The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (30 page)

“Watch me.”

Steadman stared across the glossy table for a moment. “The board will—”

“Be getting out of my way. Listen, you each get paid a hundred thousand dollars to sit around and do absolutely nothing. I’ll guarantee every one of you a quarter of a million dollars this year. That’s a one hundred and fifty percent raise.”

The man’s chin went up. “Are you attempting to bribe me? Bribe us?”

“Or I can shut the board down. Your choice.”

“There are bylaws—”

“You know what my father did to my brother, correct?” Lane leaned in once more. “Do you think I don’t have the same contacts my old man did in the States? Do you honestly believe I can’t make things very difficult for the lot of you? Most accidents happen in the home, but cars can be tricky, too. Boats. Planes.”

Guess
his Kentucky Fried Tony was coming out again.

And the truly scary thing was, as he said the words, he wasn’t sure whether he was bluffing or not. Sitting here, where his father had sat, Lane found himself feeling perfectly capable of murder.

Abruptly, the memory of falling from the bridge, of watching the water come at him, of being in that hinterland between safety and death, returned to him.

“So what is it going to be?” Lane murmured. “A raise or a grave?” Steadman took his sweet time, and Lane let the man stare into his eyes for as long as he wanted.

“I’m not sure you can promise either, son.”

Lane shrugged. “The question is whether you want to test that theory out on the positive or the negative, isn’t it?”

“If that article is true, how are you going to get the money?”

“That’s my problem, not yours.” Lane sat back. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What’s that?”

“My father’s ring finger was found buried out in front of the house. It’s not been released to the press yet. So don’t kid yourself. It wasn’t suicide. Someone killed him.”

There was a little throat clearing at that point. And then good ol’ Steadman said, “When exactly would we be receiving payment?”

Gotcha,
Lane thought.

“Now, here’s what we’re going to do,” he said to the man.

J
eff took his breakfast upstairs in Lane’s grandfather’s crib, and he was on the phone the entire time. With his father.

When he finally hung up, he sat back in the antique chair and looked out at the grass of the garden. The flowers. The blooming trees. It was like a stage set for the Carringtons back in the eighties. Then he picked up the copy of the
Charlemont Courier Journal
he’d stolen from downstairs in the kitchen and stared at the story.

He’d
read it first online.

After that, when he’d gone down to snag some coffee and a Danish, he’d asked Miss Aurora if he could take the physical copy. Lane’s momma, as she was called, hadn’t looked up from whatever she’d been chopping at the counter.
Get it out of here,
was all she had said.

Jeff had pretty much memorized every word, each number, all the pictures of the documents.

When a knock sounded, he said, “Yes?”

Lane came in with some coffee for himself, and even though he’d shaved, he looked like shit. “So—oh, yup,” the guy said. “You’ve seen it.”

“Yeah.” Jeff put the goddamn thing down. “It’s a hatchet job. The problem is, nothing is misrepresented.”

“I’m not going to worry about it.”

“You should.”

“I just bought the board.”

Jeff recoiled. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I need you to find me two point five million dollars.”

Putting his palms up to his face and holding in a curse, Jeff just shook his head. “Lane, I don’t work for the Bradford Bourbon Company—”

“So I’ll pay you.”

“With what?”

“Take a painting from downstairs.”

“No offense, but I don’t like museums and I hate representational art. Everything you have was done before the advent of the camera. It’s boring.”

“There’s value in it.” When Jeff didn’t give a response, Lane shrugged. “Fine, I’ll give you a piece of my mother’s jewelry—”

“Lane.”

His college roommate didn’t budge. “Or take the Phantom Drop-head. I’ll deed it to you. We own all the cars. How about my Porsche?”

“Are you … insane?”

Lane indicated all around them. “There’s money here. Everywhere. You want a horse?”

“Jesus
Christ, it’s like your garage sale’ing—”

“What do you want? It’s yours. Then help me find that money. I need two hundred and fifty grand each for ten people.”

Jeff started shaking his head. “It doesn’t work like that. You can’t just divert funds on a whim—”

“There is no whim here, Jeff. It’s about survival.”

“You need a plan,
Lane
. A comprehensive plan that immediately reduces expenses, consolidates function, and anticipates a possible federal investigation—especially with that article out now.”

“Which brings me to my second reason for being here. I need you to prove that my father did it all.”

“Lane—what the fuck! Do you think I can just pull this stuff out of my—”

“I’m not naive and you’re right. Law enforcement is going to come knocking after that article, and I want to present them with a clear path to my father.”

Jeff exhaled. Cracked his knuckles. Wondered what it would feel like if he struck his forehead with the desk. A couple of hundred times. “Well, at least that looks like a no-brainer.”

“That’s the beauty of all this. It just came to me. My father is dead so it’s not like they’re going to dig him up and put him behind bars. And after everything he pulled, I’m not concerned with preserving his memory. Let the bastard go down in flames for everything, and then let’s move forward with the company.” He took a drink from his mug. “Oh, which reminds me. I e-mailed you what Lenghe sent me on the WWB Holdings companies. It’s more than we had and yet not nearly enough.”

All Jeff could do was stare at the guy. “You know, I can’t decide whether you are incredibly entitled or simply so desperate you have lost your damn mind.”

“Both. But I can tell you that the latter is more material. It’s hard to be entitled when you can’t pay for anything. And as for your compensation, as far as I’m concerned I’m in a fire-sale situation here. So back up a truck and load the damn thing to the roof. Whatever you think is fair.”

Jeff
looked down at the newspaper again. It seemed appropriate that the article was covering all of the work he’d been doing.

“I can’t be down here forever, Lane.”

But he did have something he had to take care for himself. In addition to Lane’s newest laundry list of demands and bright ideas.

“What about senior management?” Jeff asked. “Did you bribe them, too?”

“Not at all. For that bunch of suits, I put them on unpaid administrative leave for the next month. I figured there was enough evidence so that it was justified, and the board is sending them notice. The middle managers will pick up the slack until I find an interim CEO.”

“Gonna be hard with this out.” Jeff tapped the front page. “Not exactly a good recruiting platform.”

As Lane just looked across at him, Jeff felt a splash of figurative cold water hit his head. Putting up both his palms, he started shaking his head again. “No. Absolutely not—”

“You’d be in charge.”

“Of a torpedoed ship.”

“You could do anything you want.”

“Which is like telling me I can redecorate a house that’s in the middle of a mudslide?”

“I’ll give you equity.”

Annnnnd cue the screeching of tires. “What did you just say?”

Lane turned away and went to the door. “You heard me. I’m offering you equity in the oldest and finest liquor company in America. And before you tell me I’m not allowed to, blah, blah, blah, may I remind you that the board’s in my back pocket. I can do whatever the hell I want and need to.”

“As long as you can find the money to pay them.”

“Think about it.” The slick bastard looked over his shoulder. “You can own something, Jeff. Not just crunch numbers for an investment bank that’s paying you for being a glorified calculator. You can be the first non-family shareholder in the Bradford Bourbon Company, and you can help determine our future.”

Jeff
went back to staring at the article. “Would you have ever asked me if things were going well?”

“No, but that’s because in that case, I wouldn’t be involved in the company at all.”

“And what happens when all this is over?”

“Depends on what ‘over’ looks like, doesn’t it? This could change your life, Jeff.”

“Yeah, there’s a recommendation. Look what it’s done to you. And P.S., last time you wanted me to stay you threatened me. Now, you’re trying to bribe me.”

“Is it working?” When he didn’t answer, Lane opened the way out. “I didn’t like strong-arming you. I really didn’t. And you’re right. I am thrashing around here like an idiot. But I’m out of options, and there is no savior coming down from heaven to give me a miracle and make this all go away.”

“That’s because there is no making this go away.”

“No shit. But I’ve got to deal with it. I don’t have a choice.”

Jeff cursed. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“What do you need from me so you can?”

“After all this? I’m not sure I ever can.”

“Then be self-interested. If you own part of what you’re saving, if there’s a tremendous upside—and there is—then that’s all the incentive you need. Think about it. You’re a businessman. You know exactly how lucrative this could be. I give you the stock now, and then things turn around? There are Bradford cousins who will be dying to buy the shit back. This represents the single best chance of an eight-digit capitalizing event for you—outside of the fucking lottery.”

On that note, because the bastard knew precisely when to pull out, Lane left, closing the door silently.

“Fuck. Me,” Jeff muttered to himself.

L
izzie
shucked her khaki shorts and put them on the counter in Lane’s bathroom next to her work shirt. As she straightened, the mirror showed her a reflection that was familiar, but also strange: Her hair was fuzzed up from her ponytail, the sunscreen she’d put on earlier in the afternoon made her skin too shiny, and her eyes had bags under them.

All that was normal, though.

Picking up the black dress in front of her, she slipped it over her head and thought, okay, here was the weirdness.

At Easterly’s last big party, less than a week ago, she had been firmly in the staff camp. Now, she was this odd hybrid, part family by virtue of being engaged to Lane, but still on the payroll and very much involved in the preparations and staging for the visitation.

Yanking the tie out, she brushed her hair, but it had a kink in it from the rubber band and looked bad down.

Maybe there was time for a—

Nope. As she looked at her phone, the numbers read 3:43. Not enough for even one of her in-and-out showers.

In seventeen minutes, people were going to start arriving, the buses carrying
them up from the parking area down on River Road to the top of the hill and Easterly’s grand front door.

“You look perfect.”

Glancing over to the doorway, she smiled at Lane. “You’re biased.”

Lane was dressed in a navy blue suit with a pale blue shirt and a coral-colored tie. His hair was still wet from his shower, and he smelled like the cologne he always wore.

Lizzie refocused on herself, smoothing the simple cotton sheath down. God, she felt like she was wearing someone else’s clothes, and jeez, she guessed she was. Hadn’t she borrowed this dress from her cousin a decade ago—also for a funeral? The thing had been laundered enough to fade out around the seams, but she’d had nothing else in her closet.

“I’d rather just be working this event,” she said.

“I know.”

“Do you think Chantal will come?”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

Lizzie wasn’t too sure about that. Lane’s soon-to-be-ex-wife was an attention grabber, and this was a prime opportunity for the woman to assert her retained relevance even though their marriage was no longer happening.

Lizzie fluffed her hair up and brought it around front. Which did nothing to help the kink.

Screw it, she thought. She was leaving it down.

“Are you ready?” she said as she went over to him. “You look worried. How can I help?”

“No, I’m fine.” He offered her his elbow. “Come on. Let’s do this.”

He led her out of his bedroom and into the corridor. As they came up to his mother’s suite of rooms, he slowed. Then stopped.

“Do you want to go in?” she asked. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

“No, I’ll leave her be.”

As they continued on to the grand staircase and began their descent, she felt like an imposter—until she sensed the tension in his arm and realized he was leaning on her.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he whispered when they got to the bottom.

“You
won’t have to,” she said quietly as they stepped off onto the marble floor. “I’m not going to leave your side.”

All around, waiters in black ties and jackets stood at the ready with silver trays, prepared to take drink orders. There were two bars set up, one in the dining room to the left, another in the front parlor to the right, with only Bradford Family Reserve, white wine, and soda available. Flowers that she had ordered and arranged were displayed prominently in each room, and there was an antique circular table centered in the entryway with a condolences book and a silver plate for receiving cards.