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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.

  CHAPTER 19

  Hey, 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.”<
br />
  “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.”

  Waverly winced inside. He was already counting on the commission. But he had never been one to apply pressure tactics.

  “This is an important decision, Mr. Billington. If you’re not sure, we shouldn’t proceed. Have you discussed this with your family?”

  “No, I can’t seem to find the right time to bring it up.”

  Waverly closed the folder. “I think you may want to do that.”

  A surprised look crossed Billington’s face.

  “Why don’t I give you a few days to give it some thought?” Waverly continued. “You can call me back to reschedule our appointment after you’ve spoken with your family.”

  Billington seemed hesitant and started biting his nails. “What do you think I should do?”

  “I’m sorry,” Waverly said. “I really can’t make that decision for you. If you’re not sure you want to sell your policy, we shouldn’t proceed.”

  The man just stared back at him and didn’t say anything for a long while. “If I go through with it, how soon will I get the check?”

  “It all depends on how fast we can get your medical records from your doctor.”

  “My doctor’s a golfing buddy.” Billington pulled out his wallet and handed Waverly a business card. “He promised me he would do what he could to get my records to you right away.”

  “I really think it’s best if you talk this over with your family first,” Waverly urged him.

  Billington waved his hand in front of his face. “Never mind. I’ll tell them. What’s next?”

  This time, Waverly hesitated. He didn’t want any hassles after the guy died. It was always better if the family knew the deal up front.

  “Our in-house doctors have to review your medical history,” Waverly explained. “I’ll see if I can give your case priority. If there aren’t any glitches, I should be able to get a check to you a couple of weeks after the medical review is finished.”

  “So how much will I get?” Billington asked, his indecision now forgotten.

  “As we discussed over the telephone, fifty percent of the face value of your policy. That’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Billington grinned. “Who gets the rest once I’m dead?”

  “There are some administrative fees that go to Live Now and the doctors who evaluate your medical records. My commission also has to be paid. The rest goes to whoever invests in your policy.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “I can’t disclose that information. These policies are generally purchased through a trust.”

  “Sounds like somebody’s going to hit it big when I kick the bucket. What’s your take?”

  “Ten percent,” Waverly said slowly. He’d never had such an inquisitive client. Most people were just happy to have money coming their way.

  “Why do you get so much?”

  “That’s the standard commission, Mr. Billington.”

  The man was asking way too many questions. “Like I said before, if you aren’t certain about proceeding, we should hold off.”

  “No, no, I’m ready.”

  Waverly tried not to reveal how happy he was with Billington’s final decision. “Okay, then. I’ll request your medical records and call you in a few days with an update.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Just after ten, Dre drove into the darkened streets of L.A.’s Skid Row and parked his Volkswagen near 5th and Crocker Streets. He looked around, then got out to stretch his legs.

  As he waited for his client to show up, he watched a bum peer out of a cardboard tent as two drunks stumbled by. He rarely made runs downtown anymore. Too risky. But Junior, a long-time client, was in a fix and Dre agreed to do him the favor.

  He mentally calculated his take for the day. He had nine thousand in the pocket of his lightweight trench coat and was about to collect another six grand. The thought of the money empowered him. He was close, real close, to getting out.

  Dre was also more than ready to take things further with Angela. He looked forward to hanging out with her after their cycling class, but just talking to a babe wasn’t hittin’ on nothing. Dre figured coming on too strong with a sistah like Angela would be a mistake. He had put it out there. She would have to make the next move.

  Besides, Dre knew that if he wanted to pursue her as his woman, he would have to come correct. He hadn’t exactly lied when she asked what he did for a living. He did buy and sell foreclosures. But could he really keep her from learning about his other gig? Even if he got out of the game, could she accept his past? Dre told himself she could. Angela was real people. He just hoped Mr. Fiancé kept doing whatever it was he was doing. Or not doing.

  He heard movement from the rear and spun around. Junior was strutting toward him. Dre chuckled. Junior was a slightly built, dark-skinned man who walked with the exaggerated swagger of a heavyweight boxer. He probably weighed a buck twenty, if that.

  They acknowledged each other with only a curt nod. Junior handed him a paper bag filled with cash and Dre passed him a larger bag containing product. There was no need for either of them to check the contents. They had it like that.

  Dre jumped back into his Jetta and headed home. As he drove west on 5th Street, he rolled down the window and rested his elbow across the door. At the last minute he slowed, deciding not to speed through the yellow light at Los Angeles Street.

  As he sang along with Seal’s rendition of It’s a Man’s World, Dre imagined taking Angela out dancing and wondered if she could step. He tried to think of where they would go on their first date. He would search the Internet and find someplace special. Damn, how he wanted to get with her.

  “Don’t move, muthafucka!”

  Dre felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his left temple and froze. “What the hell?”

  Before he could react, a brick shattered the front passenger window, stinging his face with chards of glass. “Pull over. Now!” a second man shouted from his right. Dre saw rotting teeth and a skeletal body.

  Too afraid to move, Dre quickly assessed that he was dealing with a couple of crack heads. These dudes wanted money and drugs, not a murder rap. But mistakes happen.

  “Pull over, muthafucka!” yelled the man with the gun.

  Dre’s pulse quickened. “Look, dude—”
r />   “Are you hard of hearin’?” The man bashed the side of his head with the butt of the gun.

  Dre’s head throbbed in pain. He thought about flooring it, but didn’t want to risk getting shot. Too bad his .38 was out of reach in a secret compartment in the back. Trying to reason with his attackers would be a waste of time. He gently pressed the gas, jerking the car into the intersection. Both men jogged along with the car as a minivan darted around them, horns blaring.

  “Pull over to the curb!” The gunman seemed overly agitated. “Hurry up!”

  Dre did as instructed, steering the car through the intersection in a herky-jerky motion. When the Volkswagen eased over to the curb, the man on his right leaned in, grabbed the keys from the ignition and threw them to the ground.

  Blood trailed down the side of Dre’s face and his vision was blurry. While the gunman kept his weapon aimed at Dre’s head, the other man ran around, opened the driver’s door and yanked Dre from the car. The man frantically patted him down, eventually finding the wallet in his back pocket which contained close to two hundred bucks.

  “What else you got?” he demanded. “You got any rocks?”

  Dre didn’t answer. He felt equal amounts of rage and fear.

  “I bet he’s got some rocks, too,” barked the gunman, who was a foot taller than his accomplice and stank of urine. “Find ’em! Hurry up!”

  The smaller man quickly ransacked the car, but found nothing. As he moved in to search Dre a second time, Dre kneed him in the groin and grabbed for the other man’s gun. While the accomplice bent in pain, Dre wrestled for control of the weapon.

  Dre almost had it when he felt a blow to his face. The smaller man had composed himself and was pummeling him with what felt like a steel pole. Dre let go of the gun as he fell back onto the hood of the car.

  He felt his trench coat being ripped open as three wads of cash wrapped in rubber bands, fell to the ground.

  Just as he was about to fade into unconsciousness, Dre heard a police siren and saw a flash of blue and red lights, two, maybe three blocks up the street. The men instantly darted off in opposite directions as a police cruiser pulled up behind Dre’s Volkswagen. The cruiser’s headlights lit up the area like a movie set.