“How many policies do you sell a month?”
“I think that’s one of those questions I don’t like,” Waverly said, then smiled. “We’re done talking, right?”
Jill hurled a smile back at him. “Don’t you miss the practice of law?”
Waverly grunted. “You’re not a person of your word. That certainly tells me I shouldn’t trust you.” He took a sip of coffee.
“I only have a few more questions,” she pleaded. “I just need a couple of good quotes to round out my story. Do you miss the practice of law?”
Waverly took his time chewing his ham. So far, she’d asked nothing that could cause him any real harm. “Don’t miss it at all,” he said, between bites. “It’s not nearly as time consuming and you don’t have to deal with contentious lawyers. In this business, everybody I work with is on the same team.”
“Who buys these policies?”
“Insurance companies and individual investors, including a large number of doctors, mostly oncologists. They deal with death every day and don’t see the business as gruesome. They understand that they’re helping people.”
“And making a killing in the process,” Kerr added.
A red flag went up, but Waverly felt a strong need to defend his profession. “I wouldn’t call it a killing,” Waverly corrected her. “There are administrative costs involved. The broker only gets ten percent. We have to pay doctors to review the medical records, the viatical company takes a commission, and there are documents that have to be copied, notarized and mailed. All of that costs money as well.”
Jill didn’t seem convinced. “To some people, that might sound a little shady.”
“I thought you said this was going to be a feature.”
“It is,” Kerr said.
“You sound more like an investigative journalist than a features writer.”
Kerr smiled. “Thanks for the compliment. I used to be. I don’t mean to ask tough questions. I just want to make sure I get the entire picture.”
“When someone comes to me to sell their policy,” Waverly said, “they usually have no other options, no other place to obtain funds.”
Jill nodded as if she understood.
“We’re able to hand them thousands of dollars in a few weeks,” Waverly continued. “We’re talking about people who don’t have much time left. They can’t wait months to take that trip around the world or to get the medical treatment they need. I even had one client who was days away from being evicted from the home she’d owned for nearly thirty years. All because she was too ill to work because of her cancer. She had no other option. She’s still alive six months later and still in her home.”
“I guess your investor isn’t too happy about that.”
Another red flag shot up. “Actually, he’s just fine about it. She has a life expectancy of a year.”
“Do you ever get complaints from family members who were expecting a big insurance payout after their loved one died, but found out someone else was the beneficiary?”
“Most people tell their families what they are about to do,” Waverly explained. “I actually encourage my clients to do that. Many of them sell their polices with the blessing of those closest to them.”
Kerr looked down at her notes. “Do you make more as a lawyer or a viatical broker?”
Waverly paused. “If you define the currency as caring, I make tons more in this profession.”
“And if the currency is money?”
He didn’t like the question. He took a few seconds to carefully craft his response. When he finally spoke, he intentionally slowed down so Kerr could get every word.
“I don’t define my career in terms of money,” Waverly said. “I define it in terms of hope. I’m giving hope to people who wouldn’t otherwise have any.”
CHAPTER 38
It took Angela longer than it should have to reach the emergency room at Torrance Memorial Medical Center.
She was so traumatized by Cornell’s assault and the stress of not knowing whether Jon was dead or alive, that she went the wrong way on Lomita Boulevard. She was blocks away from the hospital before she realized it.
Angela backtracked and finally made it to the emergency room. She told the attendant that she was Jon’s step-sister so she’d be allowed in to see him. The nurse was about to object, but Angela gave her a look that dared her to dispute it.
She was only allowed to spend a few minutes with him in the emergency room. She found Jon’s bed at the end of a long aisle. He was heavily sedated and half his face was covered in bandages. The other half was so bruised and swollen she barely recognized him. The nurse told her that Jon had been thrown from his car seconds before it blew up. It was a miracle that he survived the accident.
Jon liked to drive fast, but he’d never been reckless. Even though it had been raining earlier, she found it hard to believe that he would carelessly drive his cherished Camaro off the road. His injuries were not the result of an accident. Live Now really was killing its clients.
Jon’s sister arrived later that morning. Around noontime, Jon had been moved into a private room. Debbie had just left to call other family members with an update on her brother’s condition when he finally regained consciousness.
Jon’s right eye fluttered open. When he saw Angela standing next to his bed, he smiled, or at least tried to.
“Can’t say you look too great,” Angela joked, “but you’re going to make it.” She reached out and gave his right hand, the only body part that didn’t appear bruised, a gentle pat.
“By the way,” she said, “I’m your sister in case anyone asks.”
Jon tried to smile again, but only one corner of his mouth angled upward.
“I need to know how your car went off that cliff. Did your accident have anything to do with Live Now?”
Jon mumbled something indecipherable. Angela leaned closer, but still couldn’t make out what he was saying. She pulled a pen from her purse, then looked around for a piece of paper. She saw a napkin on the nightstand.
“Can you write?” She placed the pen in his right hand. “Tell me what happened.”
Jon gripped the pen unsteadily. His scribbles were just as impossible to interpret as his speech. She would have to try something else.
“I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to blink once for yes and twice for no. Can you do that?” She wasn’t sure this would work since Jon’s one visible eye was badly swollen.
Jon mumbled what Angela hoped was his consent.
Angela felt her BlackBerry vibrate, having turned off the ringer earlier when she entered the emergency room. Assuming the call was from Jon’s sister, she pulled it from the pocket of her jeans, anxious to give Debbie the news that her brother was awake.
When Angela saw Cornell’s number on the caller ID display, she felt nothing but fury. She stepped away from the bed.
“What do you want?” she seethed.
“I’m sorry about how I reacted,” Cornell said. “I don’t know what got into me. I hope you’re okay. And Jon, too. How’s he doing?”
“Do you even care?”
“Look, I said I’m sorry. Do you want me to come down there?”
“No, you don’t need to come down here,” Angela spat. “If you were concerned about me or about Jon, you would’ve driven me down here last night.”
“You never gave me a chance to offer.”
“That’s the problem, Cornell. There are some things—no, there are a lot of things—that I shouldn’t have to ask. I have to go now.”
“We need to finish our conversation.”
“No, we don’t. You and I are done. I said everything I needed to say last night, except this. If you ever put your hands on me again, you’re going to jail.”
“Look, you’re being—”
Angela turned off the BlackBerry and stuffed it back into her pocket.
She turned back to Jon and saw an unmistakable smile grace his purple lips. He’d always joked
that Cornell was too uptight for her.
“Oh, so now you can smile, huh? And, yes, you heard right. My engagement is off.”
It was liberating just saying the words. Angela couldn’t wait to introduce Jon to Dre. She knew the two of them would click.
Jon suddenly darted upward and clutched his throat. He seemed to be having a hard time breathing.
“What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
Jon coughed up a spurt of blood.
Angela snatched open the door and ran into the hallway. “Somebody help!”
A Filipino nurse who was tending to a patient in the next room stopped what she was doing and rushed past Angela into Jon’s room. He was writhing all over the bed, desperately gasping for air.
“Code blue!” the nurse yelled, as she pressed a button on the wall above Jon’s bed.
In seconds, Angela was pushed out of the way and it seemed as if every nurse and doctor on the floor had converged around Jon’s bed. She heard metal clicking, machines beeping, and a rush of words she didn’t understand.
Angela had no idea how long she had watched the scene. But she would never forget the moment—the exact moment—when all the activity stopped, seemingly at once. The Filipino nurse, her head barely visible above the cluster of medical personnel, turned back and looked at her with apologetic eyes.
“Call the code,” said a male voice from somewhere in the midst of the huddle.
A woman in a white coat raised her left arm and checked her watch. “Time of death: one fifty-seven p.m.”
CHAPTER 39
Erickson leaned against the kitchen counter, enjoying a Chopin piano concérto, watching Mandy scurry about. It was nice being with a woman who was so eager to please. She was exactly what he needed to soothe his bruised ego.
Mandy eyed his empty wineglass. “Oh, I see you need more Chardonnay.” She set aside the salad she was preparing, wiped her hands on her apron and refilled his glass.
The firm’s non-fraternization policy prevented liaisons between partners and secretaries—or partners and any other employee for that matter. For now their affair was a closely guarded secret. Becker was right. It would not look good for him to be dating so soon after his wife’s death. But Erickson figured it would be months before his relationship with Mandy became public knowledge. By that time she would have traded her temporary workstation at Jankowski, Parkins for permanent residence in his Hancock Park home.
When she handed the glass back to him, he kissed her on the cheek. Any act of intimacy between them was always at his initiation. That was the first test that Mandy had passed with flying colors. She was never the aggressor and he liked that. He attributed the trait to her rural Midwestern upbringing. They didn’t raise women like her in California.
Mandy had performed well on his other tests, too. She was a good conversationalist, but not a chatterbox. She was poised enough to host a dinner party and had a decent knowledge of literature and classical music. Most importantly, Mandy knew how to follow his lead. That was the mark of a good secretary and a great wife. She could use some help selecting more flattering attire, but that could be easily fixed with an appointment with a personal shopper at Bloomingdales.
Erickson reached for the dishtowel next to the stove and dropped it to the limestone floor just in front of his feet. Mandy glanced over at him, evidently confused by the move.
“Get on your knees,” he quietly, but firmly ordered.
Without hesitation, Mandy knelt before him, cushioning her knees on the dishtowel. Without further instruction, she unlatched his belt, unzipped his trousers and took him into her mouth.
Erickson leaned against the cabinet and splayed his left hand on the countertop to balance himself as he drank in the pleasure of being inside her mouth. Within seconds of their first intimate encounter, he could tell that she was a novice at this task and that pleased him. It further pleased him that she was a fast study.
Yes, he thought, I’ve chosen well.
Erickson stroked her head, trying to contain his excitement as she expertly serviced him. He liked watching her mop of dark hair bobbing over his crotch. At work, Mandy kept her hair wrapped in a neat bun. On their first date, he’d been surprised to see that it cascaded down her back, almost to her buttocks.
He gripped a patch of her hair and twirled it around his fist, pulling tighter as he struggled to delay his approaching eruption. Mandy eked out a whimper of pain, which aroused him even more.
As she tried to pull away, Erickson held her head in place, forcing himself further down her throat, ignoring her gagging cries. He came in a final, forceful heave.
Mandy coughed for several seconds, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him with the eyes of a child.
Erickson brushed her hair away from her face. “Thank you,” he said, helping her up. “You gave me exactly what I needed.”
She smiled sweetly as Erickson buckled his pants. Mandy washed her face and hands at the kitchen sink, then resumed her dinner preparations.
Erickson left to take a leak, marching down the hallway with a self-satisfied smile.
When he finished in the bathroom and stepped back into the hallway, he heard voices and wondered why Mandy had turned off Chopin and turned on the television.
As he got closer, the sound of a familiar voice filled him with angst. He rushed into the kitchen where Ashley was hurling questions at a bewildered Mandy.
“You couldn’t even wait for my mother’s body to get cold,” Ashley wailed when Erickson stepped back into the kitchen.
“You just can’t come into my house uninvited!” Erickson yelled. “What are you doing here?”
“I came by to pick up my grandmother’s belongings that mother kept in the backhouse. I called your office earlier this week and your secretary said you’d be out of town.” She gave Mandy an accusatory once-over. “Are you his secretary?”
“Perhaps I should let you two handle this in private,” Mandy said timidly. She took off her apron and scampered down the hallway.
“Does your new girlfriend know you’re a murderer?” Ashley asked in a voice loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.
“Get out of my house!”
“You are such a scumbag. You couldn’t wait for my mother to die so you could bring some tramp in here. She’s half your age.”
“I’m not putting up with your nonsense anymore. You don’t live here. Get the hell out and don’t come back. I’ll have your mother’s things sent to you.” He held out his hand. “Now give me my goddamn key.”
Ashley threw the key on the counter and it slid to the floor. “I know you’ve been blocking my attempts to get an autopsy done, but it’s going to happen. You’re a murderer and you’re going to get what you deserve. You just wait.”
She ran down the hallway toward the front door and Erickson followed.
Ashley opened the door, stepped onto the porch and turned back to say something, but Erickson slammed the door in her face. He immediately turned the deadbolt and hooked the chain.
As he returned to the kitchen, hoping to salvage his evening, he made a mental note to call Sophia in the morning and demand her key as well.
Better yet, he would call a locksmith.
CHAPTER 40
Waverly was relaxing in his home theater, enjoying a movie with Deidra and her parents, when his BlackBerry vibrated, signaling a call. He waited until it stopped, then slipped it from his shirt pocket.
The caller ID flashed private caller.
“No message. Guess it wasn’t that important.” Waverly rocked back in his red velvet chair. The room had six rows of comfy, theater-style seats and could accommodate twenty-four. Deidra sat to Waverly’s left. His in-laws, next to Deidra.
A minute later, the phone buzzed again. And again, Waverly ignored it.
“Looks like somebody’s kind of anxious to get in touch with you,” Leon said.
The third time it vibrated, which was about thirty seconds l
ater, Waverly wished he had turned it off. This time he answered. “Waverly Sloan,” he said, annoyed.
“Just calling to check on that big payout I’ve got coming.”
Waverly stiffened at the sound of Rico’s voice. Deidra turned to stare at him. The near darkness concealed her face, but he could tell she was upset by the interruption. Waverly stood, stepped into the hallway and leaned against the wall.
He didn’t appreciate Rico interrupting his family time. “What big payout?”
“You owe me some money, amigo. Some big money.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That Billington dude is dead, so I have three hundred grand coming to me. When can I expect my money?”
“Dead? How do you know—” Waverly did not want to follow through on the thought that flickered across his mind. “I haven’t been notified that Billington died. How would you know that?”
“You think I’m going to let you give that guy one hundred and fifty grand of my money and not keep track of him?” Waverly noticed that Rico’s accent had completely disappeared. “Trust me, he’s dead. I read it in the papers. When do I get my money?”
“I’ll check into it. This doesn’t happen overnight.”
“I don’t expect it to happen overnight, but I do expect it to happen soon. I’ll call you tomorrow to find out when you’ll be wiring my money.”
Waverly hated not having Rico’s number. He knew nothing about the man and if he needed to track him down, he wouldn’t know where to begin. He had already tried to trace where he was wiring the money, but only found out that it was an offshore account.
“I’ll look into it and give you a call. Give me a number where I can reach you.”
Rico chuckled. “You know the deal. I’ll call you.”
Waverly hung up. When he turned around, Leon was standing a few feet down the hallway, his arms folded across his chest.
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