Buying Time (29 page)

On her way home, Angela stopped off at the Starbucks in the Ladera Center. She was walking out with a Caramel Frappuccino when she spotted Cornell standing outside on the patio.

She froze in place, causing a woman to collide into her from behind, splashing Angela with her drink.

“Sorry,” Angela said. The woman angrily stepped around her.

Cornell smiled, then waved.

The sight of him angered her as much as it frightened her, but she was not going to live in fear. She continued on her way, carefully surveying the area as she walked. Several people were seated on the patio outdoors. Two security guards stood in front of the adjacent TGI Friday’s.

Angela intended to march right past Cornell to her car. When he started heading toward her, her stomach knotted up so fast she thought she might throw up.

“How’re you doing, Angela?” Cornell began walking alongside her. “You have a couple of minutes to talk?”

Angela kept moving, letting her conduct communicate her response. She nervously glanced around the parking lot, thankful for the crowded environment. She could see that Cornell was completely sober, but that knowledge offered little comfort.

“Did you get my flowers?”

“Yes,” she replied, “and I threw ’em in the trash.”

“If that’s the way you feel, fine. I just wanted to apologize to you in person about the other night at your office.”

Angela regretted having parked so far away. “Fine. Now leave me alone.”

“Why are you in such a hurry? You have to go meet that—”

Angela finally turned to face him, animosity spewing from her eyes. “Get the hell away from me and stay out of my business!” She walked faster, but Cornell easily kept pace.

“Angela, what are you doing? Why would you choose to be with a guy like that?”

Now he was really pissing her off. She wanted to throw her drink in his face. She whipped around and pointed a finger at him. “I’m done putting up with your craziness. Our relationship is over. Who I see is none of your damn business. And if you don’t leave me alone, you’ll never see a seat on the federal bench because your ass will be in jail.”

Cornell laughed. “I always liked it when you got feisty. It usually took a while for you to get revved up, but when you did, watch out.” He smiled. “Just answer one question for me. Why would you risk your career over that thug? Why would you choose to be with a convicted felon?”

His words felt as jolting as the punch he’d delivered to her face. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your new boyfriend, Andre Lynell Thomas. The drug dealer.”

A burst of heat stung her cheeks. “You’re a liar!”

“Wait a minute . . .” Cornell’s face lit up and he took a step backward. “You didn’t know? You really didn’t know that your new boyfriend is a drug dealer?”

Angela wanted to keep walking, but her feet refused to coop-erate.

“When you get to work tomorrow, go look up his court file. Possession of a kilo of cocaine with intent to distribute. He was sentenced to two years, but managed to walk out in eight months thanks to prison overcrowding. Your ghetto boyfriend is in the drug trade.”

Cornell had definitely lost his mind
.
How did he even know Dre’s name? He had to be making this up. She continued toward her car, fighting the urge to run.

“I ran his plates,” he called after her. “I’m surprised you didn’t. Guess he didn’t bother to tell you, huh?”

Angela finally reached her car and snatched open the door. “And how did you even know what kind of car he drives? Have you been following me?”

“No, not really. I happened to drive by your place one day and saw the two of you getting out of his car. A Volkswagen? C’mon, Angela. If you don’t want to be with me, fine. But you can really do a lot better than a guy like that.”

Cornell was still talking, but Angela had stopped listening. She climbed into her Saab and started it up. It took every ounce of willpower she could muster not to run his ass down.

When he was out of sight, she rolled down the window, desperate for air.
You really didn’t know that your new boyfriend is a drug dealer?
Cornell was lying. He had to be.

Her BlackBerry rang. It was Dre. “I’m running late,” he said. “I’ll be over at seven-thirty instead of seven.”

Angela willed her voice to sound normal. “Okay,” was all she could manage. When she confronted Dre with Cornell’s allegation, she wanted to be able to look him in the eye.

She was pulling into the underground garage of her apartment building when she remembered something that seemed to back up Cornell’s claim.

The night they had met for drinks at The Dynasty, Dre seemed panic-stricken when his son’s mother walked up to their table. Shawntay’s words floated back to her.
Do Ms. Prim and Proper know what you do?

A burning sensation swelled in her chest.
Have I really been that stupid?

When Dre arrived an hour later and attempted to pull her into his arms, Angela backed away, out of his reach.

“I ran into Cornell today at Starbucks and—”

“If he messed with you again, I swear I’ll kick his ass.”

“No,” Angela said. “He had some things to tell me. About you. Things I’ve been praying aren’t true.”

Dre did not flinch or otherwise alter the blank expression on his face. He also didn’t utter a sound.

An innocent person, a person with nothing to hide would immediately have some questions of his own.
What are you talking about? What did he say?
But there were no questions from Dre. Only silence. She knew from personal experience that only the best criminals were that cool under fire.

“He said that you’re a drug dealer. A convicted drug dealer.”

Again, Dre did not open his mouth.

“Is that true?”

“Is he still followin’ you?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would answer my question.”

“If you’re askin’ me if I’m currently a drug dealer, the answer is no.”

Angela folded her arms across her chest. “
Currently?  
And if I asked if you were
previously
a drug dealer, would the answer be different?”

Dre’s eyes bore deeply into hers and his jaw line tightened. “Yeah. It would.”

Angela covered her mouth. “Oh, my God!”

He reached out for her, but she jerked away.

“I’m not proud of what I used to do,” Dre said. “But it’s not something I do anymore.”

Angela did not want to hear his explanation. She wanted him to get out. But she could not find the words to tell him that through the shock.

“I’m sorry you had to find out from him. I should have told you myself.”

Angela had a million questions, but they were all jumbled up inside her head. “So the real estate stuff was a lie?”

“No. I do flip foreclosures.”

“How? You can’t get a real estate license if you’re a convicted felon.”

“I never said I had one. You just assumed that. I have a buddy who does my deals for me.”

“What about the college stuff? Was that a lie, too?”

“No, I really do have a degree from Long Beach State. I never lied to you, Angela. About anything.”

“In my line of work, an omission can be just as misleading as a straight-out lie.”

Dre could not meet her eyes.

“Do you understand what I do for a living? I’m not just a lawyer, I’m a federal prosecutor. I can’t be dating a drug dealer.”

“I just told you. I don’t deal anymore.”

“You’re a bright guy, Dre. Of all the things you could possibly do, why in the world would you choose to deal drugs?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Well, make it simple!” she screamed. “Tell me why somebody as smart as you are would choose to sell drugs? Did you sell drugs to kids, too?”

Dre shoved his hands into his pockets. “Maybe we should talk about this another time. When you’re a little calmer. Why don’t I just leave?”

Angela glared at him. “Yeah, why don’t you?”

B
ecker had just returned home after two days of nonstop meetings in Washington. He was in the family room helping the twins with their math homework when his cell phone rang.

He glanced at the display. It was a call he’d been anxiously awaiting.

“Lia, how are you?”

Lia Green was Roland Becker’s most reliable source for confidential information coming out of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s Office. Becker had never practiced criminal law, but his corporate clients often needed his assistance with criminal matters. A teenage son picked up for drunk driving. A wife with an unexplainable penchant for shoplifting. A domestic violence allegation that needed to be quietly erased from the books. Often the best deals were cut long before the charges were ever filed.

Thanks to Lia, Becker was always able to place the right calls and negotiate the right deals.

“You wanted a heads up on any significant developments regarding Claire Erickson’s death,” she said. “Well, here goes.”

“I’m listening,” Becker said.

“Cancer didn’t kill her.”

Natalie had just written down a wrong answer and Natasha was trying to tell her she’d made a mistake. Becker wasn’t sure he’d heard Lia correctly over the twins’ bickering. “What did you say?”

“You heard me right,” Lia said.

“Okay,” Becker said slowly. “But if she didn’t die from cancer, then what killed her?”

“She was drugged. The autopsy stated that she died of acute morphine intoxication.”

Becker could not get his arms around this news. “Are you sure?”

“I saw the autopsy report with my own eyes. It was injected through a vein in her arm.”

Becker didn’t know what to say. He had assumed Ashley’s allegations against Erickson were false. But now . . .

“This isn’t going to be good news for your boss,” Lia said. “Not with all the noise his stepdaughter’s been making. This actually gives her claims some credibility.”

“You’ve heard about Ashley’s allegations?”

“Sure. Everybody around here has been hands off, thinking she was a little loopy. But now a lot of folks are salivating to get their hands on the case. It’s not going to be pretty.”

“Dad, can you tell Natasha that’s wrong?” Natalie was tugging on his shirt.

“Not now,” Becker said.

“But, Dad, I told her—”

“I said not now!”

Natalie’s blue eyes expanded and Becker instantly regretted his outburst. He held the phone to his chest and gently caressed his daughter’s shoulder. “Daddy has a problem at work. Just give me a minute.”

Becker walked out to the patio, which overlooked the hills of South Pasadena, to continue the call. “I have to tell you, I’m in shock.”

“I can tell that through the phone,” Lia said.

“I know Lawrence Erickson better than anybody. He did not murder his wife.”

“Well, somebody did because the amount of morphine in Claire Erickson’s system was no accidental overdose.”

Becker gathered a few more facts, then hung up. He sat quietly on the patio, his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his fists. There was a light breeze that made it a perfect Southern California evening. He could hear the rustling of some animal in the distance.

He did not plan to relay this information to Erickson right away. That Claire had been drugged did not make sense. Maybe the two AUSAs were on to something and Waverly Sloan
was
killing his clients. But from everything Becker had learned about the guy, he didn’t seem bright enough or shrewd enough to be part of such a scheme.

From the beginning, Erickson had been overly worried about the slow progress of their plan.
Had he grown impatient and killed Claire himself?
No. Erickson would not have done so without consulting with him first. Not with everything he had put on the line for him. But then again . . .

During their meeting in Becker’s office after Erickson learned that his nomination was a go, Erickson had made some pretty confusing statements. It was almost as if Erickson had been under the impression that
Becker
had killed Claire. But she died before he could act. Becker had assumed, from natural causes. That was why he had told Erickson that they’d gotten lucky.

Becker wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill Claire with a traceable drug like morphine. As a Navy SEAL, he’d learned multiple techniques for cutting off the air supply with little chance of the true cause of death being picked up during an autopsy.

After dropping by Erickson’s home with the girls that day, Becker had peeked in on Claire to say hello, but found her sleeping. Or was she already dead then? Erickson had been home alone with Claire that afternoon, which meant he’d had sufficient time to drug her. He had both opportunity and motive.

As Becker tried to erase the possibility from his mind, the conversation he’d overheard in the men’s room rushed back to him. After learning that Erickson had not supported him for chairmanship of the firm, Becker was carefully and patiently plotting his revenge.

His friend and mentor had already double-crossed him once.

Had he actually done it twice?

I
’m going to tell you like it is,” Mancuso said. “You’re in quite a bit of trouble.”

Waverly had scheduled another meeting to hear what Mancuso had learned from her inside connections. They were seated in a private room at the City Club where Mancuso was a member.

“The police think you’re killing your clients,” she said.

“I already know that,” Waverly said irritably. “Do they have any evidence to support their claim?”

Mancuso squinted suspiciously. “I thought you said there wasn’t any?”

“There isn’t. But don’t act like you haven’t seen innocent people get railroaded. What do they have?”

“Nothing solid,” Mancuso replied. “But the large number of your clients who kicked the bucket accidentally won’t look like a coincidence to a jury.”

“I want to make a deal,” Waverly said.

“What do you have to deal with?”

“I could turn over the guy I think may be responsible.”