The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (39 page)

He recoiled at that, his thin neck flexing in a way that reminded her of a horse who had been starved. “Have you no shame?”

“Nope.”

“Virginia Elizabeth—”

“Even my father never called me that.” A Porsche sped by in the breakdown lane, and as it shot past all the stagnating traffic, she realized it was her brother. “Not that I would have found it persuasive if he had.”

“This is boilerplate, you know. And if you’re not familiar with the term, that means it’s very simple. You keep everything that is yours going into the marriage. I keep everything that is mine. And never the twain shall meet or mix.”

“Simple, really? Is that why it’s the size of
War and Peace
?” She glanced over at him. “And if it was so simple, why didn’t you give me a chance to read it and review it with a lawyer first?”

Like
Samuel T., for instance. Although she could guess how that would go.

“You don’t need to concern yourself with legal jargon.”

“Don’t I? You might be interested to discover that I’ve already researched divorce law, and you want to know what I learned?”

“Gin, seriously—”

“I learned that I’m going to be very faithful to you.” As he recoiled again, she muttered, “You know, I really should be offended by your surprise. But before you get too excited that I’m respecting you in some way, I’ve learned that whereas Kentucky is a no-fault state for divorce grounds, evidence of infidelity can be used to reduce spousal support. So those two pilots I fucked the other night are my last forays into infidelity. I will be an honorable wife to you and I encourage you to have me trailed and photographed. Bug my bedroom, my cars, my closet, my underwear. I will give you no opportunity to find fault with me.”

She leaned in. “How’s that for legal jargon? And you’re not going to turn this car around because here’s the truth—I’m not signing it, and we’re still getting married. Your entire life, you’ve created nothing. You’ve done nothing that’s your own. You have no respect given to you on your merits, only on your inheritance. You’re going to marry me because then you can hold your head up high at cocktail parties and galas. After all, you are still that kid no one picked for teams in elementary school, but you can be the one to tame the great Gin Baldwine. And that will be worth more to your ego than anything I can ever take from your bank account.” She smiled sweetly. “So you can take your twelve-pound boilerplate and blow it out your ass, darling.”

As his eyes flared with pure murder, she resumed her perusal of the Ohio River. She knew damn well what was coming in her direction when he got home from work later tonight, but in her own way, she was itching to fight it out.

And she was also right.

“Oh, and something else to consider,” she murmured as there was the sound of the paperwork getting put back in his briefcase. “Spousal abuse isn’t going to play well in divorce court, any more than being a whore does. You
know, all things considered, it’s a wonder the pair of us don’t get along better.”

L
ane sped along, passing by the line-up of traffic that had bottlenecked going into town on spaghetti junction. At one point, out of the corner of his eyes, he was sure he saw the family Drop-head.

No doubt Gin and Richard on the nuptial express.

She was crazy to be marrying that fool, but good luck trying to talk her out of anything. With his sister, criticism merely put a bull’s-eye on whatever it was you were suggesting wasn’t such a hot idea. Besides, as usual, he had other things to worry about.

The parking garage he was looking for was on the corner of Mohammad Ali and Second Street, and he ditched the 911 in the first spot that wasn’t whittled down on both sides by idiots in SUVs who couldn’t park straight.

Funny, usually he did the defensive parking thing because he wanted to protect his paint job on principle. Now? He didn’t want to have to pay to repair any chips and dents.

Or make any insurance claims that might raise his rates.

And speaking of insurance …

Back during the night, when he hadn’t been able to sleep, he’d gone downstairs and over to the business center where he’d let his fingers do the walking in the file room. And there, nestled in between senior management’s employment contracts—all of which he’d pulled—and the original corporate bylaws—all of which he’d read, with subsequent amendments—as well as a top secret HR file that contained some shocking nuggets of bad behavior … there was his father’s corporate life insurance policy.

After he’d read through it three times, he’d called the office who had sold the policy and scheduled this happy little confab.

Some things you wanted to do in person.

The Englishman, Battle & Castelson Insurance Company was located on the thirty-second floor of the old National Charlemont Building, and
as he stepped out of the elevator at its lofty perch, he found he had an entirely new appreciation for the view.

Considering that he now knew what free falling was actually like.

Ten minutes later, he was in a conference room with a Coke, waiting for—

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Robert Englishman, of the Englishman part of the name, came in with a legal pad, a smile, and an air of professionalism. “It’s been a crazy morning.”

Tell me about it, Lane thought.

Shaking hands. And then there was some conversation of the condolences, catch-up variety. Lane didn’t know Englishman very well, but they were the same age, and Lane had always liked him whenever they’d run across each other’s paths socially. Robert was the kind of guy who wore golf shorts with whales stitched on them and pink seersucker suits for Derby and perfectly pressed Brooks Brothers navy-and-club-tie get-ups to work—and, no matter what he had on, always seem poised to ride off in a Hacker Craft from the thirties. To a party where Hemingway was stopping. And Fitzgerald was getting drunk in the corner with Zelda.

He was old school meets new school, WASPy without the condescension and prejudice, classically handsome as a Polo Ralph Lauren ad yet down to earth as a sitcom father.

As the pleasantries died off, Lane pushed the glass of fizz to the side and took the folded documents out of the breast pocket of his linen jacket. “I thought I might come down here and talk to you about this.”

Robert took the pages. “Which policy is it?”

“My father’s through the Bradford Bourbon Company. I’m a beneficiary along with my brother and sister.”

With a frown, the man started to review the terms.

“Contrary to news reports,” Lane interrupted, “we believe he may have been murdered. I know that there is a clause excluding payment in the event of suicide by the policyholder, but it’s my understanding that provided any beneficiary is not found to be the—”

“I’m so sorry, Lane.” Robert closed the documents and put his hand on them. “But this policy was canceled for nonpayment about six months
ago. We tried repeatedly to get in touch with your father, but he never returned our calls or responded to our inquiries. MassMutual let it go—and it was a key man term policy. There was no equity building up in it.”

As Lane’s phone went off, he thought, well, there was seventy-five million down the drain.

“Is there something else we can help you with?”

“Were there any other policies? Personal ones, maybe? I only found this because I went through the corporate files. My father was fairly closemouthed about his affairs.”

Personal and professional.

“There were two personal ones. One was a term life, much smaller than this one.” Robert tapped the documents again. “But he didn’t act on the renewal when it came up a couple of months ago.”

Of course, Lane thought. Because he couldn’t have passed the physical, and he’d known that.

“And the other?” he prompted.

Robert cleared his throat. “Well, the other one was to benefit a third party. And that third party has come forward. I’m afraid I can’t disclose to you their identity or any information about the policy because you are not incidental to it.”

Lane’s phone rang again. And for a split second, he wanted to throw the thing at the bank of glass windows across the table.

“I totally understand,” he said as he took the document, refolded it, and put it back in his inner pocket. “Thank you for your time.”

“I really wish I could be more helpful.” Robert got to his feet. “I swear, I tried to get your father to act, but he just wouldn’t. Even though he knew it would have been to the benefit of his family.”

The story of the guy’s life.

Oh, Father, Lane thought. If you weren’t already dead …

W
hile
Lane was downtown checking into the insurance policy issue, trying to drum up some money, Jeff was waiting for the guy’s hopefully triumphant return out front at Easterly, the sun on his face, the stone steps under his ass functioning very nicely as bun warmers. Just as he was beginning to think about the merits of Coppertone, he heard the Porsche’s engine at the base of the hill. Moments later, Lane tooled to a stop and got out.

Jeff didn’t bother asking. He could read that face. “So it’s a no-go.”

“Nothing.”

“Damn it.” Jeff rose to his feet and brushed at the seat of his pants. “Listen, we need to talk.”

“Can you give me one minute?” When Jeff nodded, the guy said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

A minute and a half later, Lane re-emerged from the mansion. “Come with me.”

Jeff frowned. “Is that a hammer?”

“Yup, and a nail.”

“You’re going to fix something? No offense, but you’re not exactly
the handyman type. I should know. I’m not, either, and I’ve also lived with you for how long?”

Lane went back to his car and leaned over the passenger-side door. Springing the glove box, he—

“Wait, is that a gun?” Jeff demanded.

“Yup. Boy, you’re observant. Come on.”

“Where are we going? And will I be walking on my own at the end of this?”

Lane headed across the courtyard, but not in any direction that made sense. Unless you were going out into the woods. To shoot an old roommate of yours.

“Lane, I asked you a question.” But Jeff followed before he got an answer. “Lane.”

“Of course you’ll be walking.”

“I’m really not interested in becoming your Big Pussy.”

“That makes two of us.”

As Lane breached the tree line and continued on, going deeper into the maples and oaks, Jeff stayed with the guy because he just wanted to know what the fuck he was doing.

Another fifty yards or so in, Lane finally stopped and looked around. “This’ll do.”

“If you turn on me and ask me to start digging my own grave with my hands? Then our relationship really is over.”

But Lane just went over to a tree that was dead, its skeletal branches and partially hollow trunk at odds with the verdant everything-else-that-was-around. Putting the handgun in the outer pocket of his linen suit jacket, he took out a sheaf of papers … and nailed them to the rotting bark.

Then he walked back to where Jeff had come to a halt, put two fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle so shrill, Jeff’s third-great-grandmother heard it in her grave. Up in New Jersey.

“Fore!” the guy yelled.

“Isn’t that for golf—”

Pop! Pop! Poppoppoppoppopop!

Lane
was an excellent shot, the bullets shredding the paperwork into a flurry of white pieces that fell to the decaying leaves and bright green undergrowth.

When that gun muzzle was finally lowered, Jeff looked over. “Man, you Southern fruit loops with your NRA. Just out of curiosity, what was that?”

“My father’s seventy-five-million-dollar key man term life insurance policy through MassMutual. Turns out he stopped paying the premiums so it woke up dead.”

“Okay. Good to know. FYI, most people would merely throw the thing out. Just sayin’.”

“Yeah, but this was so much more satisfying, and I’ve about had it with bad news.” Lane turned around. “So you wanted to tell me something?”

“You got any more bullets in that thing?”

“Nope. Emptied the clip.”

Lane pulled some fancy moves with the gun and produced some kind of slide-thingy that, yup, appeared to be empty. Not that Jeff would know what any of it was.

“So?” Lane prompted.

“I’ve decided to accept your little job offer, John Wayne.”

A
s his old college roommate said the magic words, Lane’s sense of relief was so great, he closed his eyes and sagged. “Thank you, sweet Jesus—”

“And I found you two point five million dollars—”

Lane pulled a snatch and grab on his old friend, dragging Jeff in for a hard embrace. Then he shoved the guy back. “I knew if I waited long enough, there had to be some good news coming. I
knew
it.”

“Well, don’t get too excited.” Jeff stepped back. “There are conditions.”

“Name them. Whatever they are.”

“Number one, I’ve fixed the news leak.”

Lane
blinked. “What?”

“Tomorrow morning you’ll be reading in the paper that what looked like improperly diverted funds were actually part of a diversification project sanctioned by the chief executive officer, William Baldwine. The projects have failed, but poor business decisions are not illegal in a privately held corporation.”