by J. R. Ward
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."
*
Lane 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 Drophead.
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 getups 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 . . .
THIRTY-EIGHT
While 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 wa
s 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."
*
As 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."
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."
THIRTY-NINE
With 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."
