Buying Time (11 page)

Her sister nudged her. “What in the world are you smiling at?”

“Nothing.” Angela didn’t even realize she’d been smiling.

Several feet away, her mother meandered along an aisle of  hideous debutante dresses. “Come take a look at these, baby,” Lola called out.

Jada shot Angela a look that challenged her to speak her mind.

Instead, Angela groaned and slogged her way over.

T
he driver eased the black Crown Victoria into the driveway of Erickson’s stately Hancock Park home. Relaxing in the backseat, he drank the last of his scotch, grimaced, and braced himself for another show.

After tipping the driver, Erickson climbed out and grabbed his carry-on bag. He had just returned from Washington where he’d undergone a grueling round of meetings and interviews. The job was his. He could feel it. Without that knowledge, he would not have had the strength to carry on with this charade.

Dropping his bag just inside the entryway, he found Corky waiting to greet him. “Hey there, boy!” Erickson reached down and massaged the dog’s back. “I bet
you
missed me.”

He started for the bedroom, but heard the sound of the television wafting from the family room and headed there first. As expected, his sister-in-law, Sophia, sat in front of the television set, glued to an episode of
Forensic Files.
She was addicted to true crime shows. Tales of murder and mayhem actually seemed to delight her.

“Welcome home.” She managed to face him without taking her eyes off the television screen. Physically, his wife bore little resemblance to her older sister. Sophia’s dark brown hair hung heavily down her back. She never wore makeup and her long bangs nearly covered her green eyes, which made her resemble some shaggy animal. It was completely understandable why she had never married.

“How’s Claire feeling today?” Erickson asked.

This time, Sophia glanced away from the TV screen, but not for more than a couple of seconds. “Fine.”

Erickson wanted to scream that Claire was not fine. Nothing around his house was fine.

He often wondered how much Claire had confided in Sophia.
Did she know about the DVD?
He was fairly certain that she did not. Appearances were important to Claire. She would not have shared his transgressions even with her only sister. And if Sophia had known, he would have sensed it. He’d never met anyone more transparent.

Erickson entered the bedroom, locking the door behind him. Except for a small lamp on the nightstand, the room was almost movie-theater dark and reeked of despair. Claire was watching
Desperate Housewives
. Her viewing habits were as atrocious as her sister’s.

Claire’s mood swings had been growing more and more severe. Erickson wondered what temperament he would face today.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, reluctant to test the waters.

“I’m fine,” Claire replied, just above a whisper. He was thankful that the darkness prevented a clear view of her face.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Erickson took her hand. She did not pull away, which he interpreted as a positive sign. He was increasingly at a loss for words in Claire’s presence. It would have been nice to share his excitement about his trip to Washington. But he would not give his wife more ammunition to assassinate him with.

Everything was in place for the surgery. The payout from the policy—two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—had already been deposited into their bank account. Claire had been examined by a surgeon, who confirmed that she was a suitable candidate for the procedure. Scheduling the date was the only loose end.

Over the last few days, however, Claire had become noncommittal whenever he brought up the subject.

Erickson awkwardly caressed her hand. He knew he should proceed slowly, but he did not have time for delays. He needed Claire’s agreement to move forward with the procedure.

“Have you given any more thought to when you’d like to schedule the surgery?” He despised the spinelessness in his voice.

Claire laughed softly. “Couldn’t you wait five minutes before you begin badgering me again?”

Badgering you
? he wanted to scream.
I’m trying to save your goddamn life!

“I don’t understand.” He stroked the back of her hand. Maybe she was just nervous. “The surgery is your best hope. It’s our best hope.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Claire announced, easing her hand from his. “It’s a waste of money. We should just face reality. I’m going to die.”

Yes
, Erickson thought,
you are
. But he did not have the time to wait for some unknown date. The surgery was part of the plan and they had to stick to the plan.

“But the surgery was the whole reason we sold the insurance policy,” he said.

“I said I don’t want to do it,” Claire snapped. “And please don’t mention it to Sophia or Ashley. I don’t want them getting their hopes up. I’ve been reading about the operation on the Internet. The odds of success are very low.”

Erickson eyed the laptop sitting on the nightstand to her right.

“We spend all that money. I suffer for another few months, then I die. It’s not worth it.”

“But don’t you think—”

“I said I don’t want to do it!” Claire practically shouted. “So forget it.”

Erickson had not anticipated this. He had no idea how it would impact Becker’s plan.

“It’s time for me to get my final wishes in order,” Claire said. “I’ll put everything in writing. I’d like to be cremated.”

That surprised him, but Erickson didn’t care one way or the other. In fact, it made things easier. If something went wrong, there’d be no body to examine.

With Claire’s change of heart, getting his hands on that DVD was more important than ever. Though he’d never seen it, he did not doubt its existence. He had searched the house, numerous times, to no avail. It had to be here. Claire would not have trusted it in the hands of anyone else.

“What about the DVD?” he asked. “You said you were going to give it to me.”

Claire had turned back to the television screen and did not appear to be listening to him. “No, I didn’t. I said I would
think
about giving it to you. I’ve changed my mind about that, too.”

Erickson wasn’t sure he could control his temper. “I understand that you want to ruin me, but what if somebody found it? Is that what you want?”

Claire laughed. “I think the world should know who the chairman of Jankowski, Parkins really is.”

Erickson wanted to snatch her by the neck and squeeze the life out of her right that very moment. “I’m tired of your games,” he said, finally lashing out. “You probably made the whole thing up just to hold over my head.” He got up to leave.

His words seemed to energize her. “You don’t believe me? You think I made it up?”

She fumbled beneath the covers, retrieved the remote control and aimed it toward the DVD player underneath the television. “Take a look at this.”

The television screen filled with Erickson’s image. He was sitting at the desk in his study, staring at his computer monitor. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the back of his leather chair. He was wearing the bathrobe Claire had given him as an anniversary present three years ago.

A sick feeling churned in his gut and he felt blindingly dizzy. He had looked everywhere for the DVD except in the one most obvious place. Had it been there all along?

Panic ripped through him as he focused on the pornographic video he had been viewing in the privacy of his office. A hidden camera, which he quickly estimated had been posted on the bookshelf near the door, had caught him enjoying what he considered nothing more than a harmless pastime.

On the television screen, Erickson looked calm and relaxed as he backed away from the desk and turned sideways, providing a clear profile of his face. He opened his robe and began moaning as he gently stroked himself. His eyes were glued to the computer monitor on his desk which showed three, sun-starved girls lying on a thin cot in a room barren of other furniture.  An accented voice, someplace off camera, instructed the girls in a foreign language. They slowly responded, awkwardly touching themselves in private places. All of the girls were Asian, likely Filipino, and no older than ten or twelve.

Erickson charged across the room and slammed his fist against the panel of the DVD player. It seemed to take forever for the disk to slide out of the machine. When it did, he grabbed it and cracked it in half. “Is this the only copy?” He was surprisingly calm.

“Perhaps,” Claire said with a shrewd smile.

The thought of anyone else seeing the DVD caused a blast of terror to slice through him. The video painted him as some pervert, which he was not. He had never touched a child. Any child. Ever. His private fantasies were just that.

Erickson was not sure he could wait for Becker to carry out his plan. He needed to complete the process himself. Right this moment.

Instead, he stormed out of the room, grabbed his keys from a table in the hallway and headed for the front door. He needed to take a drive. A nice long one.

H
ey, little bruh, what’s hap’nin’?”

Waverly frowned at the sound of his brother’s voice
.
There were so many calls coming in from terminally ill people, he had developed a bad habit of not checking his caller ID before picking up.

“Hey, Quincy,” Waverly said dryly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not callin’ to borrow any money, bruh. Just wanted to say hey.”

That would be a first.

Having just signed up two new clients, it was turning out to be a good day. He was also enjoying his first week in his plush new office on Wilshire Boulevard. So he wasn’t up for dealing with any nonsense from his brother.

Quincy rambled on about nothing in particular, taking way too long to get to the point. That told Waverly that whatever he wanted was major.

“Hey, man,” Waverly said finally, “good talking to you, but I’m a working stiff. Gotta get back to work.”

“What you doin’ ain’t work. You’re livin’ the high life.”

Waverly hadn’t told his brother much about his new business. Only that he was now helping wealthy people invest their money. But once Quincy heard about the move to Palos Verdes Estates, he only saw dollar signs.

“Since you brought it up,” Quincy said tentatively, “I was just talkin’ to a friend about your business.”

Waverly pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. This was not going to be good.

Quincy seemed to be waiting for him to say something. When he realized that Waverly didn’t plan to, he plunged ahead.

“Uh, one of my buddies knows a guy who knows a guy who’d like you to do some investin’ for him.”

“I’m not looking for any new investors, Quincy. Tell your friend thanks, but no thanks.”

“C’mon, man. Just do me this favor. I already told ’em all about you.”

“I’m curious, Quincy. Just what does your friend do for a living?”

“He’s in business.”

“What kind of business?”

“I’m not really sure. Import, export, I think.”

“And what’s his product?” Waverly asked. “Marijuana, crack, meth or all three?”

“Li’l bruh, I wouldn’t get you hooked up with the wrong kind of people. I swear this guy is on the up-and-up.”

“Sure he is. He’s probably looking for somebody to launder his drug money. I’m not interested.”

“C’mon, at least meet the dude,” Quincy begged. “Then you can judge for yourself.”

A meeting wasn’t necessary. If the guy was even remotely associated with his brother, he was bad news. “I gotta get back to work. Good-bye, Quin—”

“Wait, don’t hang up.” The desperation level in Quincy’s voice rose ten notches.

“You gotta help me out on this. They’re kinda expectin’ to talk to you. If they don’t, they’re gonna take it out on me.”

Waverly lowered his head and exhaled. He should just hang up the phone. He was not about to risk his very lucrative career dealing with his brother’s thug friends.

“I can’t help you this time, Quincy.”

“Can’t you just talk to the guy? I can’t go back and tell ’em you won’t even speak to him. You can’t dis’ him like that. This dude is pretty high up.”

“High up in what? Some drug cartel?”

“C’mon, bruh, just do me this one favor.”

“Can’t,” Waverly said, then hung up.

He flipped open the calendar on his desk and saw that he only had one appointment left for the day. Waverly usually went to his clients’ homes, but Jerry Billington had insisted on meeting Waverly at his office. Waverly wondered if that meant Billington hadn’t told his family he planned to sell his insurance policy.

Pulling Billington’s intake folder from his file cabinet, Waverly reviewed the information he’d taken down during a lengthy telephone conversation with the man. Divorced business executive with terminal lung cancer. Forty-three years old, father of two college-age kids. Six-month life expectancy. The next part made Waverly smile. Billington had a policy worth three hundred thousand dollars, which meant thirty grand for Waverly.

When Billington finally walked into his office, Waverly gave him a quick once-over. He lacked the dull gray pallor that Waverly had come to associate with terminal cancer. But the man had probably lost a great deal of weight. He was skinny enough to be blown away by a strong gust of wind.

Waverly offered him a seat and asked if he wanted coffee.

Billington declined.

“We’ve gone over most of your information on the telephone and I have your application here. All we need to do now is—”

“I’m not sure I understand how this all works,” Billington interrupted. “Can you explain it to me again?” He spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

Most of his clients wanted money, not repeat explanations. But Waverly took the time to review the process again, step by step. When he was done, Billington scratched the crown of his head.

“I’m not really sure I should do this. My kids and grandkids could probably use the insurance money.”