The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings Book 2) (40 page)

Lane ran the words back and forth in his head a couple of times just to make sure he had them right. “How are you managing that?”

Jeff checked his watch. “If you really want to know, get me a car at five o’clock. And not your kind of car—a nothing special. I’ll show you.”

“Deal. But yeah, wow.”

“And I’ve decided I want to invest in your little bourbon company.” The guy shrugged. “If there’s a federal investigation, with all that negative press? It’s going to slow sales in this moralistic, judge-everyone-and-everything Facebook and Twitter era. And what I need, if I’m going to turn the organization around, is time. Income from operations gives me time. An investigation takes away my time. And you’re right. Your family are the only shareholders. If the company is in debt, goes into bankruptcy, fails? Your father fucked you all, no one else.”

“I’m so glad you’re seeing things my way. But what about the two and a half million for the board members?”

Jeff put his hand in his pocket and held out a small, folded check. “Here it is.”

Lane took the thing and opened it up. Looked at his friend. “This is your account.”

“I told you, I’m investing in your business. Those are live funds, and I made it out directly to you so you can keep this incentive thing off the corporate books for now. Pay them privately.”

“I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“Wait for it. That part’s coming. I’ve finished my analysis and I’ve accounted for all the money—and the total diverted, including that loan from Prospect Trust to your personal household account, is one hundred seventy-three million, eight hundred and seventy-nine thousand,
five hundred and eleven dollars. And eighty-two cents. The eighty-two cents is the real kicker, of course.”

Shit. And that was in addition to the hundred million missing from his mother’s trust.

The magnitude of it all was so great, Lane’s body felt the impact even though the losses were a mental concept. But at least the final bottom had been found. “I was hoping … well, it is what it is.”

“I am prepared to come on board on an interim basis and sort everything out. I’m going to want to get rid of your senior management, all of them—”

“I read through their employment contracts last night. There’s a gag clause in every one of them. So we can fire them for not catching the improper diversion of funds, which is cause, and even if the news reports say something else is going on, there’s nothing they can say otherwise. Not unless they want some back-breaking penalties, and they won’t. Those bastards will be looking for jobs, and no one hires snitches.”

“They could go off the record.”

“I’d find that out. I promise you.”

Jeff nodded briefly. “Fair enough. My goal is to keep the trains running on time, keep the money coming in, steady the ship. ’Cuz right now, you might as well be in a hostile takeover for what morale has got to be like. And we don’t have the wiggle room for delays in shipments, account collections, product order processing. The employees are going to need positive motivation.”

“Amen to that.”

Lane turned away and started walking through the woods to the house.

“Where are you going?” Jeff called out.

“Back to my car.” Lane just kept going, some paranoia that Jeff would change his mind making him antsy. “You and I are going down to headquarters right now—”

“And in return, I want an annual salary of two point five million dollars—and one percent of the entire company.”

The
words were spoken like they were bombs being dropped, but Lane just swept the air with his hand as he continued to march out of the woods.

“Done,” he said over his shoulder.

Jeff grabbed ahold of Lane’s arm and spun him back around. “Did you hear what I said? One percent of the company.”

“Did you hear what I said? Done.”

Jeff shook his head and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “Lane. Your company, even in its dire straits, is probably worth three to four billion dollars if it were up for acquisition. I’m asking for between thirty and forty million here, depending on valuation. For an initial investment of two point five.”

“Jeff.” He echoed that strident tone. “Your money’s all I’ve got in this cesspool of debt and I don’t know how to run a company. You want one percent to be interim CEO? Fine. Dandy. Have fucking at it.”

When Lane started walking again, Jeff fell in step. “You know, if I’d had any idea you were going to be such a pushover, I’d have asked for three percent.”

“And I’d have paid you five.”

“Are we doing a scene from
Pretty Woman?”

“I don’t want to think like that, if you don’t mind. Hostile work environment. You could sue me. Oh, and there’s one more thing on our side.” They stepped out of the tree line and onto the manicured grass. “I’m having the board appoint me as chairman. That way it’ll be easier for the both of us to get the work done.”

“I like your style, Bradford.” Jeff nodded at the gun. “But I think we should leave that in the glove compartment. As your new CEO, I’d like to come in on a conciliatory note, if you don’t mind. The second amendment’s great and all, but there are some fundamental management techniques I’d like to try first.”

“No problem, boss. No problem at all.”

W
ith
a relieved sigh, Lizzie splashed cool water on her hot face. She was so glad to be out of the sun and up in the suite she was sharing with Lane, the dry AC’ed air wicking the sweat from her overheated body. It had been a long day working in the gardens, she and Greta attacking the beds around the pool with a stress-related gusto that was warranted, but ultimately useless except as it related to removing weeds. Neither of them had said anything about the visitation, nor had the subject of the engagement gotten much coverage.

Greta remained suspicious of Lane and nothing except time was going to change that.

Reaching blindly for a towel, she pushed the soft fibers into her forehead, cheeks and chin, and when she looked up, Lane was standing behind her.

Man, he looked good in that linen jacket and open-collared shirt, his aviators tucked into the breast pocket, his hair ruffled in a way that meant he’d been driving around with the top down. And he smelled of his cologne. Yummy.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said with a smile. “Come here.”

“I’m
stinky.”

“Never.”

Putting the towel aside, she went into his arms. “You actually look happy.”

“I’ve got some good news. But I also have an adventure for you.”

“Tell me, tell me—”

“How’d you like to go spying with me and Jeff?”

Lizzie laughed and stepped back. “Okay, not what I was expecting. But heck yeah. I’m down with espionage.”

Lane shrugged out of his jacket and disappeared into the closet. When he came back out, he had a golf visor, a U of C baseball cap, and a ski hat with earflaps.

“I’ll take what’s behind door number two,” she said, going for the cap.

Lane slapped that godforsaken ski-mare on his head. “We need to go in your truck, though.”

“No problem. As long as I’m not the one who has to look like Sasquatch.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

Lane struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other up in the air. “Maybe I can borrow one of my sister’s Derby hats?”

“Perfect, that’s
so
much less noticeable.”

She went into the closet and came back out. “There was this other Eagles hat right there.”

“Yeah, but I wanted you to think I was cute.”

Lizzie put her arms around his neck and leaned in to him. “I always think you’re cute. And sexy.”

As his hands moved down onto her waist, he growled. “Nowisnotthetime. Nowisnotthetime …”

“What?”

He kissed her deeply, holding her against his body even with the hats in his hands. And then he cursed and stepped back. “Jeff’s waiting.”

“Well, come on, then! Let’s go.”

It felt good to laugh, to be free, to see him look for once like the whole
weight of the world wasn’t on his shoulders. And yes, okay, maybe now he was sexually frustrated, but even that was kind of cheerful in a way.

“So what’s going on?” she asked as they went out into the corridor.

“Well, I’m just back from corporate headquarters, and …”

By the time they bottomed out in the foyer, she was doing a jaw drop. “So you’re making some progress. And you’re chairman of the board?”

“You’re with a man who actually has a job. For the first time in his life.”

As he put his palms up for high fives, she smacked ’em a good one. “You know, I loved you even when you were just a poker player.”

“The technical term is card shark. And yes, I realize it isn’t a paying gig”—he held a finger up—“but it’s going to involve a lot of work. And I even have an office downtown. Or here. Or whatever.”

“And now you’re a spy, too.”

“Double-oh Baldwine.” They walked over to his old roommate who was waiting by the door. “And here is the Jeff to my Mutt in crime. Or, well, not crime, exactly. Fiscal responsibility.”

Lizzie gave Jeff a quick hug. “So what are we doing, boys?”

Minutes later, they were crammed into the front seat of her Toyota truck, heading down Easterly’s hill on the staff road, all with the hats on. She was behind the wheel with Lane stuck in the middle on the hump, his head almost hitting the ceiling.

“Go to the bottom and hide around the last greenhouse facing out,” Lane said. “And hurry. It’s quarter of five already.”

“Who are we waiting for?”

Jeff spoke up from the far side. “If I’m right, the upstairs maid. Tiphanii.”

“What?” She twisted around. “You guys think she’s stealing the Charmin or something?”

“Not even close—”

“Wait, that’s her car!” Lizzie nodded to the rearview. “Behind us.”

“She’s leaving early,” Lane said with a curse. “Can I dock her fourteen minutes of pay?”

“As
someone who knows your financial situation?” Jeff nodded. “Yes, you really should.”

Lizzie shook her head. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to all this trouble just to see if she’s working till five?”

“Keep going,” Lane said. “And we’ll see which way she turns. We need to follow her.”

“Any idea where she’s going?” Lizzie came up to River Road. “Wait, I know what to do.”

Heading to the right, she took her sweet time accelerating—which with four hundred extra pounds of man in the cab was not just a strategy.

Lizzie whistled under her breath. “Perfect, she’s going to the left! Hold on, gentlemen.”

As the boys braced themselves, she sped up as quickly as she could, shot down a dirt lane and pulled a road cartwheel, the rear of the truck skidding around as she punched the brakes and wrenched the wheel. Someone got nailed a good one and cursed, but she was too busy shooting back out to River Road—so that Tiphanii’s little Saturn was now in the lead.

By the time they hit the light by the Shell station at Dorn Avenue, two cars had come between them. Tiphanii took a left and headed up the four-laner … and then stayed on it across Broadsboro Lane to Hilltop, the Halloween road, where the houses went all out during October. Over the railroad tracks and a right on Franklin, which was home to all kinds of little shops and cafés that were locally owned.

When Tiphanii parallel-parked four blocks up, Lizzie went by her, the three of them staring out the front windshield like absolutely nothing was doing—with their hats down low.

A trio of bobbleheads without the bobbling.

At the next light, she pitched an abrupt left through an orange signal and hurried down the alley behind the restaurants and shops. When she thought she’d gone far enough, she punched the brakes and lucked out by finding a spot right there.

“Let’s do this,” she clipped as she canned the engine and popped her door. “And get ready to say hi to the dogs.”

“What?” Jeff asked as he got out. “Dogs?”

Lane
gave her a salute when he was free of the cab. “Whatever she says, we’re gonna do.”

Lizzie led the way through an alley that was barely bigger than her shoulders. Just before she got to the end, she stopped short. “Oh, my God, there she is.”

Across Franklin Ave., Tiphanii got out of her beater and jogged through the traffic. In the shadows, Lizzie leaned forward a little so she could see where the woman was heading.

“Knew it. She’s going into Blue Dog. Come on.”

Lizzie jumped out into the pedestrians who were chilling their way down the sidewalk, and a mere fifteen feet later, she bent over an English bulldog who, she learned by the collar’s tag, was named Bicks. Meanwhile, Tiphanii was just inside the café, right in front of its plate-glass window.

She was shaking hands with a tall African-American woman.

“That’s the reporter I met with,” Lane said as he and Jeff clustered around Bicks. All three of them waved back at Bicks’s apparent owner, who was smiling and nodding at them from inside the consignment shop next door. “And yup, she’s giving her something. Some papers.”

Jeff nodded. “Bingo.”

“What’s the paperwork?” Lizzie asked.