal through her body.
“They should tell you how much this hurts before you go through the first class.”
Dre laughed. “No pain, no gain.”
They had reached the bottom of the stairs and were about to depart.
Dre slung his towel across his left shoulder. “You comin’ back for more?”
“Ask me that when I wake up in the morning.”
Dre cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “I wish I could.”
Angela blushed. I wish you could, too, she thought, then caught herself. What was she thinking?She was an almost-married woman. She slipped the workout glove from her left hand so Dre would see her engagement ring. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.
“Thanks for helping me down the stairs.”
“Anytime,” Dre said.
As she walked away, Angela could still feel his eyes on her.
“You should come back tomorrow night,” Dre called after her. “I’ll save a bike for you.”
Angela smiled back at him. “You do that.”
CHAPTER 6
The pretending was what Erickson hated the most. Had his wife been healthy, he would’ve packed up a long time ago. But no decent man ups and leaves a dying woman.
Erickson sat next to Claire in the waiting room of her doctor’s office. He thought about putting his arm around her shoulders or trying to make conversation, but every time he tried to be a caring, attentive husband, she rebuffed him.
“How about lunch in the Marina when we’re done?” he asked, hoping she said no.
“Let’s see how I’m feeling later.”
Great. That was as good as no.
Erickson studied Claire as she flipped through a magazine. Her naturally blonde hair was covered by a pricey wig that actually resembled her own golden locks. Her skin was pale and paper-thin. The yellowish tint to her brown eyes bothe
red him the most. They had already died.
A nurse showed them into the office of Claire’s oncologist, Dr. Lisa Cranston. The doctor was warm and funny and not bad looking if you liked women in the fifty-plus range. Erickson didn’t. He wondered why she chose such a depressing specialty.
“I have your most recent test results,” Dr. Cranston said, once they were seated. “There’s been no change.”
You’re still going to die is how Erickson interpreted her words.
He reached over and caressed Claire’s forearm. She stiffened, but he pretended not to notice. His display of affection was more for the doctor than for Claire. Erickson mentally checked out as the conversation went from blood counts to medication to chemotherapy.
“How much time does she have?” Erickson suddenly blurted out. He realized too late that his tone was all wrong.
Dr. Cranston’s nervous glance in Claire’s direction seemed to convey some private message that only the two of them could interpret. “Time estimates are just that,” she said. “I’ve seen some of my patients with pancreatic cancer live for a few weeks or months, and others miraculously last another two or three years.”
Erickson nodded solemnly, then looked away. It had already been a year since Claire’s diagnosis. He needed this problem resolved in days or weeks, not months or years.
He gripped his wife’s hand. “Well, whatever time we have left, we’re going to make the most of it.”
They were both seated in his Mercedes before Claire spoke again. “That was quite some performance you put on for Dr. Cranston.” Her eyes sizzled with suspicion.
Erickson turned on the ignition and released the parking brake. “I don’t know what you mean.”
A dubious smile spread across Claire’s thin, dark lips. “You’re hoping I change my mind about going public. Is that it?”
“No matter what you think, Claire, I still love you.”
For an instant, her eyes softened, but just as quickly, they turned callous again.
“You’re not fooling anyone,” Claire snarled. “You’re only doing all this because you want me to give you that DVD.”
You’re absolutely right. That’s exactly what I want. “And you said you would,” he reminded her.
“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I’m still thinking about it.”
Erickson put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking stall. He marveled at the once beautiful, but not particularly bright, single mother he’d rescued at the age of twenty-nine. In the beginning, Claire had a feisty, independent nature, which had taken tremendous effort on Erickson’s part to corral.
Her life following their marriage had basically been his life. At Erickson’s insistence, Claire had abandoned her aspirations of a career in interior design and devoted all of her time to planning his parties, entertaining his guests, shopping for his clothes. Her needs were dictated by his needs. After thirteen years of marriage, he now despised the reemergence of her rebellious spirit.
Erickson was determined to recreate the dependent little flower he had so carefully planted, pruned and nourished.
At least until he got his hands on that DVD.
“So how’d Claire’s doctor visit go?”
Becker had just walked into Erickson’s office at Jankowski, Parkins and closed the door behind him.
“Pretty much the same,” Erickson said. “She’s doped up on pain medication most of the time.”
Becker remained standing and rested his arm on the middle shelf of the bookcase behind him. “As we discussed before, you can’t have this thing hanging over your head.”
Becker had just stated the obvious. That his problem must disappear was something he already knew.
“I don’t mean to sound crass,” Becker said. “But how much time does Claire actually have?”
“I wish I knew. According to her doctor, it could be three weeks or three years.”
Becker glanced over his shoulder as if to confirm that the door was still shut. “If I could make the problem go away, would you be amenable?”
Erickson let a long beat pass. “Very.”
Becker spoke often of his days as a Navy SEAL, admitting with pride that he’d done his share of killing for his country. Over the years, Erickson had watched his law partner ruthlessly defend his corporate clients, sometimes crossing ethical lines Erickson wouldn’t dare to. But this was different. They were talking about offing his wife.
“The prisons are full of people who thought they could commit the perfect crime,” Erickson said.
“And none of them possess our level of intellect,” Becker retorted with unapologetic arrogance. “And frankly, I don’t view what I have in mind as murder. Claire’s going to die. We’re just going to speed the process along. Anyway, you haven’t heard my plan yet.”
Plan? Erickson was happy to know that Becker had given it that much thought. “I’m listening.”
“What if you convinced Claire to undergo an experimental surgery and what if it didn’t work?”
Erickson’s forehead creased. “You want me to pay some doctor to botch a surgery?”
“No, I—”
Becker pulled his ringing phone from his breast pocket and glanced down. “Kaylee had a big game today. I gotta take this.” He pressed a button and walked over to the spacious window. “Hey, sweetie, how’d it go?”
Erickson sat there for three full minutes listening to Becker tell his daughter how proud he was of her performance on the soccer field. How ridiculous. They were plotting a murder, for Christ’s sake. The kid could wait.
“I’m sitting here with your godfather.” Becker turned and winked at Erickson. “He wants to tell you how proud he is, too.”
Becker stalked back across the room and shoved his phone into Erickson’s face. Erickson grudgingly took it.
“Congratulations, Kaylee,” he said stiffly. “Sounds like you had a great game.”
Erickson was relieved that the child did not attempt to prolong the conversation. He handed the phone back as if he feared it might be radioactive.
“Sorry about that,” Becker said, stuffing it into his pocket. “I really hate missing her games. So where were we?”
“You tell me,” Erickson said, not hiding his annoyance.
“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.”
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.”
CHAPTER 7
Joanna 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.
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