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  Though her doctor was constantly sugarcoating her prognosis, Joanna had thoroughly researched acute renal failure on the Internet for the real story. Her one good kidney wouldn’t hold out much longer.

  At least she could take comfort in the money sitting in her bank account. Thank God for the nice man from Live Now who had helped her sell her insurance policy. After paying off some bills and buying a new bedroom set, a nice burgundy casket, and a spacious plot with a marble headstone, Joanna still had thirty-four thousand dollars left.

  The phone rang and she let the answering machine pick up.

  “Hey, Mama, I’m just checking on you. Hit me back.”

  Her son, Damien, called from time to time, but rarely dropped by to see her. Young people today didn’t have time for anybody but themselves. Joanna blamed herself, not Damien, for the way he’d turned out. She raised him wrong. Gave him too much.

  Other than her son, she was pretty much alone in the world. The Sick and Shut-in volunteers from Faithful Central checked on her from time to time, but friends could never replace family.

  Joanna thought about the will she’d just revised and chuckled to herself. Damien would be shocked to learn that she’d only left him five thousand dollars. The boy just wasn’t responsible enough to handle any more than that. The money probably wouldn’t last him a month as it was. He’d also be upset to find out she’d gotten a reverse mortgage on the house. Damien could barely pay the rent on his studio apartment in Gardena. Why leave him the house and let it end up in foreclosure? Joanna’s will left the rest of her money to the church.

  After finishing her tea, she walked into the bedroom. She planned to take a short walk before commencing her day. Slipping into a pair of yellow sweat pants and a T-shirt, Joanna went looking for her iPod. She selected the playlist with her favorite gospel songs, plugged in the earphones and headed out of the house.

  Joanna hummed along with Kirk Franklin as she headed north on Roxton Avenue toward 39th Street, thankful to be able to put one foot in front of the other. Some people her age didn’t like all that finger-snapping gospel music, but Joanna would rather see young people praising God than singing that rap mess.

  A blue truck crossed her path just as she turned right onto 39th Street. She’d finally made up her mind to check out the flower show. After a nap, she might just have the energy to attend the book signing, too.

  As she strolled and hummed, she spotted the blue truck again. There were two men inside. The driver sidled alongside her and rolled down the window. She saw frustration on his face.

  “Ma’am, can you tell us where Mountain Street is?”

  Joanna stopped, always willing to help a stranger. “I don’t think there’s any Mountain Street in this neighborhood.”

  The man looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “They told us it was south of Rodeo.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for fifteen years. Somebody steered you wrong.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The man frowned and rolled up the window.

  Joanna continued her walk, finally reaching 2nd Avenue. Before her illness, she could make it past Arlington. She turned back and marched toward home. She was surprised to see the blue truck again. It had slowed to ten or fifteen miles an hour now and seemed to be trailing her.

  Joanna snatched the earphones from her ears. Were the men out to harm her? She picked up her pace, but quickly became winded.

  As she approached the intersection at 3rd Avenue and 39th Street, her throat suddenly felt dry and scratchy and she began to wheeze. For the first time, she took note of her tranquil surroundings. Should she run up and bang on somebody’s door? Or at least scream to alert someone? It was just after two o’clock on a Thursday. Most people were at work. Where were all the nosey neighbors when you needed them? She couldn’t believe that not even one retiree was outside tending to a garden or sweeping a porch.

  She glanced back at the truck, which was still meandering along behind her. Maybe she was overreacting. Nobody would try to snatch her off the street in a nice neighborhood like this. Anyway, that only happened to kids. Who would mess with a sickly, middle-aged woman like her?

  Still, her heart would not stop pounding. She looked over her shoulder a second time and saw that the men were half a block behind her now. At the next intersection, Joanna stepped off the curb, desperate to reach the safety of her home. She was halfway across the street when she heard the gunning of the truck’s engine. It picked up speed and seemed to be heading straight for her.

  Instead of running, Joanna froze. She tried to move, but fear molded her feet to the asphalt right there in the middle of the intersection.

  She watched in horror as the truck barreled toward her at full speed. The impact of the bumper against her left hip hurled her high into the air. The pain was so intense it seemed that every bone in her body had shattered all at once. Joanna flailed in midair like a wounded bird. Then, the pavement began careening toward her.

  Good God! This was not how she wanted to die!

  CHAPTER 8

  It was almost nine on Saturday morning and Waverly was sitting in his home office in a pair of silk pajamas, punching numbers into a calculator. He purposely set his sights low. If he sold just three policies a month with a face value of one hundred thousand dollars, his ten percent cut would mean thirty grand in commissions. Finding a few dying people in need of cash couldn’t be that hard.

  He leaned back in his chair as a feeling of hope washed over him. Getting disbarred might actually turn out to be a good thing.

  Deidra appeared in the doorway carrying two cups of coffee. “What’s that big smile all about?” She handed him a cup and took a seat across from him on a small couch.

  Since she was leaving for Paris later that evening, they planned to spend the day together. Their tiff earlier in the week had been forgotten after Waverly brought home roses and a new Prada purse.

  “Remember that career switch I mentioned a few days ago?” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, I’ve been looking into some things.”

  Waverly watched Deidra’s hands tighten around the coffee cup.

  He was about to repeat the same spiel Vincent had given him, but stopped. Selling the insurance policies of dying people sounded too morbid. He wanted to give his new venture a positive spin.

  “It looks like this insurance investment business might be pretty lucrative, which means we should be able to buy our dream house sooner rather than later.”

  Deidra set down her coffee and jumped into his lap. “You’re amazing and that’s why I love you!” She planted a wet kiss on his lips. “When can we start looking?”

  “Hold on a minute,” Waverly said. “Let me get my feet wet first.” He immediately regretted his exuberance. What if I can’t get licensed?

  “Okay, okay,” she said. “But you better keep your promise.”

  Waverly didn’t recall making a promise. Rather than point that out, he kissed her.

  He knew Deidra wouldn’t demand any specifics about his new business venture. In that respect, she was her mother’s daughter. As long as the bills were paid and she had an American Express card with no spending limit, Deidra wasn’t concerned about the particulars of how he earned his living. He just prayed everything worked out.

  “You going to miss me while I’m strolling the streets of Paris for three weeks?” she asked.

  Waverly buried his face in the crook of her neck and kissed her. Her skin was always soft and warm to the touch. “You have no idea.”

  He had wanted to make love to her last night, but Deidra was already asleep when he climbed into bed. He felt the urge coming on now and kissed her again, more deeply this time.

  Deidra slipped off his lap, crouched next to the chair and eased her hand past the elastic of his pajamas. Waverly immediately swelled in anticipation of what was to come. She gently took him in her paraffin-softened hand and slowly moved up and down.

  Lately, Deidra had
resorted to jacking him off. Her body, she said, could not tolerate the heavy pounding of sexual intercourse on a regular basis. She typically reserved blowjobs for special occasions, like Christmas or his birthday. If he could swing that new house, he’d probably get head every night for a week.

  Waverly rocked back in his chair, closed his eyes and smiled. He’d take it any way he could get it.

  Hours later, when Waverly pulled their BMW to a stop in front of Bradley International Terminal at LAX, he spotted Deidra’s father two cars away hoisting Rachel’s luggage from the trunk of his Lincoln.

  “Perfect timing,” Leon said, walking up to them. “I don’t know why you didn’t let us pick you up.”

  Waverly wrapped a protective arm around Deidra. “I wanted my wife all to myself for these last few hours. We’ve never been apart for more than a couple of days. This is going to be rough.”

  They said their good-byes and Leon and Waverly watched as the two sisters disappeared inside the airport terminal.

  “You’re welcome to join us for dinner tonight,” Leon offered.

  “Can’t,” Waverly said. “Got a business meeting.”

  “On a Saturday evening?” Leon sounded skeptical.

  Actually, he was scheduled to meet two executives from Live Now for drinks. Instead of elaborating, Waverly jumped into his car and drove off.

  Waverly sat at the bar near the lobby of the Luxe Hotel on Sunset Boulevard nursing a beer.

  Vincent was late. He had promised to make some calls to gauge Waverly’s chances of getting through the licensing process. Waverly wanted to know the results of his efforts before the executives arrived. If he couldn’t get licensed, why waste everyone’s time?

  Finally, he spotted Vincent walking into the hotel.

  “So?” Waverly said, as soon as Vincent reached him. “Am I in?”

  Vincent smiled, but didn’t answer. He hopped onto the stool next to Waverly, flagged the bartender and ordered a beer. “I can get your license,” he began, “but it’s going to cost you five grand.”

  Waverly’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t have—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Vincent interrupted. “I’ll front the money and we can take it out of your first commission payment. I have faith in you.”

  “So is this a payoff?” Waverly asked.

  “That’s exactly what it is and the guys we’re about to meet know nothing about it. So keep it to yourself. Are you in?”

  Yet again, Waverly found himself faced with the option of doing the wrong thing for the right reasons. He had bills to pay and a wife to support. The decision was a no brainer. “I’m in.”

  Seconds later, two men, both casually dressed, approached from the rear. Vincent stood and introduced them. “This is Tom Bellamy, the CEO of Live Now,” he said, pointing to the taller man. “And this is his business partner and Vice President of the company, Jonathan Cartwright.”

  Cartwright was toned and tanned and looked affluent even in khakis and a golf shirt. Bellamy, older and not nearly as fit, had bushy black hair and a thick paunch around his midsection. He wore a bland, beige leisure suit.

  They moved to a comfy seating area on the nearby patio.

  “I hope Vincent’s done a good job of selling you on our business,” Cartwright said, after a waiter delivered two more beers.

  “He has indeed,” Waverly replied.

  Cartwright picked up his beer. “We just lost our only L.A. broker. He made so much money that he retired to Jamaica. We’d like to replace him right away. You’d be covering all of the metro L.A. area. It’s great that you’ve got office space you can use.”

  Waverly swallowed hard. He would worry about his impending office eviction later. “Where else does Live Now operate?”

  “Through our parent company, The Tustin Group, we’re in three other states right now, New York, Nevada and Florida. If things go well here, we’ll be expanding to Texas by the end of the year.”

  “How do you decide where to set up your operation?”

  “We’re starting to focus more on the elderly, so we’re looking at states with the largest elderly populations. New York, Florida, California and Texas are all in the top ten. Many people don’t adequately prepare for retirement and others, frankly, didn’t expect to live as long as they have. So in their seventies or eight-ies, they decide to sell their insurance policies because they need the cash. Those are called life settlements.”

  Waverly was astounded. “You do this for people who aren’t dying, too?”

  “Absolutely. The investors may have to wait a little longer to cash in, but it’s still a great investment. More and more people are choosing to retire in the Las Vegas area, so we’re expecting the elderly population there to have a big growth spurt. But don’t worry about that side of the business. We want you to concentrate on the terminally ill for now.”

  During the next twenty minutes, Cartwright confirmed everything Vincent had told him about the business, but Waverly still had more questions. “How do you prevent somebody from taking a payout and disappearing? You might never know they died.”

  “They’re required to send us a postcard with their signature by the fifth of every month,” Cartwright explained. “In almost twenty years, only one person tried to skip. It took just six days for our investigator to track him down.”

  “What happens if the policy lapses?” Waverly asked.

  Cartwright smiled. “You must be a damn good lawyer because you’re asking all the right questions. It’s the investor’s obligation to continue paying the premiums. For that reason, they aren’t too happy when a policyholder lives longer than we estimated.”

  “How do you even know the person is really dying?”

  “We have a team of doctors who review their medical records,” Cartwright said. “We’re looking for people with a life expectancy of six months to a year max. It’s really amazing, but most of the time, our doctors’ estimates are right on the money.”

  This was actually sounding too good to be true. “Are most of your investors individuals?”

  Bellamy finally entered the conversation. “About fifty percent, and they’re mainly doctors. Physicians are used to dealing with death and don’t have any ethical concerns with this type of investment. The remaining investors are small companies, even some insurance companies. They’re all looking for a safe investment with a solid rate of return.” Bellamy took a sip of his drink and grinned. “Nothing is guaranteed but death, taxes and a big ‘ole return on your viatical investment.”

  They all laughed.

  “Can I get started before I get my license?” Waverly needed money yesterday.

  Vincent slapped him on the back. “See what I told you. This guy’s a real go-getter.”

  Cartwright nodded approvingly. “I like your enthusiasm. “You can start making presentations now, but you’ll need to have your license before you can actually ink a deal.”

  “Sounds like you’re sold,” Bellamy said.

  Waverly took a big swig of his beer. “Bought and sold.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Angela speed walked into the lobby of the Biltmore Hotel. She spotted Cornell seated at the bar. She could tell before she reached him that he was fuming.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” she said, panting. “We were discussing this case and—”

  “I don’t understand why you can never be on time, Angela,” Cornell scolded. “You were supposed to be here twenty-six minutes ago. This is unacceptable. And I specifically asked you to wear the red St. John suit that I bought you. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  Because I didn’t feel like dressing like my mother.

  “It’s in the cleaners,” she lied. “What’s wrong with the suit I have on?”

  Cornell looked her up and down. “I guess it’s fine.” He drained his glass and hopped off the barstool. “Can you believe the Court of Appeal reversed my summary judgment decision in the Banker case today? Just wait until one of those arrogant assholes fr
om Latham & Watkins comes into my courtroom again. I’ll show them who’s in charge.”

  Angela put a hand on Cornell’s arm. “What are you saying? You’re going to retaliate against the whole firm because you got reversed?” He still hadn’t gotten over being rejected by the firm for a summer associate position more than twenty years ago.

  “C’mon, you know I was just mouthing off.” His lips angled into a diabolical smile. “I’d never do anything like that. That would be unethical.”

  Cornell took off down a hotel corridor wider than most city streets. Angela had to practically jog to catch up with him.

  “Tell me again,” she said, “what’s going on tonight?”

  “Bar Association fundraiser. Paul Streeter, who’s on the Federal Judicial Nomination Advisory Committee, is supposed to be here tonight. This’ll be a good opportunity for me to meet him.”

  After ten years as a superior court judge, Cornell now aspired to a seat on the more prestigious federal court bench. He was already lobbying his political contacts in hopes of being considered for the next district court appointment. Meeting Streeter, he assumed, could only help.

  They picked up their dinner tickets at the registration table and entered a ballroom filled with business types. Cornell scanned the room. “I think I see him over there.” He grabbed her hand and they began winding their way through the crowd.

  Cornell stopped just short of a small circle of men who seemed to be in the midst of a serious debate. “That’s Streeter right there,” Cornell whispered, indicating a lanky, bearded guy with salt and pepper hair.

  Angela hoped Cornell wouldn’t be bold enough to interrupt. She was about to caution him not to, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  Angela looked back and found Rick McCarthy standing behind her.