The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (26 page)

“You ignored her.”

“You know …” He tapped his forefinger in her direction. “From what I understand, you’re the last person who should be accusing anyone of ignoring that girl.”

“How
dare
you.”

Samuel
T. stared out over the long, undulating hood of the Jaguar. “Gin, I don’t have time for this. I have to go talk to your brother’s wife’s attorney right now—and that, unlike your little stamping display of—”

“You just can’t stand anyone telling you you’re not God.”

“No, I think I can’t stand you, actually. The God thing is a side issue.”

He didn’t wait for any further commentary from her. He started the engine, pumped the gas a couple of times to make sure it caught, and then he was off, following the path the executor had forged down the hill, away from Easterly.

Gin watched him go. Inside of herself, she was screaming.

About Amelia. About Samuel T. About Richard.

Mostly … about herself and all of the mistakes she had made. And the sadness that came with knowing that at the ripe old age of thirty-three, there was not enough time left in her life to right the wrongs she had wrought.

L
ane went around to the back, hoping to catch Edward before he took off. Undoubtedly, his brother had come up the staff way because there had been news crews parked at the front gate since the suicide story had broken. And also, undoubtedly, Edward was in a hurry to leave considering what the will had read.

There were no words adequate for what their father had done: Cutting his firstborn out of an inheritance was at once totally in character for William, and yet a cruel surprise as well.

A final fuck you that could not be countered, the dead carrying a trump card into their grave.

So Lane wanted to … say something … or check in or … he had no idea. What he was clear on was that Edward would no doubt not be interested in anything he had to say, but on occasion, you just had to try—in the hopes that the other person, in a quiet moment of reflection, might remember that you had made the effort even if it was awkward.

There
was no Red & Black truck in the short line up of cars by the business center, but Lane did find an old Toyota parked next to the red Mercedes he’d given Miss Aurora. Had to be what Edward had come in, but his brother wasn’t behind the wheel, wasn’t limping in its direction. Wasn’t anywhere to be found, actually.

Ducking in the rear door to the kitchen, Lane found Miss Aurora at the stove. “Have you seen Edward?”

“Is he here?” she asked as she turned around from her pot. “You tell him to come see me if he’s here.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

Lane made a quick survey around the first floor and then paused at the stairs. There was no reason for his brother to bother with the effort of going up to the bedrooms.

“Where are you?” he said to himself.

Heading out into the gardens, he went across to the business center. All of the French doors were locked on the side that faced the flowers, and he had to go further around to the rear entrance with its coded lock.

As soon as he was inside, he knew he’d found Edward: There were overhead lights on again—so his brother must have turned the electricity back on.

“Edward?”

Lane walked down the carpeted hall, glancing into empty offices. His phone had been blowing up with calls from the board chair, each one of the pissed-off senior vice presidents, and even the corporate lawyer. But not one of them had dared come to Easterly, and that told him he had something on them. And even if that bunch of suits was busy disappearing evidence from downtown headquarters? It didn’t matter. Jeff might dislike him at the moment, but that anal retentive numbers cruncher had saved files of everything that had been in the network before the whistle had gotten blown.

So any changes were just as incriminating as the malfeasance that had required a cover-up.

As Lane proceeded to his father’s office, he was aware his heart was pounding and that his mind had retreated behind a wall of brace-yourself.

Rather
as someone who was ready for a bomb to go off might take cover behind cement.

“Edward?”

He slowed as he got to the anteroom before his father’s office. “Edward … ?”

William Baldwine’s door was shut, and Lane couldn’t remember whether he had been the one to close it when they’d done the evac the day before. As he reached for the knob, he had no idea what he was going to find on the other side.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to see it.

He pushed the panels wide. “Edward—”

The office was dark, and when he hit the light switch on the wall, no one was there. “Where the hell are—”

When he turned around, Edward was right behind him. “Looking for me?”

Lane barked out a curse and grabbed the front of his own chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting my old haunts.”

Lane looked for things in his brother’s hands, pockets, behind Edward’s back. “Seriously. What are you doing?”

“Where is senior management?”

“Down at HQ in smaller offices.”

“You fired them?”

“I told them just to get out first.” He measured his brother’s face. “Or they were going to jail.”

Edward smiled. “Are you going to run the company yourself?”

“No.”

There was a pause. “What’s your plan, then?”

“All I wanted to do was get them out of here.”

“And you think that’s going to stop the financial bleed?”

“Father is dead. I think that’s what will stop it. But until I know that for sure, I’m not taking chances.”

Edward nodded. “Well, you’re not wrong. Not at all. But you may want to think about who is going to be in charge now that he’s dead.”

“Any
chance you’re looking for a job?”

“I have one. I’m an alcoholic now.”

Lane stared over his brother’s shoulder, out into the empty reception area. “Edward. I have to know something, and it’s just you and me here, okay?”

“Actually, this entire place is bugged. Cameras hidden, microphones tucked away. There is nothing secret under this roof, so be careful what you ask.”

Lane found himself wanting another drink.

And after a tense moment, he merely muttered, “Are you coming to the visitation?”

“I don’t know why I would. I’m not in mourning and I have no intention of paying any respects. No offense.”

“None taken and I can understand all that. But Mother will probably come down for it.”

“You think so?”

Lane nodded, and waited for his brother to say something further. The man didn’t, though. “Listen, Edward … I’m really sorry about—”

“Nothing. You’re sorry for nothing because none of it, none of this, was your fault. You can only apologize for your own wrongs. Is that all, little brother?”

When Lane couldn’t think of anything else, Edward nodded. “That’s all, then. Take care, and don’t call me if you need something. I’m not the kind of resource you want.”

T
he
Porsche got a lot of attention as Lane drove through the Rolling Meadows neighborhood, but not because he was going fast. Just the sight of the convertible and sound of the engine were enough to bring out the double takes of the dog walkers, the kids playing in the driveways, the moms pushing strollers. The houses were packed in tight, but they were of good size, most of them brick with cupolas or bay windows on the first floor and dormers or shallow porches on the second to distinguish them—rather like siblings who shared the same coloring but had different facial features. There were Volvos or Infinitis or Acuras parked in short driveways, basketball hoops above garage doors, decks with grills out in back.

With the late-afternoon sun shining down over postcard-worthy trees, and all the lawns glowing green, and all those kids running in packs, it was a throwback to before the iChildhood generation.

With quiet insistence, the GPS on the 911 navigated him through the rabbit warren of streets that were arranged by types of trees, flowers and, finally, fruits.

Cerise Circle was no different from any of the other lanes, roads, and ways
in the development. And when he came up to the home he was in search of, there was nothing to distinguish it from its larger gene pool.

Lane let the convertible roll to a stop across the street. With the top down, he could hear the rhythmic dribble of a basketball behind its garage, the bounce-bounce-bounce echoing off the house next door.

Killing the engine, he got out and walked over the pavement toward the sound. The kid who was LeBron’ing it was out of sight around the back, and Lane really wanted to just get back in his damn car and drive away.

But that wasn’t because he couldn’t stand confronting the living, breathing evidence of his father’s infidelities, and he wasn’t afraid of looking into a face that was so close to his own, either. And no, the fact that some stranger was his blood and was in the will didn’t rock his world.

The bottom line truth to his reticence? He was simply too exhausted to take care of anyone else. The problem was, this poor kid, through no fault of his own, was about to get sucked into the Bradford black hole, and how could Lane not at least try to guide the SOB a little bit.

It was a helluva lottery to win. Especially now that the money was gone.

Not a lot of upside.

The driveway was only about thirty feet long, a mere parking space at Easterly. And as Lane proceeded up, the eighteen-year-old with the basketball was revealed gradually.

Tall. Going to be taller. Dark haired. Big shoulders already.

The kid went up for a dunk, and the ball ricocheted off the rim.

Lane caught it on the fly. “Hey.”

Randolph Damion Freeland stopped first because he was surprised. And then because he was shocked.

“So you know who I am, then,” Lane said softly.

“I’ve seen your picture, yeah.”

“Do you know why I’m here?”

As the kid crossed his arms over his chest, there was a good deal of space between the pecs and the biceps, but that wasn’t going to last for much longer. He was going to fill out and be built strong.

God,
his eyes were the exact blue of Lane’s own.

“He died,” the kid mumbled. “I read about it.”

“So you know …”

“Who my father was? Yeah.” That stare lowered. “Are you going to, like …”

“Like what?”

“Get me arrested or something?”

“What? Why would I do that?”

“I dunno. You’re a Bradford.”

Lane closed his eyes briefly. “No, I came to see you about something important. And also to say that I’m sorry your mother passed.”

“She killed herself. In your house.”

“I know.”

“They say you found her body. I read that in the newspaper.”

“I did.”

“She didn’t say good-bye to me. She just left that morning and then she was gone. You know, like, permanently.”

Lane shook his head and squeezed the ball between his palms. “I’m really sorry—”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!”

An older woman shot out onto the porch with a full head of steam up, her face twisted into the kind of rage that made a handgun unnecessary. “You get away from him! You get away—”

“Granny, stop! He’s just talking—”

As the kid got between them, the grandmother was all arms, fighting to get at Lane. “You stay away! How dare you come here—”

“He’s an heir. That’s why I came.”

As the two of them paused in their struggling, Lane nodded. “He got left the house and ten million dollars. I figured you would want to know. The executor is going to be in touch. I don’t know how much money there really is, but I want you both to know that I will fight to make sure this house stays in your grandson’s name.”

After all, there was a scenario whereby it, too, might be liquidated depending on the debt situation. And then where would this kid go?

As
the grandmother snapped out of her surprise, she got right back on the hate-train. “Don’t ever come here again—”

Lane locked eyes with the boy. “You know where I live. If you have questions, if you want to talk—”

“Never!” the woman screamed. “He will never come to you! You can’t take him, too!”

“Babcock Jefferson,” Lane said as he put the ball down on the driveway. “That’s the attorney’s name.”

As he turned away, the image of that young kid holding back that old woman was carved into his brain, and God, he hated his father for new reasons in that moment, he really did.

Back at the Porsche, he got behind the wheel and headed off. He wanted to screech out, take the corners hard, hit a couple of parked cars, roll over some bicycles. But he didn’t.

He was coming out to the entrance of the development when his phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, but he answered it because even a telemarketer was better than the thoughts in his head.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Baldwine?” a female voice said. “Mr. Lane Baldwine?”

He hit the directional signal to the left. “This is he.”

“My name is LaKeesha Locke. I’m the business reporter for the
Charlemont Courier Journal
. I was wondering if you and I can meet somewhere.”