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  Two officers stepped out with their guns drawn. “Put your hands up!” one of the officers yelled.

  Dre quickly complied. Both cops looked nervous, which made Dre doubly nervous. He raised his hands even higher.

  The officers gingerly walked closer.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Dre struggled to catch his breath. “I was . . . I was just robbed.”

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “No,” Dre said, still holding his hands over his head. “I just told you somebody robbed me.”

  One of the officers, a big, burly black man, told Dre to turn around and face the car, then roughly patted him down. Satisfied that he was unarmed, the officer directed him to sit on the curb, then began searching Dre’s Volkswagen.

  “What’re you doing down here?” asked the white officer, who kept his hand on his weapon.

  “I was stopped at the light and two dudes broke my window and stole my wallet. When they heard your siren . . .” he paused, his breathing still labored, “they ran off. You . . . you saved my life.”

  “Well, we weren’t trying to save your life,” the black officer yelled over his shoulder.

  From his sitting position, Dre watched as the officer rummaged through his car. He prayed that the cop didn’t discover his .38. The officer moved the seats backward and forward, then bent down to search underneath them. He tossed Dre’s floor mats and empty duffel bag to the sidewalk. “You got any drugs in here?”

  “Two crack heads just robbed me,” Dre said, using the sleeve of his coat to wipe a trickle of blood from his face. “I’m the victim here. Why you treatin’ me like a criminal?”

  “Because you are,” the black officer shot back. “We ran your plates.”

  It took about twenty minutes before he gave up the search. The contents of Dre’s car were now sprawled along the sidewalk.

  “Ain’t nothing here,” the black cop said to his partner. He looked at Dre with contempt. “You wanna file a police report?”

  “Naw,” Dre said.

  The black officer ordered Dre to his feet, lifted his chin and examined his bruised face. “Just a few minor bruises. You don’t need an ambulance, right?”

  Dre pulled away. “Naw, I’m fine.”

  “Good answer.”

  The cops headed toward their cruiser. “Don’t let us see you around here again,” the white cop shouted from the window as they drove off.

  Dre thought about responding, but wasn’t stupid enough to give them an excuse to cart him off to jail. “Thanks for everything, officers,” he muttered.

  He walked over to the sidewalk and starting searching for his keys. This was a sign, Dre thought, as he picked up a floor mat. It was time for him to close up shop. Time to get out.

  Now.

  The next day, Dre was about to take the stairs to the cycling room when he saw Angela heading in his direction. He stopped and waited for her to catch up with him.

  She was only inches away when Dre’s battered face stopped her mid-stride. He had a long gash near his left temple and his right cheek was dotted with tiny red marks from the shards of glass.

  “What happened to you?” Angela reached out and gently pressed both hands to his cheeks. Her touch felt soft and warm on his face.

  Angela’s reflexive gesture of concern apparently surprised her as much as it did Dre. She self-consciously dropped her hands to her side.

  He smiled and tried to play down his injuries. “Car accident. And it wasn’t half as bad as it looks.”

  “When? You should’ve called me.”

  Dre cocked his head. “I would’ve, but I don’t have your number.”

  Angela’s lips curled into a smile. “Well, I guess we’ll have to fix that.”

  They’d been friends for more than three months now and he knew little more about her than her name, profession and that she was about to marry some guy she didn’t seem to be all that into. Dre wished he could feel her hands on his face again.

  “I’m fine,” he said. He took her hand and she let him. “Let’s go work out.”

  When their cycling class ended, Dre walked over to her, wiping the sweat from his face with a towel. “I need to talk to you about something. You have time to grab some coffee?”

  “Sure,” Angela said. “You have a legal problem?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You. I’ll be waitin’ for you out front.” He walked off without giving her a chance to respond.

  They took a short walk to the Starbucks in the Howard Hughes Promenade up the street. As they stood in line to order, Angela kept glancing back over her shoulder.

  “What’s the matter?” Dre teased, as they took a seat near the window. “You worried about dude catchin’ us together?”

  Angela smiled, then hunched her shoulders, which told Dre that was exactly what was on her mind. The clerk called his name and Dre retrieved their iced drinks. He set them on the table, then wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Sometimes I find it easier to just put my shi—excuse me—put my stuff on the table,” Dre said. “So here goes. I definitely have feelings for you and I’m pretty sure you have feelings for me.”

  Angela used that precise moment to take a noisy sip of her drink.

  “Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” she said coyly.

  “What’s up then? If you’ve got the hots for me, why you marryin’ dude?”

  Angela laughed heartily. “How did we get from my possibly having feelings for you to the hots?”

  Dre leaned back in his seat and stroked his goatee. “I know what I know. And what I know is your personal situation ain’t what it’s supposed to be. Is there really a fiancé or do you just wear that big ass rock to keep brothas like me offa you?”

  A smile touched her lips, but didn’t linger. “No,” she said, suddenly solemn. “There’s really a fiancé.”

  “So what’s the deal?” Dre challenged. “You don’t seem all that excited about gettin’ married. Is it some old guy? You marryin’ dude ’cuz he got bank or something?”

  Angela rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not marrying for money. He is older than me, though. A little more than ten years.”

  “Ain’t the wedding comin’ up?”

  Angela responded with a labored sigh. “Yep. Ten weeks and four days to be exact. My mother just put the invitations in the mail.”

  Dre spread his hands. “Well, what’s the deal? Talk to me.”

  Angela averted her eyes. “I guess I don’t know the deal myself. I’m not exactly sure Cornell is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.” She fidgeted with the straw in her drink. “And getting to know you has certainly complicated things. But, unfortunately, the train has already left the station.”

  Lines of confusion filled Dre’s forehead. “Sounds like you’re about to marry some dude you’re not sure you wanna be with ’cuz you’re too embarrassed to call off the wedding. That’s crazy.”

  “I agree,” Angela said.

  Dre was dying to lean across the table and kiss her. Instead, he took her right hand in his and squeezed it. When Angela squeezed back, Dre knew. He knew he would eventually have her.

  “Well, what you plan to do about it?” he asked.

  There was a long pause before Angela responded. “I don’t know,” she said weakly. “I really don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 21

  What do you mean Claire’s not having the surgery?”

  Becker appeared to be as stunned as Erickson had been when Claire sprang the news on him.

  “You heard me,” Erickson said, flopping down into an upholstered chair in front of Becker’s desk.

  “But why?”

  “I think she’s given up,” Erickson said.

  “Has she given up on destroying you, too?” Becker asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  Erickson still could not shake the images on the DVD that Claire had secretly recorded. An activity that had once
brought him pleasure, now threatened him with not just embarrassment and financial ruin, but prison time. Simply being in possession of child pornography was a federal offense. He had taken tremendous precautions before downloading the video from the Internet, using an email address, computer and credit card that could not be linked to him. Ensuring the privacy of his study had been the one precaution he had stupidly failed to take.

  Becker slowly rocked back and forth in his chair. “What about her sister, Sophia? Maybe she could convince her?”

  “I doubt it. Once Claire makes up her mind about something, she can be pretty stubborn.”

  Becker tapped his pen on the desk. “This isn’t good.”

  Erickson didn’t exactly see it that way. “We don’t really need her to have the surgery, do we?” He still had no idea how Becker planned to carry things out. Did he want Claire to have the surgery because he planned to sneak into her hospital room and inject her with some lethal drug?

  “It would just be preferable if her death followed the surgery,” Becker explained. “Like I said, no one would think you had a motive to kill her after trying to save her life.”

  Erickson wanted to laugh. Yeah, I have a motive alright. He just prayed no one ever found out what it was.

  “Well, I can’t convince her. So where do we go from here?”

  Becker stood up and started pacing the short distance between the window and his desk.

  “Let’s proceed,” he said. “If something were to go wrong, there’s always the evidence that you wanted her to have the surgery. I can testify to that and so can her doctors and that viatical broker. You told him why you wanted the money, right?”

  Erickson nodded.

  Becker leaned his head from side to side, cracking his neck as he continued to pace. “Actually, I guess it’s really not that big of a problem. Just means a minor change in plans on my end.”

  “There’s something else you should know,” Erickson said.

  Becker abruptly stopped pacing.

  “Unbeknownst to me,” Erickson continued. “Claire made Ashley her sole beneficiary about six months ago.”

  “And you’re just telling me this now!” Becker looked incredulous. “Someone could argue that you convinced Claire to sell the policy to get access to half of the insurance money when you really weren’t entitled to any of it. I thought Ashley’s grandparents left her a trust fund. I’m really surprised Claire did that.”

  That’s because you have no idea what’s going on in my household.

  “Ashley only gets three grand a month from that trust,” Erickson explained. “But it won’t be a problem. I’ll just give her the two-fifty. That will completely erase any financial motive.”

  Becker let that alternative settle in for a few seconds. “Good idea. Sophia and Ashley knew you were trying to convince Claire to have the surgery, right?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Claire didn’t want to get their hopes up, so she never told them she was even considering it. Anyway, I thought you said your plan was failsafe. Sounds like you’re planning on someone pointing the finger at us.” Erickson intentionally used the plural pronoun.

  “That’s not going to happen, but I always plan for the possibility that something could go wrong. That’s why my clients pay me seven hundred dollars an hour,” he boasted. Becker’s hourly rate was as high as some senior partners. “I never let anything slip through the cracks.”

  Erickson smiled. He could not have a wiser co-conspirator. “How does this change our timeline?” In other words, how fast can you get rid of her?

  “I think we can speed things up now. Quite a bit.”

  “May I ask how you—”

  Becker held up a hand. “I really don’t want you to have any of the details. Just let me protect you, okay? Once this is done, I don’t want to discuss it again. Ever.”

  “That’s fine, I just—”

  “No, I mean it. When Claire’s gone, she’s gone. I’m not going to share any of the details. Before or after. Ever.”

  “I’m fine with that and I don’t need specifics,” Erickson pushed. “But can you give me some idea of how soon you plan to move forward?”

  “Soon,” Becker said. “Very soon.”

  “Her sister Sophia is usually around the house.”

  Becker paused. “That could be a problem, but I’ll come up with something.” He cracked his neck again. “One more thing. Claire hasn’t contacted a lawyer or talked to anyone about filing for divorce, right?”

  “No,” Erickson replied. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. Have you heard anything more from the White House?”

  “Nothing definite. But based on the increasing frequency of the calls I’m getting, I’m definitely still in contention.”

  “Of course you are.” Becker snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He opened a drawer to his left and pulled out a silver, framed photo. He handed it across the desk to Erickson.

  The eight-by-ten portrait showed Becker, his wife, son and four daughters, dressed in blue jeans and white shirts, standing on the beach. There was a larger version of the same photograph on the credenza behind Becker’s desk.

  “You have a beautiful family,” Erickson said, reciting the response he knew Becker both wanted and needed. “It’s amazing. The twins are the spitting image of Staci.”

  Glowing with pride, Becker took a seat on the corner of his desk. “And my boy Garrett is turning out to be quite a handsome kid, if I do say so myself.”

  “How’s he surviving with four sisters?”

  “Him?” Becker chuckled. “How about me?” He folded his arms. “Make sure you keep me aware of your travel plans. Ideally, I’d like this to go down when you’re out of town. Preferably, far away from the scene of the crime.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Waverly backed into a stall in the underground garage of his office complex and climbed out of his brand new Lexus.

  Business was going so well, he’d traded in his ancient BMW. Deidra begged for a new Lexus of her own, but Waverly denied the request. But only because he planned to surprise her with a Mercedes E-Class convertible for her birthday in three months. He couldn’t wait to see Leon’s face when she pulled up in that.

  Waverly opened the back passenger door and was about to grab his briefcase when he felt the presence of someone or something nearby. He peered across the hood of the car, but saw nothing. He glanced back over his shoulder and his body became immobile.

  In an empty stall just a few feet away, Waverly saw a human heap lying on the ground. He took a few steps forward, stopped, then ran over. “Christ, Quincy! What happened to you?”

  Quincy tried to answer, but blood not words, spewed from his brother’s bruised lips.

  Waverly crouched down and placed two fingers in the crook of his brother’s neck. He felt a strong pulse. Quincy’s left eye was swollen shut and his face was a mass of black, red and purple bruises. Waverly lifted his shirt and was relieved to see no stab wounds or bullet holes. His face had taken the brunt of the beating.

  “Quincy, what happened?”

  Quincy moaned something indecipherable in response.

  Waverly pulled out his BlackBerry to call for an ambulance, then suddenly slipped it back into his pocket. He would take Quincy to a hospital himself. He slid his arm underneath Quincy’s neck and tried to help him up.

  Quincy winced in pain.

  “You have to help me,” Waverly said. “C’mon, get up.”

  It took some effort, but Waverly managed to get Quincy to his feet. They stumbled the few steps to his car and Quincy fell across the backseat, splattering blood all over the immaculate cream interior. Waverly climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car.

  What had Quincy done now?

  As they reached the garage exit, Waverly glanced at the attendant sitting in a small glass booth. She was reading a magazine and didn’t even glance his way. He stuck his card key into a
slot and waited for the gate to lift. Waverly didn’t know whether to go left or right and tried to compose himself long enough to figure out the direction of the closest hospital.

  He looked back at Quincy. “I’m taking you to the hospital, okay?”

  “No,” Quincy moaned. “I’m okay. No hospital.”

  “You need to see a doctor,” Waverly insisted.

  Quincy tried to sit up. “No!” he cried out. “They’re gonna start askin’ a lot of questions that I can’t answer. Take me to your place. Please!”

  Waverly was torn. Quincy needed medical attention, but his fear of going to the hospital meant he was probably involved in something illegal. Waverly needed to know what was going on first. At the next light, he cut off a UPS truck and headed down La Cienega toward the freeway.

  By the time they pulled into his three-car garage, Quincy was able to exit the car with Waverly’s help, but every step elicited a painful whimper. They were a few footsteps from the door that led from the garage to the kitchen when Waverly realized he had left the garage door up. He pressed a button to the right of the door. This scene was not something he wanted to explain to his new neighbors.

  When they finally staggered inside, Deidra covered her mouth with both hands. “Oh, my God! What happened?”

  “I wish I knew.” Waverly deposited his brother into a chair at the kitchen table. “Go get some towels.”

  Deidra dashed down the hallway and returned in seconds.

  She handed Waverly the towels, but did nothing else to help. “He can’t stay here,” Deidra said.

  Waverly ignored her. He wiped the blood from his brother’s face as best he could.

  “Wet this for me, will you?” He hurled one of the towels at her.

  Deidra did as asked, but the disapproval on her face only deepened.

  Waverly examined his brother more closely. He’d taken an ugly beating, but his bruises didn’t appear to be life threatening. Waverly helped him wash up, gave him a change of clothes and put him in one of their three guest bedrooms.