Buying Time

by Pamela Samuels Young

  “That’s the shooting I was telling you about! But that’s not how it went down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That prosecutor was the woman I saw pointing the gun at that judge. That other guy wasn’t even there.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  Waverly was trying to make sense of what Britney was saying.

  “I’m telling you,” Britney insisted, “that reporter got it wrong. That guy didn’t shoot that judge. That lady attorney shot him.”

  CHAPTER 69

  Still woozy from the sleeping pills her sister had forced her to take, Angela sat up in bed, startled by the unfamiliar surroundings. Distress set in and it took several seconds for her to realize that she was in her sister’s apartment, in her sister’s bed.

  “You okay?”

  Jada stood at the foot of the bed, her face heavy with worry.

  Angela shut her eyes as the events of the previous night slowly flooded back to her. “What time is it?”

  “Close to two.”

  “In the afternoon?”

  Jada nodded.

  “Please tell me I just had a very bad dream and that Cornell isn’t dead.”

  Jada sat down next to her on the bed. “No,” she said, “you weren’t dreaming.”

  Angela started shivering and Jada wrapped her arms around her. “It’s okay, Angela. It’s going to be okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” she cried. “I can’t believe it. I killed Cornell.”

  Jada pulled away. “What? You didn’t kill Cornell. Dre shot Cornell. And, anyway, it was self-defense.”

  “That’s not how it happened. I did it.”

  “According to the news reports, Dre told the police that he fired the gun.”

  Angela was sobbing uncontrollably now. “He’s just trying to protect me. I can’t let him do that.”

  “Do you understand what you’re saying?” Jada asked in alarm.

  “I’m telling you, Dre didn’t shoot Cornell. I did.”

  Angela stood up, but felt lightheaded. She tried to take a step but tripped over her own feet. Jada rushed to catch her.

  “You can’t go anywhere right now,” Jada said, helping her back to bed. “Anyway, Mama is on her way over. She’s in hysterics. The news reports are saying Dre was your boyfriend. Cornell is dead, but all she wants to know is why her daughter is dating a drug dealer.”

  Angela held up a hand. “I can’t deal with her right now. Call her and tell her I left.”

  “Gladly,” Jada said. “And I know I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad that asshole is dead. If you hadn’t been driving my car last night, you wouldn’t have had my gun to protect yourself and you’d be the one dead, not Cornell.”

  “Please, Jada, don’t. I can’t handle—”

  “And I’ll tell you another thing, I know you’re still trippin’ because Dre used to deal, but in my book, he’s way more of a man than Cornell ever was. Do you think Cornell would’ve taken the rap for you the way Dre did? Hell no. I’d much rather see you with Dre than Cornell.”

  Right now Angela wasn’t interested in being with anybody. “I need to call my boss. I probably don’t even have a job anymore.” She spotted her purse on the nightstand and retrieved her BlackBerry. She was about to call the office, but suddenly remembered that she hadn’t even bothered to thank Dre for saving her life.

  “I need to talk to Dre first.” When she looked at the call display, she saw four missed calls from him. She hit redial and waited as the phone rang.

  “I’m so sorry,” she cried at the sound of his voice.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  “I shot Cornell, but everybody thinks you did.”

  “Everybody thinks I did it because I did do it,” he insisted.

  “You don’t have to do this, Dre. And I won’t let you.”

  “You’re not lettin’ me do anything. I already told the police that I killed him. Please tell me you told them the same thing.”

  Angela tried to think. “I’m not sure what I told them. I was so out of it I can’t even remember.”

  “Didn’t they question you?”

  “Yeah, but not very long. I was crying so much I could barely get any words out. I knew one of the detectives. I think he cut me some slack. But I’m going to have to tell my story eventually.”

  “Well, you’re goin’ to tell them that I pulled the trigger.”

  Angela was dizzy with confusion. She thought back to her first solo murder trial, a domestic violence case where the wife had shot her husband. The woman had insisted that she couldn’t remember firing the gun. Angela destroyed her on the witness stand, ripping her story to shreds. Now she realized that the woman may have been telling the truth because her own recollection of what had happened the night before was nothing but a big haze.

  “I need to see you,” Dre said. “Can I come over?”

  Angela wanted to see him, too, but she had to get her head on straight first. There was still the fact that he was a drug dealer and she did not want to be in love with a drug dealer. Even one who had saved her life.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. My mother’s on her way over. And I need to talk to a lawyer.”

  “What for? You are a lawyer.”

  “There’s a reason they say a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. I need to get some legal advice and so do you.”

  Silence wafted from both ends of the phone.

  “Are you still there?” Angela asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “I want to thank you again,” Angela said. “How did you end up in the garage?”

  “I didn’t believe Cornell was going to back off,” Dre said. “I’d been keepin’ an eye on you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you were.”

  “But not glad enough to let me come over?”

  “We’re both in a lot of trouble.”

  “What trouble?” Dre said. “Dude got what he deserved.”

  Angela could not bring herself to share Dre or Jada’s views on that point. At one time, she had loved Cornell and had planned to be his wife, to have his children. The image of his hands around her throat couldn’t completely erase those memories. Angela closed her eyes and wished she could make this all go away.

  “I really want to see you,” Dre prodded.

  I want to see you, too. “Just give me some time,” Angela said. “I promise. I’ll call you.”

  CHAPTER 70

  Erickson sat on the balcony of his magnificent townhouse overlooking the Potomac, sipping an expensive scotch and enjoying the tranquility.

  Becker’s predictions had been right on target. The media had not picked up on Ashley’s unfounded accusations and it appeared that they would not. He’d placed his faith in Becker and, as promised, his trusted friend had taken care of everything.

  Since Becker didn’t appear to be worried about the results of Claire’s autopsy, Erickson saw no reason to be. Once the autopsy was released, everyone would know Ashley was a lunatic and this whole ordeal would be put to rest. Erickson planned to return home next week, pack up and never look back. The following weekend, Mandy would be flying in for a visit.

  His cell phone rang and he glanced at the caller ID. It was a Los Angeles area code. He picked up.

  “Hi, it’s Bill Randolph.” Randolph was a reporter for the L.A. Times Erickson had known for years. The journalist often called on Erickson for newsworthy quotes on controversial Supreme Court decisions. He was one of only a handful of reporters who had Erickson’s personal cell phone number. “Congrats on the new job.”

  “Thanks. What can I do for you?” Erickson was always leery about talking to reporters, even the ones he liked.

  “Can’t say you’re going to be happy to receive this call.”

  Erickson sat forward, put down his scotch and switched the phone from his left ear to his right. “And why is that?”

  �
�There are rumors floating around about the results of your wife’s autopsy.”

  Trepidation hit him like a brick to his skull. If Randolph was following up on a rumor, it was as good as fact. He was that kind of reporter. “And. . .”

  “And it indicates foul play.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The autopsy report shows your wife died from an overdose of morphine.”

  Erickson was glad he was sitting down. “How could that be?”

  “I suspect that’s what the authorities are going to be asking you.”

  He trusted Randolph—to the extent you could trust a journalist—but he knew he could not say another word. “I think I need to cut this conversation short.”

  “Can we talk off the record?” Randolph asked.

  There was no such thing as off the record. If you provided information to a reporter, you should anticipate that it would eventually make its way to print, no matter what promises were made. Even the best ones would sell you out in the hope of writing a story that might win them a Pulitzer.

  “Tell me what else you know,” Erickson said.

  “The amount of morphine your wife had in her body could’ve killed a horse. Far in excess of what her doctor had prescribed.”

  Christ! Why in heaven was he hearing this from a reporter and not Becker? “This is very disturbing news,” Erickson said. “I need to go.”

  “The drug was administered intravenously. The coroner is classifying her death as a homicide.”

  Erickson grabbed the scotch bottle and refilled his glass. He was now the husband of a murdered woman. In the eyes of the police, the husband was always at the top of the potential suspects’ list. With the vicious lies Ashley was spreading, no one would believe his proclamations of innocence.

  Randolph seemed to be giving him time for the news to sink in and he appreciated that.

  “Any idea how the drug got into her system?” Randolph asked.

  “No and, as I said, we need to cut this conversation short.”

  “Sounds like this is all a big surprise to you.”

  “Of course it is,” Erickson said, his irritation obvious. “When are you planning to run this story?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I’d appreciate a heads up before you do.”

  He hung up and cursed. How incredibly stupid he’d been to trust Roland Becker. There was no way he was going down for murder.

  Especially one he didn’t commit.

  CHAPTER 72

  It took some doing, but Waverly had finally convinced Angela Evans’ assistant to call her cell and pass on his urgent message. He was now staring at his BlackBerry, willing it to ring.

  “She’ll call,” Britney said.

  Waverly sat at the foot of the bed, his back still aching from having slept in the chair all night. Britney was lying on her stom-ach near the headboard, obnoxiously smacking gum.

  “I wish I could see that attorney’s face when you tell her she’s cold busted,” Britney said.

  Waverly wished he could, too. He stood up and headed for the bathroom. Angela Evans was the only card he had left to play. He hoped it was a winner.

  He walked back into the room just as Britney was putting away her cell phone.

  “I said no phone calls. Who were you talking to?”

  “Just my friend Shana. Since my diagnosis, she’s been checking on me every day. If she called and couldn’t reach me, she’d flip out. I left her a message letting her know I’d met a new guy who was taking me away for the weekend.” She winked.

  “I told you I didn’t want you calling anybody. So don’t make another call. Somebody could be tracking you, too.” As he said the words, he realized how much of a risk he was taking by using his own phone. But if Angela called, he’d have to answer.

  “Okay, okay. Do you really think that prosecutor’s going to agree to meet you?” she asked.

  “I’m hoping.”

  “Do I get to tag along?”

  “Nope. You’re staying right here.”

  “I can be your lookout.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Okay, whatever. I’m going to take a shower.” Britney pranced over to the closet near the door and pulled out one of the terry-cloth bathrobes. “I love these hotel robes.” She rubbed it against her face. “One day, I’m going to buy myself one.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Waverly could see her lift her T-shirt over her head and unsnap her bra.

  “Hey,” she called over to him.

  “What?” Waverly kept his eyes on the television screen.

  “I’m talking to you.”

  Waverly yawned. “And I’m listening.”

  She hurled her bra across the room and it landed in his lap. Waverly finally turned to face her. Britney was still in her jeans, but was naked from the waist up. The girl just didn’t get it. Halle Berry couldn’t get a rise out of him right now.

  “Sorry about that.” She sauntered across the room, her firm breasts slightly bobbing with each step. “I was aiming for the bed.” She bent toward him, though she didn’t need to, and retrieved her bra from his lap. Her breasts nearly brushed his lips.

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  She smiled, slowly unzipped her jeans, stepped out of them and stood before him in nothing but a lacy pink thong.

  “Last chance,” she said, her shoulders erect, her belly button inches from his nose.

  “Why don’t you go take that shower?” Waverly said.

  When she didn’t move, he grabbed her arm and gently pulled her to the side. “You’re blocking the TV.”

  The flash of anger in Britney’s eyes was so intense that, for an instant, it unnerved him. She did an overly dramatic turn and stomped off to the bathroom.

  Thirty-two minutes later, Waverly got the call he’d been praying for.

  “This is Angela Evans. I’m returning your call.” The woman had the same lofty tone as when she had barged into his office with the arrogant blonde prick.

  “Thanks a lot,” Waverly replied. “I wasn’t sure you would actually call me back.”

  “Well, I’m calling. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s not what you can do for me,” Waverly said. “It’s what I can do for you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I realize you’ve been through quite an ordeal in the last few hours, so I won’t waste your time. I have someone who says that shooting in the garage of your apartment building didn’t go down the way you and your boyfriend claim it did.”

  When Angela responded with a soft intake of breath, he knew Britney had it right.

  “What’s she saying?” Britney asked. She was seated next to him on the bed, bouncing up and down.

  Waverly put a finger to his lips. “Are you there, Ms. Evans?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Angela said finally.

  “Well, let me explain. I have a friend who lives in your apartment building. She was there when you pulled out that gun.”

  “And exactly what did she see?”

  “I’ll share more details when we get together.”

  “Who said we’re getting together?”

  “I did.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If you have information about the case, then you should take it to the police.”

  “Do you really want me to do that?” Waverly taunted. Prosecutors were natural born bluffers. She was probably stressing out on the other end of the phone.

  “What is this? Some kind of extortion attempt?”

  “Not at all, but I do want something from you,” Waverly said.

  “And why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “All I want is for you to make sure I get a fair shot. I didn’t murder anybody. I need you to help me prove that.”

  “You need to call the D.A.’s Office.”

  Waverly ignored the advice. “We need to talk. Face-to-face,” he said. “Then I’ll reveal the information I have about
your fiancé’s murder.”

  When Angela didn’t answer, Waverly kept talking. “You need to trust me. I think it could be worth your while. You really don’t want me and my witness to go to the police.”

  “How do I know this isn’t some kind of scam?” Angela asked.

  Waverly laughed. “You know my situation. I’m in no position to scam you or anybody else. I just want to convince you that I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You could’ve done that when we came to your office the other day.”

  “Things are different now. I swear, I’ll explain everything to you, but we have to talk in person. I want you to meet me at the Marriott Hotel. The one on the corner of Century and Airport Boulevard. There’s a sports bar in there called Champions. Eight o’clock. I’ll be waiting for you. And make sure you come alone.”

  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.

  CHAPTER 72

  When 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?”