His use of Deidra’s name jarred him. “How do you—I can’t do that. I won’t do it.”
“Yes, you will because you’re a smart guy.”
Waverly tried to speak, but his lips refused to part.
“I just want you to do the same thing for me that you do for all your rich doctor friends. Find me some dying folks, preferably ones who’re real close to kicking the bucket. Buy their policies and send me a check when they’re dead.”
“And if I refuse and go to the police?”
“You won’t,” Rico said. “You care about your screwed-up brother too much, and I suspect you love your wife even more. I’d hate to have to pay her a visit while she’s all alone in that big old house in Palos Verdes Estates preparing dinner for you. Or maybe I could drop by that Pilates class she teaches. Give her a little taste of what your brother got.”
The muscles along his neck and shoulders turned into tiny knots. How did he . . . “Don’t threaten me and don’t threaten my family.”
“You’ll receive a package tomorrow with my first investment of fifty grand. More will follow. I’ll need you to send me all the pertinent information on the dying folks. I need to personally approve every policy you buy.”
“It doesn’t work that way. We don’t disclose the identity of the insured, just the particulars of their situation.”
“I’m sure you won’t have a problem bending the rules for me in light of what’s at stake. You’ll find more specific instructions with the first package, including a power of attorney giving you the right to sign any necessary documents on behalf of Goldman Investments. Once these folks croak, I’ll let you know where you can wire my money.”
Waverly felt trapped. How long had this guy been working on this plan?
“I look forward to doing business with you, Mr. Sloan,” Rico said, then hung up.
Waverly started to hyperventilate and struggled to fight off a crushing surge of panic. He wanted a drink, but needed his head on straight so that he could assess his options. But did he really have any? If he went to the police, they would look closely at him and eventually discover that he wasn’t even supposed to have a viatical license. It was also unlikely that the police could protect him or his family from a guy like Rico. They could’ve easily killed Quincy. Next time it could be him or, God forbid, Deidra.
Waverly couldn’t believe it. He had no choice.
CHAPTER 26
It was close to eleven by the time Angela returned home.
She and Dre had driven to Venice Beach and walked along the boardwalk, holding hands, not saying much. Angela made it clear that their relationship could not commence until she had officially broken off her engagement with Cornell. Dre said he understood and would be waiting for her whenever she was ready.
When she opened the front door of the condo, she spotted a box of long stemmed roses propped against the wall. Calla lilies, not roses, were her favorite flower. Cornell, however, preferred roses.
Angela grunted as she stepped over the box.
Cornell was sitting in the living room in the dark, the piano of Thelonius Monk playing softly in the background. She headed straight for the bedroom without acknowledging him.
Angela had just kicked off her pumps and was about to unbutton her blouse when Cornell entered the room. She suddenly felt uncomfortable undressing in front of him.
“Where have you been?” His voice was infused with accusation.
“Out.”
“Where?”
“No place in particular.”
Cornell took a step toward her. “What’s going on with you, Angela? You weren’t always so sensitive.”
She spun around to face him. “And you weren’t always so insensitive.” She took off her earrings and placed them in a dish on the nightstand.
“Okay. I’m sorry. Did you see the flowers in the entryway?”
Angela reached up to take off her necklace. “Yeah, thanks.”
“If you want to wear a strapless wedding dress, that’s fine. I’m sure you’ll look nice.”
“Never mind, I don’t want a strapless dress. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to wear any kind of dress because I don’t want to get married anymore.” There. It was out.
Stepping around him, Angela walked into the bathroom. When she tried to close the door, Cornell propped it open with his foot.
“I said I’m sorry.” The enlarged veins in his neck told her he was struggling to keep his anger in check. “You’re overreacting.”
Angela opened the medicine cabinet and reached for her toothbrush. Cornell watched, arms folded, as she brushed her teeth, washed her face and applied toner and moisturizer.
When she attempted to walk past him, Cornell reached out and embraced her. She did not reciprocate, her body rigid, her arms dangling at her sides.
“We need to talk,” Angela said, finally pulling away from him.
Cornell grinned. “Now we finally agree on something.”
Angela led the way to the living room and turned on the floor lamp near the window, flooding the room with light. Cornell sat down, rested his right ankle on the opposite knee and extended his arm along the back of the couch. Angela took the loveseat across from him.
“Tell me why you’re acting like this,” Cornell said. “Is this some PMS thing or something?”
“I don’t think we should get married.”
He chuckled. “You’re just having pre-wedding jitters. You’ve been working too hard. Why don’t we both take some time off and drive up to Santa Barbara again?”
“That’s not going to change anything.”
“Look, I’m going to do you a favor. I’m not going to take what you’re saying seriously because you’ll probably feel differently in the morning.”
“I won’t,” Angela said. “And this has nothing to do with what you said to me in the restaurant. I’ve been feeling this way for a while. I’ve just been too much of a coward to tell you.”
She could see from the dazed look on his face that her admission both surprised and alarmed him.
Cornell chuckled again, but this time, with a hard edge. “We’ve sent out two hundred invitations. It would be very embarrassing to call off the wedding. Embarrassing for both of us.”
His response only confirmed that she was making the right decision. Cornell cared more about what people would think than about losing her.
“I’m not worried about being embarrassed,” she said gently. “I just can’t go through with it.”
Cornell stood up and, for a second, she thought she saw his lower lip quiver. “Don’t do this. I love you and I want to marry you.”
He sat down next to her, taking both of her hands in his. It had been a long time since he’d been this gentle with her.
“I’m sorry if I haven’t been very attentive lately. It’s work. I’ve been under a lot of pressure. It’ll get better. I promise.”
He waited for her to say something and when she didn’t, he put his arms around her.
“We have something special, Angela. Let’s not ruin it. Don’t make a final decision yet. Please.”
Please was not a word Cornell used very often. “Okay,” she finally said, resenting her inability to stand her ground with him. She was only delaying the inevitable.
Cornell kissed her softly on the lips, then left the room.
If she’d had more time to think things through, she would have come up with some kind of ruse to force him into calling off the wedding. Actually, she could use a few days to get things in order. First she needed to find an apartment. She’d start searching in the morning. And the sooner she got the wedding cancellation notices in the mail the better.
Angela turned out the lamp on the end table and stared into the darkness. Cornell was not going to easily accept her decision, which meant the next few days were going to be rough. But she could handle it.
Especially since she knew Dre would be waiting for her.
CHAPTER 27
Af
ter another stressful week of waiting for a call from the White House, Erickson decided to let off some steam by futzing around in his garden.
He spent a couple of hours pulling weeds, fertilizing the soil and removing dead leaves. His work complete, he was now stretched out on a lawn chair, enjoying a beer.
The screen door opened and Sophia stepped onto the patio. “I have some errands to run,” she said. “Anything you need me to pick up while I’m out?”
Yeah, a little privacy. “No,” he said curtly.
“Claire’s a little down today,” Sophia said. “She asked me to pick up some movies. You should spend some time with her. Maybe bring her out onto the patio. She always loved your garden.”
“I’ll do that,” Erickson said, knowing that he would not.
Sophia walked over to a patch of white roses and leaned down to take a whiff. “How are you doing?” she asked, her back to him.
“I’m fine.”
She turned to face him. “No, how are you really?”
“I’m fine, Sophia.” His gruff tone demanded privacy.
“This isn’t easy for any of us,” she said.
“I never said it was.”
Sophia seemed to be searching for more to say. Instead, she picked up his gardening gloves and headed into the house. “I’ll drop these off in the laundry room.”
Erickson thought about going to the country club for a game of tennis, but didn’t have the energy. He desperately wanted to know when Becker would be moving forward with their plan. Becker had said he wanted Erickson out of town when he acted. Erickson would be leaving for a business meeting in Chicago in the morning. Maybe once he was gone . . .
Erickson was still obsessing about his wife’s unforgivable betrayal. He would not allow Claire to destroy his life over what was really nothing more than an innocent hobby which harmed no one. His biggest worry was that Claire had another copy of the DVD. What if Sophia or Ashley found it?
That nagging fear prompted him to give the house one more search. First he looked in on Claire and found her sleeping. This time, he started with more obvious places. He looked through the kitchen drawers and cabinets, the pantry, even the washroom on the back porch.
Thirty minutes later, exhausted from the intensity of the effort, he gave up. He was just returning to the patio when the doorbell rang.
He opened the front door to find Becker with three of his four girls in tow.
“Kaylee had a soccer game not far from here,” he said. “So I figured we’d drop by to say hello. I wanted you to see how big they’re getting.”
Each of the girls reached up to hug him. Erickson quietly shuddered, anxious to make the physical contact as brief as possible, but at the same time wishing he could prolong it. He had never explored his sexual fantasies beyond the computer screen. And he never would. Most men were not strong enough to control their sexual urges. He was not like most men. He was not some pervert.
“C’mon back,” Erickson said, leading them out to the backyard. “I was just relaxing outside.”
“How’s Claire?” Becker glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom.
“No one’s here,” he said, assuming Becker’s inquiry might be for the benefit of Sophia.
They talked about work while the girls bounced around the yard like fleas.
“I need to make a pit stop,” Becker announced. “Then we’ll be taking off.”
Erickson watched in frustration as the girls came close to stepping on his azaleas. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey, girls, come tell me about the game.”
It felt like a lifetime before Becker returned to rescue him from the childish chatter. Once they’d left, he went into the family room and began pouring over a stack of documents he’d already begun studying about the inner workings of the Justice Department.
Erickson heard the front door open and looked up, expecting to see Sophia. His eyes met Ashley’s instead. She glowered at him, then stomped off down the hallway to her mother’s bedroom.
Seconds later, after he had just grabbed another beer from the refrigerator, he heard Ashley scream and tear out of the room. “Call nine-one-one. Mommy’s not breathing!”
Erickson didn’t move.
“I said Mommy’s not breathing!” she screamed again.
For some reason, he still couldn’t move. Had Becker. . .
Ashley stepped around him, snatched the phone from the kitchen counter and quickly dialed 911. “I need an ambulance! My mother’s not breathing!”
Erickson remained motionless as Ashley recited the address. She slammed down the phone and rushed back to her mother’s bedside.
When he heard the rattle of keys that signaled Sophia’s return, Erickson finally seemed to snap out of his fog. He charged down the hallway and pulled open the front door before Sophia could retrieve her key from the lock. “Claire’s not breathing!”
Sophia darted past him into the bedroom where Ashley stood over her mother, holding her hand. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Sophia moved her aside, felt for Claire’s pulse, then hung her head.
“I don’t understand,” Sophia cried. “Except for feeling a little depressed this morning, she was fine. How can she be dead?” She reached out to comfort Ashley, who pushed her away and lashed out at Erickson.
“He did it!” she charged. “He killed her!”
Erickson reeled backward. “What? Are you crazy?”
“You wanted us to dump her in a hospice. And since we wouldn’t, you killed her!”
Sophia tried to embrace her niece. “Calm down, Ashley. Please calm down.”
Ashley pulled away and swung her fist toward Erickson, just missing his face as Sophia stepped between them.
“You’re not going to get away with this!” Ashley shrieked. “I swear to God, you’re not getting away with it!”
PART THREE
* * *
Nothing But the Truth
CHAPTER 28
Waverly parked his Lexus across two stalls at an Episcopal church on Slauson in Ladera Heights. He was there to speak to a support group for terminally ill patients and their families.
His presentations had dropped off after his business started to blossom, but with the recent influx of cash coming in from Rico, he needed to find more dying people than ever. Vincent had recently supplied him with a list of groups where he’d have a good shot at picking up some new clients. The church was first on the list.
Luckily, Waverly had established a solid network of oncologists, probate lawyers and ministers who regularly referred terminally ill people in need of financial help. Since his forced business arrangement with Rico, he had upped his finder’s fee to thirteen hundred dollars for patients with a life expectancy of six months or less. The finder’s fee was a pittance compared to all the money he was raking in.
After a few days, Waverly resigned himself to his situation with Rico. He had purchased three policies in the name of Goldman Investments and, so far, no glitches.
The meeting was just about to commence when Waverly walked in. There were about thirty people in the room, mostly female, evenly divided between blacks and whites. He gave the group leader brochures to pass around, took a seat and waited to be introduced.
Waverly looked across a narrow aisle to his left and saw an attractive young woman with sandy brown hair styled in a short, spiky cut. Her eyes were a vivid blue, but conveyed a heavy sadness. She smiled at him and Waverly acknowledged the greeting with a nod and return smile.
The group leader asked everyone to stand so that they could begin the meeting with a prayer. When she instructed them to hold hands, the woman reached across the aisle and took Waverly’s hand. As the group leader prayed, Waverly glanced down at his hand entwined with the woman’s, then up at the profile of her face. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be mouthing her own private prayer. She did not look ill and Waverly hoped she was at the meeting for a family member, not herself. She couldn’t be a day over twenty-five.
Following the prayer and a short introduction, Waverly was invited up to the podium. He began with a basic explanation of a viatical settlement and how it could help those in financial need. He did not anticipate any tough questions. The working-class groups always seemed to take him at his word. When he finished his presentation, he urged anyone who was interested to contact him at the number on the brochure.
Waverly had just stepped outside the room when he spotted the young woman who had taken his hand standing at the end of the hallway. She appeared to be waiting for him.
“Thanks for your presentation,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m Britney. Britney Hillard. I’d like to talk to you about a viati—” she looked down at the brochure as she struggled to pronounce the word.
“Viatical settlement,” Waverly said, finishing for her.
Britney smiled shyly. “Yes, that. I have colon cancer. I just finished up my second round of radiation. I still have an insurance policy through my job. I brought a copy with me.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to him.
Waverly knew right away that he probably couldn’t help her. These days, colon cancer patients lived for years. If she was undergoing radiation rather than chemo, that meant she had a good chance for survival. He always found it difficult to tell people that he couldn’t help them because they weren’t dying fast enough. He could not bring himself to say those words to Britney.
He took the envelope. “Why don’t we schedule an appointment?” He pulled his BlackBerry from his inside jacket pocket. “I’m fairly open this week.”
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