Buying Time

by Pamela Samuels Young

  Angela’s recollection was still hazy regarding exactly what had happened in the garage. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Waverly. “I don’t believe you even have a witness. If you did, they’d be here.”

  “Get away from me or I’ll blow your goddamn guts out!” Do those words ring a bell?”

  The room suddenly felt swelteringly hot. Those words—her words—took Angela right back to the garage. She could almost feel Cornell’s hand around her neck.

  “Oh, I have a witness alright,” Waverly continued. “And I can see from the expression on your face that my friend must have quoted you correctly. You help me cut a deal and I guarantee you my witness will never surface.”

  Angela did not know how to respond. She needed to know everything his witness knew. “I want to talk to your witness,” she said. “Is it a man or a woman?”

  Waverly hesitated as if he was uncertain about giving up that information. “It’s a woman.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “You don’t need to know that right now.”

  “I’ll need to talk to her before I agree to go any further. And I’m not saying I can actually help you.” She paused. “But I’ll try.”

  Waverly’s entire body exhaled. “I’m not ready to produce her yet. But to prove to you that she really exists, I’ll let you speak to her on the phone.” He rose from the booth. “I need to make a run to the men’s room first.”

  Angela watched Waverly walk away. Her hands were shaking so badly, she’d kept them hidden underneath the table during the entire conversation. She glanced toward the bar. Dre wasn’t there. She inspected the rest of the room. Where is he?

  She flinched when her BlackBerry vibrated. She grabbed it from the table. Dre had sent her a text.

  Get car hav 2 go now!

  Angela stared at the message, perplexed. She typed a quick reply.

  Why?

  Dre fired back.

  Cant xplain jus do it!

  CHAPTER 75

  Erickson simmered with anger as he stood in his family room surveying the destruction caused by the L.A.P.D.’s rampage through his home. The entire house was in complete shambles and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  He had arrived home only minutes earlier, having decided that it was best that he not be present when the L.A.P.D. served the search warrant. It would not look good for the Attorney General of the United States to be pictured on the six o’clock news standing idly by while his home was ransacked by police.

  His family room looked as if a herd of buffalo had thundered through it. The coffee tables and couches were turned on their sides. Lamps, pillows, magazines and books were scattered about the floor. In the adjacent kitchen, there was a broken dish on the countertop and an overturned trashcan on the floor. All of the cabinet doors were open and one was off its hinges.

  The doorbell rang and Erickson hurried toward the entryway. He almost slipped in a pile of dirt spilled onto the floor from a potted plant that lay on its side.

  He opened the door and Becker stepped inside.

  “How are you?” Becker asked.

  Erickson led the way inside. “I could be better.”

  A palpable level of distrust now existed between them.

  When they got to the family room, Becker stopped and whistled. “Look at this place. This is obscene.”

  “I would have to agree.” Erickson walked over to the bar in search of something to drink. He found a bottle of two hundred dollar scotch broken into several pieces, its contents having seeped into the carpet. He picked up an undamaged bottle of gin on the floor near the television and poured himself a drink.

  “I would offer you a place to sit,” Erickson said, “but things are a bit in disarray at the moment.”

  Becker set his briefcase on the center island in the kitchen which opened out into the family room. “Have you been watching the news?”

  “Nope,” Erickson said. “Figured it would be too painful. Did they find anything?” Please tell me Claire didn’t have a second copy of that DVD.

  “What’s to find?” Becker asked.

  “Nothing,” Erickson replied, resenting the question. “Absolutely nothing. But if Ashley’s trying to set me up as you claim, there’s no telling what she could have planted.”

  “It’s too soon for me to know anything. My contacts need a few days to nose around. Anyway, no one’s saying you’re a suspect. Just a person of interest.”

  Erickson laughed. “Isn’t that just a nicer way of saying the same thing?”

  Becker spread his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. “Have you talked to the White House yet?”

  “No.” Erickson took a sip of vodka. “But I assume they’ve been calling.”

  “You assume?”

  “I turned off my phone. I would suspect Wrigley’s been trying to reach me.”

  “Yes, he has,” Becker confirmed. “When he couldn’t reach you, he called me. He’s pretty hot. You need to call him right away.”

  “I will.”

  “Where do we go from here?” Becker asked.

  “That’s certainly a strange question coming from you,” Erickson said. “You’ve been the one calling all the shots. Now that everything’s a disaster, you want me to take over?”

  “This wasn’t how I planned it.”

  “Is that so?” Erickson now suspected that this was exactly how Becker had planned it. How stupid he had been. “If Ashley killed Claire, I want her behind bars.”

  “I have a copy of today’s L.A. Times if you’d like to see it.” Becker removed the newspaper from his briefcase and handed it to him.

  The bold headline splashed across the front page nearly floored him.

  Foul Play Suspected in Death of AG’s Wife.

  Erickson’s face grew agitated as he read the story. “All this innuendo is completely slanderous! They might as well say I killed her. How can they do this?”

  He hurled the newspaper across the room. At this point, there was nothing he could say or do to salvage his reputation. Even if he was cleared, the media speculation would do almost as much damage as a conviction.

  “It is what it is,” Becker said.

  “It is what it is? Is that all you have to say? This was your idea and your plan, yet I’m the one holding the bag.”

  “You didn’t kill Claire,” Becker said. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Don’t you dare humor me! You read that story! Some prosecutor with a bug up his ass would love to further his career by putting me behind bars. Just tell me what evidence you have against Ashley so I can get this thing over with.”

  Becker averted his eyes. “I wish I had some, but I don’t.”

  Erickson felt like he’d just been slapped. “But you said she killed Claire.”

  “And I think she did. I’m just waiting for more information.”

  “You think? You fucking think? That isn’t good enough. If I go down, you’re going down with me!”

  Becker calmly closed his briefcase. “Like I said, I’ll take care of everything. I’ll give you a call after I talk to my contact.”

  CHAPTER 76

  Angela grabbed her purse from the table and walked briskly toward the entrance of the bar. It took every ounce of willpower she could muster not to break into a sprint. The bartender winked at her again, but she didn’t take the time to acknowledge him.

  Trying not to draw attention to herself, Angela zigzagged through the crowded hotel lobby. What did Dre see? She charged through the glass doors and trotted to her car. Dre’s decision to keep the car parked out front had been a smart move.

  She snatched open the door and retrieved the keys from underneath the floor mat. As she started up her Saab, she looked around, praying Dre was on his way out.

  Her pulse raced as she waited. Where is he?

  Angela heard the rapid fire of gunshots, and seconds later a rush of people poured out of the hotel. More gunshots followed as a large wall of gla
ss came crashing down, spraying debris in every direction. Hotel guests scattered about like ants, wedging Angela’s Saab between frantic, screaming people. She couldn’t move the car an inch even if she wanted to.

  A pounding on the passenger window made her jump.

  “Open the door!” Dre yelled.

  She fumbled with the electronic door locks until they finally clicked open. Dre swung the door open and jumped inside. “Let’s get out of here!”

  “I can’t move! Not without running over somebody.” Just then, a man climbed across the hood.

  Keeping her foot on the brake, Angela gripped the steering wheel with both hands, terrified that she was going to run over someone.

  Dre reached over and pressed the horn, causing people to flee, giving them room to slowly move forward. They made it through most of the crowd and were headed down the ramp toward the street when the back door opened and Waverly Sloan tumbled in, falling across the seat.

  “Somebody’s trying to kill me!”

  “Man, we ain’t tryin’ to get caught up in your bullshit,” Dre shouted.

  “Just drive,” Waverly exclaimed. “We have to get out of here!”

  Angela finally made it to the end of the ramp and turned right onto Century Boulevard.

  “We can’t go this way,” Dre said, as Angela passed the intersection at Airport Boulevard. “This leads straight into the airport. Make a U-turn.”

  Angela glanced to her left. Huge plants and palm trees lined the median dividing east and west traffic. “I can’t. There’s no place to turn!”

  “Just drive across the median.”

  Angela was so rattled, she could barely keep her hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t do that!”

  “Yes, you can,” Dre insisted. “Just do it.”

  Waverly raised his head from the backseat. “No! Just keep straight. There’s no way they’re going to start anything inside the airport. The airport police would have this place shut down in seconds. We’ll be safer in there.”

  “Hell naw!” Dre yelled. “If anything goes down on airport property, the police are going to shoot first and ask questions later. We have to turn around.”

  Angela was trying to decide what to do when a bullet pierced the back window, spraying glass throughout the car. She instantly swerved the car to the left, crossed over the median and headed back in the opposite direction, eastbound on Century Boulevard. Car horns blared at them from every direction.

  Another bullet struck the left side of the car.

  “Oh, my God! They’re going to kill us! I can’t do this!”

  “Yes, you can,” Dre said. “Just keep your damn foot on the gas and drive like your life depended on it because right now it does.”

  Dre turned to look through what was left of the back window. “The shots came from that black Escalade.”

  Angela cut around a Honda and almost collided with a delivery truck as she raced through the intersection at Aviation against a red light.

  “They’re gettin’ close,” Dre said. “Floor it!”

  Angela screamed when another bullet took out the mirror on the driver’s side.

  “Please, baby, don’t freak out on me. You’re doin’ good. Just stay calm and keep drivin’.”

  The Saab charged through the intersection at La Cienega just as a big rig ambled in front of her.

  “Oh, my God! We’re going to crash. I can’t stop!” Angela jerked the steering wheel to the right and somehow managed to whip the car clear of the truck.

  A second later, a thunderous boom rocked the entire street.

  Angela glanced at the rearview mirror. The Escalade had barreled into the cab of the big rig, setting off a chain reaction of crashes.

  Dre pointed ahead. “Make a left on Inglewood, then another left four blocks up on Ninety-Sixth.”

  “Why are we—”

  “I don’t have time to explain,” Dre said, cutting her off. “Just do it.”

  Angela did as instructed and eventually brought the car to a stop in the driveway of a small, pink house with a neat yard. “Park in the back on the grass,” Dre ordered, “and don’t ask me why.”

  Once they were parked. Dre opened the door and jumped out. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He returned in seconds with a set of car keys in hand. “Let’s go. I got us another ride.”

  Dre opened the garage and drove a white van several yards down the driveway. Angela and Waverly climbed inside, while Dre parked Angela’s battered Saab in the garage and locked it.

  This time Dre got behind the wheel. “Put your heads down,” he said. “I’m sure the police are looking for us.”

  Though she kept her head down as instructed, Angela could tell that Dre was taking a series of side streets. The ride ended about twenty minutes later at an apartment building on La Brea.

  Angela and Waverly quickly followed Dre up two flights of stairs. He opened the door and turned on the lights.

  “Is this your apartment?” Angela asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Angela examined the neat interior. She had to step over several stacks of books to get to the couch.

  “This doesn’t seem like a smart place for us to hide out,” Waverly said. “The police are probably on their way here to arrest us right now.”

  “This place isn’t rented in my name. No one’s comin’ here because no one knows I live here.”

  Angela gave Dre a judgmental look that he ignored.

  Waverly sat down on one end of the couch, Angela on the other. Dre remained standing, his arms folded.

  “Dude, you need to tell us exactly what the deal is,” Dre said. “I don’t appreciate you gettin’ us mixed up in this bullshit. Tell us what’s goin’ on.”

  Waverly dumped his head in his hands. “I really wish I knew.”

  “Why’d you send that text telling me to get the car?” Angela said to Dre.

  He pointed at Waverly. “When he got up to go to the bathroom, I saw two dudes trailin’ him. I just had a bad vibe and figured we should leave.”

  Waverly looked at Angela as if for sympathy. But like Dre, all she wanted was an explanation.

  “I swear,” Waverly said, his voice cracking, “I have no idea what’s going on or who was shooting at us.”

  CHAPTER 77

  Zack wasn’t stupid. He knew the deal. Becker only offered him the media liaison job to get him off Erickson’s trail. That was exactly how life was supposed to work. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.

  He rambled around his apartment, packing up for his move to Washington. Most of his furniture was already on its way there. The last few items he was now loading into boxes would be placed in storage.

  Zack figured that he and Angela must have been close, real close, to discovering something that could bring down the U.S. Attorney General. The question was, was he willing to look the other way in exchange for a job that would give him the kind of exposure and media contacts that could surely hoist him to talking-head stardom? Based on the packing boxes stacked around his apartment, apparently so.

  The way Zack saw it, it was a win-win situation for him. If Erickson survived, Zack would have a pretty cool job. If Erickson floundered and ended up facing murder charges, he would be smack dab in the middle of the action. His insider’s account would be golden. If George Stephanopoulos could snag a book deal and his own TV show, so could he.

  Zack had spent two days in Washington where he’d been treated like royalty. He had an impressive office in the Justice Department building on Pennsylvania Avenue, a staff of five and his own budget. Becker had even arranged a private tour of the White House.

  Sure, he was selling out, but didn’t everybody? Eventually.

  Instead of emailing Angela that background memo on Waverly Sloan, Zack told her he didn’t want to create an email trail and offered to deliver it. Her new boyfriend had just shot her fiancé and she was worried about bringing down Waverly Sloan? That did not compute. Angela wanted th
at memo for another reason and Zack was itching to find out what it was.

  When Angela had opened the door at her sister’s apartment, she looked bruised and haggard. But after all she’d been through, that was totally understandable. They had chatted awhile about his move to Washington.

  “Don’t you see what they’re doing?” Angela said. “They’re trying to get you out of the way.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Zack replied. He wasn’t an idiot.

  “And you’re going along with it?”

  “If I’m part of the inner circle. I’ll be in a better position to discover what’s really going on.”

  “Yeah, right. Even if you find out anything, you’re not going to act on it.”

  Angela was absolutely right. He was not going to bite the hand that was feeding him.

  Zack had tried to hang around to talk to her, but sensed that Angela wanted him to leave.

  “You sure you don’t want to talk about what happened?” Zack pried.

  “I’m sure,” Angela said. “Actually, I’m pretty tired.”

  But not too tired to read that memo. Zack ignored her hint. If she wanted him to leave, she would have to come out and say so.

  “When do you leave for Washington?” she asked.

  “In four days. I’m pretty psyched. I have an apartment in Georgetown and it’s costing me a bundle. I thought L.A. rents were sky high.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  It was almost as if she had said, Well, good luck, you sellout.

  “I hate to be rude,” Angela finally said, “but I’d really like to get some rest.”

  “Okay.” Zack still didn’t make a move. “When do you plan to get started reviewing that memo on Sloan?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Well, if you come up with anything, give me a call.”