with booze. I planned. You have no idea how sickening she was. Her weight had gotten out of hand. She was a hypochondriac. All she thought about and talked about was her health. She did have a heart murmur, but it was no big deal. She was thrilled

when she found that out. It gave her a reason to become even more slovenly. She took to her bed and stayed there, being waited on hand and foot by her maids and by me. I kept hoping her heart would blow up, and, honest to God, I tried to kill her with the

ton of chocolates I brought home every night, but it was taking too long. Granted, I could have screwed around on her every

night and she wouldn't have known. In fact, I did screw around and she didn't find out. Like I said, the woman was too lazy to

get out of bed, much less leave her bedroom. I couldn't stand coming home to her. Looking at her made me want to puke."

"Are we supposed to feel sorry for you now?" Cameron asked.

"No," he answered. "But as for crossing the line, we did that a long time ago."

"We never murdered anyone."

"So what? We'd still get twenty, maybe thirty years for all the crimes we have committed."

"But they were white-collar crimes," Preston stammered.

"Is that going to be your defense against the IRS?" John asked. "Think they'll just slap your hands?"

"We never killed."

"Well, now we have," John snapped, irritated with Preston's whiny attitude. Focusing on Cameron now, he said, "I'll tell you this.

It was easy… easy enough to do again. You know what I'm saying? We could wait a little while, maybe six months or so, and then talk to Monk again about your situation."

Dallas's mouth dropped open. "Are you out of your mind?"

Cameron cocked his head. He was already thinking about it. "I'd love for Monk to pay a visit to my wife. It would be worth

every penny I had."

"It's possible," John said smoothly.

"If you don't stop talking like that, I'm out," Preston threatened.

"It's too late for you to get out," John countered. "There's no such thing as a perfect murder," Dallas said.

"Catherine's was pretty damned perfect," John said. "I can tell you're thinking about it, aren't you, Cam?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "I am."

Preston suddenly wanted to wipe the smug look off of John's face. "You've become a monster," he said. "If anyone finds out about Catherine…"

"Relax," John said. "We're in the clear. Now stop worrying. No one's ever going to find out."

CHAPTER SEVEN

Catherine had the last laugh. The controlling bitch had ordered her attorney, Phillip Benchley, to wait six weeks to the day

after her death to read her last will and testament. John was furious about the delay, but he knew he couldn't do anything

about it. Even in death the woman continued to try to manipulate him.

Catherine had hired Phillip before she'd married John. He was a partner in the prestigious firm of Benchley, Tarrance, and Paulson. Benchley knew which side of the bread was buttered. The old fart had catered to Catherine's every whim. She must have changed her will at least three times that John knew of while they were married, but the last time he went through her

papers to make sure he was still the primary beneficiary was six months ago. After that, he'd done his best to monitor her phone calls and visitors to make certain she didn't have the opportunity to talk to her kiss-ass attorney again.

Since her death, John's bills had been piling up, most of them now past due, and Monk was breathing down his neck, waiting for his money. To placate him, John had had to up the bonus to twenty thousand.

John fumed while he waited in Benchley's plush corner office. It was outrageous that the attorney was keeping him waiting.

John checked the time again. Three-forty-five. He was supposed to meet his friends at Dooley's to celebrate. He knew they

were probably just now leaving their offices.

The door opened behind him. John didn't bother to turn around. He wasn't going to be the first to speak either, no matter how childish that made him appear.

"Good afternoon." Benchley's voice was cold, damn near glacial.

"You've kept me waiting forty minutes," John snapped. "Let's get this done."

Benchley didn't apologize. He took his seat behind his desk and placed a thick folder on the blotter. He was a little man with frizzy gray hair. He slowly opened the file.

The door opened again, and two young men John assumed were junior associates walked over to stand behind Benchley. Before John could ask what they were doing, Benchley gave him a clipped one-word explanation. "Witnesses."

The second Benchley broke the seal and began to read, John relaxed. Fifteen minutes later he was shaking with rage.

"When was the will changed?" He had to force himself not to yell.

"Four months ago," Benchley explained.

"Why wasn't I notified?"

"I'm Catherine's attorney, sir, if you will remember. I had no reason to inform you of your wife's change of heart. You did sign

the prenuptial, and you have no claim to her trust fund. I've made a copy of the will for you to take with you. Catherine's instructions," he added smoothly.

"I'll contest it. Don't think I won't. She thinks she can leave me a hundred dollars and leave the rest to a goddamn bird sanctuary, and I won't contest it?"

"That isn't quite accurate," Benchley said. "There is a four-hundred-thousand-dollar gift to the Renard family, to be divided

equally among her uncle Jake Renard and her three cousins, Remy, John Paul, and Michelle."

"I don't believe it," he railed. "Catherine hated those people. She thought they were white trash."

"She must have had a change of heart," Benchley said. Tapping the papers with his fingertips, he added, "It's all here in the will. Each of her relatives will receive one hundred thousand dollars. And there was one other special request. Catherine was quite fond of her caretaker, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Of course she liked her. The woman catered to her every whim and made no bones about hating me. Catherine was amused

by that."

"Yes, well," Benchley continued, "she left Rosa Vincetti one hundred fifty thousand dollars as well."

John was infuriated over that news. He wished now he'd had Monk kill her too. He hated the holier-than-thou witch with her hawkish eyes. How he had relished firing her. Now she, too, was getting a piece of his money.

"Every dime belongs to me," he shouted. "I'll fight this and win, you pompous ass."

Benchley appeared unruffled by the tantrum. "Do what you will. However… Catherine thought you might want to fight her wishes, and so she gave me this sealed envelope to hand deliver to you. I have no idea what's inside. But Catherine assured

me that after you've read it, you will decide against a legal battle."

John signed for the package and snatched it from Benchley. Venom all but spewed from his mouth when he said,

"I don't understand why my wife would do this to me."

"Perhaps the letter will explain."

"Give me a copy of the damned will," he muttered. "And I assure you, nothing Catherine had to say in her letter is going to

change my mind. I'm litigating."

He slammed out of the office. The rage was boiling inside his head. Then he remembered all the bills and Monk. What the

hell was he going to do about that?

"Goddamn bitch," he mumbled as he got into his car.

It was dark inside the garage. John turned the overhead light on and tore open the envelope. There were six pages in all, but Catherine's letter was the first page. John lifted the paper to see what other surprises she'd saved.

Incredulous at what he was seeing, he flipped back to the first page and frantically began to read.