Authors: Pamela Samuels Young
The phone fell quiet. At least she was giving his proposal some consideration.
“Why there?” Angela finally asked.
“I’d just feel safer in a crowded, public place.”
Again, Waverly gave her as much time as she needed to contemplate his request.
“Please come,” he said, trying not to sound desperate.
You’re my only hope.
W
hen Dre saw Angela’s number pop up on his cell phone, his spirits immediately lifted. He figured she was having second thoughts and wanted him to come over.
“Somebody was in the garage! They know that I shot Cornell, not you!”
“What?”
“Somebody saw the whole thing!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Angela said. “He wouldn’t tell me the person’s name.”
“Who’s he?”
“Waverly Sloan. An attorney we were investigating in an insurance scam.”
“I don’t understand,” Dre said. “How did he get mixed up in this?”
“I don’t know. He claims he has a friend who lives in my apartment building. Says the friend saw everything.”
“That’s way too much of a coincidence. I don’t buy it. What does he want? Did he ask you for money?”
“He wants me to meet him at the Marriott near the airport. He thinks I can help him with his case, but I can’t.”
“I don’t think you should go,” Dre said. “He may be settin’ you up. For what, I don’t know.”
“What if he really does have a witness?”
“This is bullshit. We were all strugglin’ for the gun. There was no way for anybody to tell who pulled the trigger.”
“But what if—”
“But nothin’,” Dre insisted. “This don’t sound like it’s on the up and up.”
“I’m going,” Angela said. “He told me to come alone.”
“You damn sho’ ain’t goin’ alone. I’m comin’ with you.”
“I can’t keep dragging you into my craziness.”
“Too late. I’m already up in it.”
Dre heard another phone ring.
“Hold on,” Angela said anxiously. “This might be him calling back. I made the mistake of calling him from my sister’s line so he has this number. Let me call you back.”
Angela grabbed the telephone receiver from the nightstand. “Hello.”
“I was just calling to check on you.” It was Zack.
“Oh, hi.” Her voice fell flat. “I thought it was someone else.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that. Thanks for calling.”
“Sounds like you might have the makings of a real legal thriller,” Zack teased. “If I were you, I’d be taking lots of notes.”
Angela laughed. “Zack, you’re one in a million. Don’t you ever forget that.”
“Thanks,” he said proudly. “Did the papers get it right? Are you really dating that guy?”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.”
“Hey, I’ve been telling everybody around here that it’s nonsense. I figured if I got it from the horse’s mouth, I could squash the rumor mill.”
“I appreciate your trying to look out for me, but I have far more important things than the office rumor mill to worry about right now.”
“I bet you do. Anything I can do to help?”
Angela was about to say no and rush him off the phone, but reconsidered. “Can you email me a copy of that background memo Salina prepared on Waverly Sloan?”
Zack paused. “Why do you need that?”
Angela scrambled for a plausible explanation. “I’m still convinced that he’s responsible for Jon’s death. I’m not abandoning our investigation. Can you do it?”
A couple of beats passed. “Okay, sure.”
She could tell that Zack didn’t buy her story, but he took down her personal email address anyway.
“Just make sure you keep me in the loop,” Zack said. “You’ve got the story of the year. I bet you’re going to end up getting a book contract
and
a movie deal.”
Dre called Angela back and finally convinced her that it wasn’t safe for her to meet Waverly Sloan alone. A few reporters were milling around her apartment, so she arranged to pick him up in the parking lot of the nearby Ladera Center.
Dre spotted Angela’s Saab as she drove down the aisle in front of the CVS store. He climbed out of his Volkswagen and waved her over.
“How you doin’?” Dre asked, as he settled into the passenger seat and hooked his seat belt.
“Pretty awful. What about you?”
“Not too bad considerin’ I
could
be in jail for murder.”
“That’s my guy,” Angela said, “always looking at the silver lining.”
My guy.
Dre almost smiled. He liked hearing her call him
her
guy, even though her words dripped with sarcasm.
The events of the past few days had obviously taken a lot out of her. She wore black slacks and a simple white blouse, with her hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her face was bare of makeup and dark circles surrounded her puffy eyes.
Dre sensed that Angela did not want to talk, so he didn’t push it. He was just happy that she had relented and let him tag along. That meant she needed him. When she appeared to be heading in the direction of the 405 Freeway, he broke the silence.
“It’ll be faster if you just stay on La Cienega, then make a right on Century,” Dre offered.
No,” she barked back at him. “It’s better to take the freeway.”
What was up with the attitude?
“Okay, you’re the driver.”
“Yes, I am. So that’s the way I’m going.”
He cocked his head and stared at her.
All broads are crazy,
Dre thought.
Every last one of ’em.
The silence made him antsy, so he reached out to turn on the radio.
“Don’t do that,” she said, practically yelling. “I can’t think with music on.”
Dre looked out of the window and stroked his goatee. He was only along for the ride to help her ass. He wasn’t going to sit there and deal with her bitchiness.
“Can I ask you something?” He turned to face her. “Why you givin’ me attitude?”
It took Angela a long time to respond and when she finally did, the harshness in her voice was gone.
“Didn’t realize I was doing that. Sorry.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I got a call from Cornell’s mother right before I left my apartment. She said some pretty nasty things to me. Of course, Cornell told her that
he
called off the wedding because
I
was screwing around with a drug dealer. The news reports played right into that.”
Dre tried to think of something to say that would make her feel better, but came up empty. He wished he could say what he really felt.
The muthafucka got what he deserved.
They were exiting the freeway on Century Boulevard now. “The hotel is goin’ to be up there on the right, before you get to Airport Boulevard.” Dre pointed up ahead. “You need to slow up or you’ll miss the driveway.”
This time, Angela didn’t bite his head off. She slowed and made a right turn, which took them up a short incline to the entrance of the hotel.
Angela drove toward the valet area. When the attendant approached, Dre hopped out and walked around to talk to him. Angela was puzzled when Dre pulled two twenty dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to the man.
“What was that for?” Angela asked, when Dre returned to the car.
“He’s goin’ to keep the car parked out here and leave the keys underneath the floor mat.”
“Why?”
“We have no idea what’s about to go down. I don’t wanna have to wait for the car if we need to leave in a hurry.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.”
“I’m tryin’ to prepare you, not scare you. If this guy is actually killin’ his clients, you could be in danger. You ready?”
“I guess so.”
“We shouldn’t walk in together since he told you to come alone. If you don’t see him when you first walk in, just take a seat. He’s probably someplace watchin’ you.”
Dre heard a low moan and saw fear on Angela’s face. He wished he could kiss it away.
“Tell me what the dude looks like,” Dre said.
Angela gave him a quick description of Waverly.
“The Lakers are playin’ tonight, so the bar is likely to be packed,” Dre pointed out. “That’s a good thing.”
Angela wrung her hands. “Where are you going to be?”
“Close,” he said, fighting the urge to embrace her. “Don’t worry. I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight. Nothin’s going to happen to you. I promise.”
I
have some good news and some bad news,” Becker said, when he reached Erickson by phone in Washington. “First the bad news. I need you to get back home. Tonight.”
“What’s going on?” Erickson asked. He explained that he had just left a luncheon at the French Embassy and was standing outside waiting for his driver.
“I just got word that the L.A.P.D. plans to serve a search warrant on your house early tomorrow morning.”
A hushed string of swear words flew from Erickson’s end of the phone. “So it’s about to be over.”
“Not necessarily,” Becker replied, though he knew that it was.
“I don’t need your platitudes. I’m only in this situation because of you!”
Becker remained silent. Just as he had anticipated, Erickson was behaving like a cornered rat. No one as weak as Lawrence Erickson deserved to be Attorney General of the United States, much less chairman of a firm like Jankowski, Parkins.
“Just calm down,” he said to his friend.
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Erickson whispered. “I didn’t kill Claire, but if they’re serving a search warrant on my home, that means somebody thinks I did.”
Becker ignored his temper tantrum. “They aren’t going to find anything when they search your house, are they?” Becker asked.
“How can you ask me such a thing? And exactly when were you going to tell me that Claire’s autopsy showed she died from a drug overdose!”
Now, Becker was ready to erupt.
Erickson knew about the morphine? But how? Unless . . .
“And don’t pretend as if you didn’t know,” Erickson said.
“Yes, I knew,” Becker finally replied. “But how did
you
know?”
“A
Times
reportercalled me a few hours ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the call?” Becker asked suspiciously.
“Why didn’t
you
tell me that you were stupid enough to kill Claire with a traceable drug?” Erickson shot back.
Becker’s brain froze. “I didn’t kill Claire.”
“You were at my house with your daughters,” Erickson sputtered. “You left to use the bathroom and minutes later, Claire was dead.”
“I said I didn’t kill Claire,” Becker repeated sternly. “I told you I was only going to do it when you were out of town. And I wouldn’t be stupid enough to inject her with a drug like morphine. That’s what you’ve been thinking all this time? That
I
killed her?”
Becker began to sweat. Was this all an act on Erickson’s part? The tale about
The Times
reporter sounded awful convenient. Maybe Erickson knew about the morphine because he administered it. Had Becker been wrong about Ashley? Had Erickson killed Claire with the intent to set
him
up to take the fall?
“If you didn’t do it, then who did?” Erickson asked, bursting with impatience.
“Until I learned about the autopsy report, I thought she died from the cancer,” Becker said. “Like I told you, I figured we just got lucky.”
“That autopsy report certainly says otherwise,” Erickson said. “Are you telling me you have no idea who killed her?”
Becker boldly decided to test the waters. “Perhaps you did.”
“What? That’s ridiculous!” Erickson snarled. “How could you even utter those words?”
“Hold on a minute.” Becker yelled to his wife, then returned to the phone. “I don’t have much time,” he said hurriedly. “Kaylee has a soccer game.”
“I think this discussion is a little more important than Kaylee’s soccer game. Who did it, goddamn it? Was it Waverly Sloan?”
“No, it wasn’t Sloan.” Becker intentionally paused. “I think Ashley did it. Ashley killed her mother and she’s framing you for the murder.”
Becker could hear movement on the other end of the line and imagined Erickson stumbling off the curb. “What? Are you insane. She wouldn’t kill her—”
“Think about it,” Becker interrupted. “Ashley despised you for sending her away. She probably harbored similar feelings for her mother for letting it happen. Ashley discovered her mother’s body. Ashley cancelled the cremation. Ashley demanded an autopsy. And now she’s waging a campaign to pin the murder on you. What better way to get her revenge?”
Becker gave his boss several seconds to absorb the news.
“Do you know for sure?” Erickson finally asked.
“As sure as I can be,” Becker said. Actually, he believed there was an equal chance that he was talking to Claire’s killer.
“You said you had some good news and some bad news,” Erickson said weakly. “What’s the good news?”
“That AUSA who’s been investigating Waverly Sloan and Live Now may be facing a murder charge herself.”
“What?”
“Turn on the news when you get home,” Becker said. “Believe it or not, Angela Evans was dating some drug dealer. One or both of them shot a judge she was planning to marry in a few weeks. I suspect she won’t have much time now to work on linking you to Waverly Sloan.”
A
ngela stepped inside the Airport Marriott Hotel and scanned the lobby. Her eyes traveled from the registration desk, to the concierge and bellman stations, to the comfortable sitting areas.
A large neon sign to the right marked the entrance to the Champions Sports Bar. She walked inside, but loitered near the doorway. It wasn’t as crowded as she had expected it would be.
It was a typical sports bar. Flat screen TVs hung from the ceiling. Colorful sports memorabilia papered the walls. Barstools and comfy booths dotted the room. Servers in black and white striped referee uniforms maneuvered through the semidarkness carrying trays of drinks and appetizers. She saw no sign of Waverly Sloan.