Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [97]
“Taste,” he declared.
“Heathen.” She closed the bathroom door and ran her shower. He knew she wasn’t that sure Janice wasn’t pregnant, and neither was he.
And if she was with child, then what of his plans involving Nanette? It wasn’t like he could pull this off any time he felt like doing it. He finished dressing. It would be casual today, the pressed chinos, button-down shirt, sports jacket, no tie. It was his birthday and it was expected he’d be coasting once the Carlson file was closed out.
Putting his socks on, the ones with the blue hourglasses, he reveled in the simplicity and beauty of the virus he’d planted in his firm’s computers more than two years ago. At 9:24 tonight, his new life would begin.
By then he and Nanette would be heading east, toward Texas, in the used car they’d bought more than a year ago. He’d gotten the brakes fixed, the head gasket replaced and what have you, so that the vehicle was completely reliable for the getaway. And, most importantly, the final transfer of the funds he’d siphoned off, little by little, had been completed three days ago. The computer crash would cover his nefarious deeds for weeks, time enough to set up his new life with the younger woman.
Naturally, Roger would be a suspect, but he’d be gone, no forwarding. The cops and the firm would hammer at Claudia, give her a rough going over, but she was innocent. She didn’t have a clue about his plans.
“What time will you be back home? I know you’re going to have drinks with Wayne and the guys.”
“What time is Janice supposed to be here?”
“About 7:30, she said.”
“Alone?”
His wife dangled an earring from her lobe. “Good question.” She blew him a kiss. “You have such a suspicious mind.”
“I’ll be back here no later than 8.”
“All right. See you then, Rog.” She gave him a peck, then gripped his lower face in her hand. Using her tongue, but keeping her fresh carmine lips off his, she probed his mouth. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
As she hummed and walked down the stairs, he stood at the railing, watching her go. He remained there, hearing her car start up and fade away. After tonight, he’d never see her or his daughter again. But he was resolved, he was going to spend the second half, well, really, if he was lucky and kept exercising and watching what he ate, the next thirty years with a woman twenty years his junior, plus some two and a half million dollars in ill-gotten gains richer.
That was an amount a bling bling rapper like 50 Cent or actor Tom Cruise might sneer at, hardly enough for them to get out of bed. But it was sufficient for a humble man like Roger Crumbler.
The down payment had been made through intermediaries on a condo in Port Saint Charles in Barbados. And through budgeting and living within their means, they’d be comfortable. They wouldn’t be driving Jags or Bentleys, nor vacationing on a whim, but it’s not like they’d have to subsist on Top Ramen.
And should the need or notion arise, Roger had also entertained money laundering for a select list of individuals. Certainly more than once over the years, several clients of the firm had hinted at such. Millionaires, more than the middle class, were willing to step over the line to hold onto that which they felt entitled to by birth or happenstance.
Wayne Wardlow, the Carlson Foundation’s executive director, was not a possibility in that department. Though it was Wayne who had inspired Roger.
“Hell yes, I’m tappin’ that ass,” he’d joked. Referring to a woman, a freelance writer Wardlow had met doing an article about socially involved foundations for Los Angeles magazine.
“Okay, P. Diddy,” Roger had remarked to the man whose face should illustrate WASP in the dictionary. They were in the locker room getting dressed after their basketball game and shower.
“I love black pussy—you don’t know what you’re missing, son.” Wardlow knocked him playfully in the shoulder.
“And you have lost your natural cotton-pickin’ mind,” Roger said, slipping into his trousers.
“Rog, getting some on the side at our age is cheaper than buying a sports car, and