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  Pleased with what he had just pulled off, Waverly got up and retrieved another bottle of wine from the wine rack.

  The minute her family walked out of the door, Deidra went off.

  “What in the hell was that about?” she shouted. “How dare you let Daddy pay for my trip?”

  Waverly headed back to the den with Deidra on his heels. “Well, he did offer.”

  “He’s offered to pay for a lot of things, but you’ve always refused. Are we having money problems? Because if we are, I need to know.”

  “Cases have been a little slow coming in, that’s all.”

  “So slow that you can’t come up with four or five grand for a trip to Paris?”

  Four or five grand? He wanted to laugh. “Look, I’m working everything out. Just give me some time.”

  “Well, you better figure something out fast because this is not what I signed up for. We were only supposed to be living here for a few months and it’s been two years. I’ve never lived in a place this small before, but I did it for you.”

  Small? Their townhouse was more than two thousand square feet.

  “And now you’re telling me that we’re basically bankrupt.”

  “We’re not bankrupt.” Not yet.

  “If we can’t blow a few grand on a vacation, that’s bankruptcy as far as I’m concerned,” Deidra barked. “And please don’t embarrass me in front of my family like that ever again. If we’re having money problems, I should know about it before they do.” Deidra stalked out of the kitchen.

  Waverly opened the cabinet over the bar, grabbed a fifth of brandy and took a gulp straight from the bottle. His wife’s little tantrum was really uncalled for. But what the hell? He had never expected to keep a woman like Deidra happy forever.

  Too bad he hadn’t listened to his father. After divorcing his third wife, Henry Sloan swore off pretty women. Way too much work, he’d told his son. Find yourself a basic broad and she’ll ride with you until the wheels fall off.

  Waverly chuckled to himself. Right now he could use a woman who could hang, because the ride was about to get rocky.

  CHAPTER 2

  Assistant U.S. Attorney Angela Evans entered a conference room on the eleventh floor of the federal courthouse on Spring Street and slapped a thick stack of papers on the table. The rest of the newly formed task force was already assembled.

  “Hey, Angela, what are you trying to do, blind us?” Zack Hargrove, another AUSA, shielded his eyes with his forearm. “How about turning down the wattage on your ring finger?”

  The entire team—Zack, a paralegal, two case agents, and a junior attorney—erupted in laughter.

  “Alright everybody, that’s enough.” Angela pretended to chuckle along with them. “This is really getting old.” Her three-carat, princess-cut diamond was still the butt of jokes even though she’d been wearing it for almost six months. Would it ever stop?

  She actually considered the ring embarrassingly pretentious, but her fiancé, Judge Cornell L. Waters, III, was all about the show. So she quietly concealed her disdain and responded to his proposal with a soft yes, when she was actually thinking, I’m not so sure.

  “So where’s my wedding invitation?” Zack asked, refusing to lay off.

  A pretty boy with blue-green eyes and well-moussed blonde hair, Zack enjoyed being the center of attention. As usual, his Ralph Lauren suit and Italian shoes made him look more like a big firm partner than a government lawyer.

  Angela winked at him. “Your invitation’s in the mail.”

  She took a seat at the head of the table with a confidence gained from nearly a decade of putting criminals behind bars. First as a deputy district attorney and now with the U.S. Attorney’s office. Tough, smart and passionate in her professional life, her personal life was another story.

  “Let’s get started.” Angela’s hair was a crinkly mass of natural curls that resembled a limp afro from a distance. Her narrow face and wide brown eyes were striking enough to grace the cover of a fashion magazine.

  She eyed the box of Krispy Kreme donuts in the center of the table. It wasn’t even two o’clock yet and she only had nine Weight Watcher points left for the day. One donut would wipe out seven of them. Maybe stuffing her face with donuts was the easiest way out. Sorry. Couldn’t shed the twenty pounds. Have to call off the wedding since I can’t find a dress that fits.

  Angela directed her attention to Tyler Chen, who’d just joined the U.S. Attorney’s Office after three years at Gibson, Dunn & Crutcher. “Tell us what you found out.”

  “The U.S. Attorney’s Offices in Las Vegas, New York and Miami are close to returning indictments against a company called The Tustin Group,” Tyler began. “The company is pressuring terminally ill people to sell their insurance policies.”

  “Sell them?” asked Salina Melendez, a paralegal who was attending Southwestern Law School at night. “Who would buy somebody’s insurance policy?”

  “An investor,” Tyler said. “It’s called a viatical settlement and it’s sort of like a reverse mortgage. Except these companies trade in people, not property.”

  Angela nodded. “Say, for example, you’re dying and you’ve got a policy worth a hundred grand,” she explained. “A viatical broker will go out and find somebody willing to pay you a portion of the face value. All you have to do is name the investor as your beneficiary. After you die, the investor collects the full value.”

  “Six months ago,” Tyler continued, “one of The Tustin Group’s principals began operating in California under the name Live Now, Inc. It stands to reason that if they’re pressuring people in the other states, they’re probably doing the same thing here. Main Justice wants to make this a multi-district indictment.”

  “Sounds like a sad way to make a buck,” said Jon Rossi, a case agent with the U.S. Postal Inspection Service. He was a forty-plus, rail thin, vintage car enthusiast. The AUSAs always worked their cases with agents from one of the federal law enforcement agencies, such as the FBI or DEA. “But then again, if the people are dying and need the money, maybe it’s a good thing.”

  “It would be if Live Now was playing it by the book,” Angela replied. “But they’re targeting people too sick to know what they’re signing and convincing them to take peanuts for their insurance policies. Once we catch them in the act, it won’t be hard to get an indictment.”

  Criminals didn’t realize that no matter what the offense, the feds could usually nail them on mail, wire and internet fraud charges since they routinely used these methods of communication to further their fraudulent operations.

  “I wish this case had more pizzazz,” Zack sulked.

  Angela ignored the comment. Zack was still put out that she had been selected to head up the task force even though he had a few more years of practice.

  “Any complaints filed yet against Live Now?” asked Jon.

  “Just one.” Angela pulled a document from the stack of papers in front of her. “It’s actually a little strange. The daughter of a woman who sold her policy through Live Now claims her mother was murdered and thinks the viatical broker or the investor are responsible. Says they killed her to get a faster return on their investment.”

  Zack had been staring off into space, but immediately perked up. “How did the woman die?”

  Angela perused the complaint. “She had brain cancer. The hospital where she died found no evidence of foul play.”

  “It wouldn’t be in the hospital’s interest to find any,” Salina said.

  Zack’s face blazed with interest. “That would certainly be a clever racket,” he mused. “Invest in the policy, then kill the policyholder. The police wouldn’t waste much time looking into the death of somebody who was already dying. Are we investigating that angle, too?”

  Zack the Hack, as everyone called him behind his back, was always on the hunt for a high-profile case that might evolve into a highly paid talking-head job. He actually told people he was going to be the next Anderson Cooper.

&nb
sp; “Murder is the D.A.’s jurisdiction, not ours,” Angela said. “Besides, the police don’t buy the daughter’s theory and there’s been no evidence of anything like that going on in the other states.”

  “It might not hurt to talk to the woman,” Zack pushed. “We may find some information that could strengthen our case.”

  Angela pursed her lips in frustration. Maybe appeasing Zack on this would make him more cooperative down the line.

  “Salina, why don’t you talk to the woman over the phone? See if you think there’s anything to her allegations. If there is, I’d like you and Jon to interview her in person.” Angela slid a folder across the table. “Her name is Veronika Myers. Here’s a copy of her complaint.”

  “I’m on it,” Salina said.

  Angela handed out a three-page document to the team. “We have a lot of work to do over the next few weeks. This memo lays out everyone’s role. We received the go-ahead to stage a sting operation.”

  “How’s the sting going to work?” Salina asked. “Is somebody going to go undercover as a terminally ill patient and see if they get the screws put to ’em?”

  “That’s exactly how it’s going to work,” Angela said.

  Jon smiled. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Glad you feel that way because I think you’d be the perfect undercover patient.”

  “Hold on.” Zack turned to Rob, the case agent sitting to his left. “I think Rob could also do a pretty good job.”

  A smile masked Angela’s true feelings. The ultimate designation of their undercover patient would be made by the Postal Inspection Service. Still, Angela planned to lobby hard for Jon. Rob was way too passive for a case like this. He hadn’t even opened his mouth during the entire meeting. On top of that, he was basically Zack’s puppet. With Rob as the undercover plant, Zack would effectively control the investigation.

  “Jon has more experience doing undercover work than anybody else in this room,” Angela said. “He just helped snag two big-time drug dealers.”

  “Rob’s had his share of undercover cases, too.” Zack gave him a fatherly pat on the back.

  Rob, in turn, looked admiringly at Jon. “Not nearly as many as Jon.”

  Zack’s face reddened and he glared at Rob.

  “Then it’s settled,” Angela replied with glee. “Jon’s our choice. Now we need a name for our task force. Any ideas?”

  “I’m way ahead of you.” Jon paused for dramatic effect. “Operation Death Scam.”

  They all groaned in unison.

  “Too depressing,” Angela said.

  “It should be depressing,” Jon protested. “It’s a depressing business.”

  “How about Operation Buying Time?” Tyler offered. “That’s really what these people are trying to do. Many of them use the money for experimental medical treatments in hopes of extending their lives.”

  They all paused to mull over the suggestion.

  “Too bland,” Zack said. “We need something with some real punch to it.”

  “I like it,” Angela said, overruling him. “Operation Buying Time it is.”

  Zack muttered something under his breath as Angela dismissed the team.

  “Who wants to join my pool?” Zack asked, as everyone headed out. “I’m taking bets on who the President’s going to name as our new boss.”

  Six weeks ago, U.S. Attorney General Stanley Harrison was caught leaving a penthouse suite on the Vegas strip with a high-priced call girl. If he hadn’t paid for the room with his government credit card, he might still have a job.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you propose illegal betting in the workplace,” Angela chided him.

  “Aw, lighten up,” Zack replied. “You can be such a killjoy sometimes.”

  Angela gathered the rest of her papers and headed back to her office. While Zack’s bravado often got on her nerves, she otherwise liked working with him. He was smart, tenacious and had good instincts. But as the lead attorney, she’d probably have to spend as much time containing Zack’s ego as she did managing the case.

  Considering the fragile state of her personal life, she didn’t need the added hassle of any headaches from Zack Hargrove.

  CHAPTER 3

  Yes, Mr. President. Of course, Mr. President. Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Lawrence Erickson squeezed the telephone receiver and struggled to keep his emotions in check. A tall, athletic man in his late fifties, Erickson’s light blue eyes accented sandy hair badly thinning near the crown.

  As he stood behind his desk, talking to the President—the President of the friggin’ United States of America—he grinned down at his law partner Roland Becker, seated in front of him. President Richard Bancroft had just informed Erickson that he was among the final candidates being considered to fill the recently vacated job of U.S. Attorney General. Was he interested?

  Hell yes, Erickson had wanted to say. After a few more thank yous, he hung up the phone.

  “You knew I was getting that call!” Erickson sputtered, grinning down at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “And miss that shit-eating grin on your face. No way.” Becker stood and gave his friend and mentor a hug. “Anyway, I was sworn to secrecy. If I told you, I would’ve had to kill you.”

  Becker and President Bancroft’s Chief of Staff had shared an apartment in law school. That long-time friendship occasionally gave Becker access to inside information.

  Shortly after the debacle that led to Attorney General Stanley Harrison’s resignation, a White House staffer notified Erickson that he was being considered for the job. Erickson had assumed, however, that his selection was a long shot.

  A former assistant U.S. attorney in the Southern District of New York, Erickson had gained a name for himself by prosecuting high-stakes corporate fraud cases. After joining Jankowski, Parkins, Gregorio & Hall, one of the most powerful law firms in the country, Erickson limited his practice to complex contract disputes. His multimillion-dollar verdicts were a testament to his excellent litigation skills. Few knew, however, that this hugely successful lawyer harbored deep personal insecurities.

  “According to the President, I’m on the short list.” Erickson was literally beaming.

  “Screw the short list,” Becker said. “I know for a fact that you’re their number one candidate. The job is yours. So we have to start thinking ahead.” Becker returned to his seat. He excelled at expecting the unexpected and preparing accordingly, skills he perfected as a Navy SEAL. Though he had only twenty years of legal practice under his belt compared to Erickson’s thirty, Becker was clearly the more strategic of the two.

  “What about your situation?” Becker said. “Once the vetting process gets underway, they’ll be digging deep. Has anything changed?”

  Becker’s question cast a somber cloud over their celebration. Erickson slumped into the leather chair behind his desk and studied the ceiling for several seconds. His situation was his wife, Claire Erickson. His confidante turned enemy who was dying of pancreatic cancer.

  A fiercely private man, Erickson had shared only limited details of his failing marriage with his best friend. Claire had been threatening to file for divorce and to make the split as public as possible. But there was more, a lot more, that neither Becker nor anyone else needed to know. That’s how people screwed up. They talked too much to too many.

  Erickson rocked back in his chair. “Claire’s pretty unpredictable these days. I’m just trying to play the dutiful husband in hopes of keeping things under wraps.”

  “Is it the cancer?” Becker asked. His hard looks—pockmarked skin, sunken cheeks, and dark wavy hair—matched his aggressive litigator’s demeanor. “Is that what turned her into such a bitch?”

  Erickson flinched. While the description fit, he did not like hearing his wife disparaged by somebody else. Even someone as close as Becker.

  Erickson massaged the back of his neck. He wished he could blame everything on the cancer, but Claire’s actions could not
be attributed to her physical condition. Though she was not of sound body, her mind was another matter.

  “Our marriage was strained long before her diagnosis,” Erickson said wearily.

  Becker shrugged. “These days, divorce isn’t the end of the world.”

  “True,” Erickson said. “But like I said, this won’t be a quiet split. If Claire decided to call the L.A. Times and spread the lies she’s been threatening me with, Stanley Harrison and his hooker girlfriend would be reduced to a one-inch story on page twenty in comparison.”

  Becker’s eyes expanded in surprise.

  “Hey, hold on a minute.” Erickson moved quickly to correct any misconceptions. “I’m not screwing around. The only mistress I have is my career and that’s the one Claire wants to destroy.”

  “As we’ve discussed before, there are ways to keep her quiet.” Becker fired a sinister look across the desk. “Permanently.”

  The room fell strangely silent.

  During a recent dinner consisting of more drinking than eating, Erickson had spoken in jest of wanting to dispose of his wife. Was Becker serious? “What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

  “You know exactly what I mean.” Becker’s face showed no emotion as the silence in the room rose to flood level.

  Erickson swiveled his chair and gazed out of his office window. His friend’s words did not shock him. Becker had never liked Claire. Disloyalty among wives, Becker had said more than once, constituted grounds for the death penalty. Becker still bore battle scars from a bitter divorce in his late twenties.

  Erickson tried to laugh off what his law partner seemed to be suggesting. “You know all about my fantasies, but—”

  Becker’s phone vibrated. He eased it from the inside pocket of his jacket, glanced down and smiled. “Katy’s getting pretty good at texting. She just sent me a riddle.”