by J. R. Ward
"I agree." He kissed her again. "One hundred percent."
"But I'll figure it out. I'll go through everything and then let you know where we are. I don't know where we can find the cash--"
"Actually, I do. I'll take care of it first thing in the morning before Lenghe comes."
"Lenghe?"
"Yeah. I'm playing some high stakes poker tomorrow night. And before you say that's crazy, I'll remind you that I have to work with what I got--and it ain't much."
"Who's Lenghe--how do you say it?"
"Lang-ee. And we call him the Grain God--and that's self-explanatory. You're really going to like him. He's right up your alley, a good soul who loves the land. And remember, I played poker in college and afterward. It's my only skill."
She put her arms around his neck. "I think you've got a couple of others--"
"Am I interrupting anything?"
Lane pivoted the chair toward the door, and thought it was so damned appropriate that Merrimack picked that moment to make an appearance. "You guys finished in there, Detective?"
Annnnnd there was the smile. "Getting there. Ma'am, it's nice to see you again."
Lizzie got to her feet, but stayed by Lane. "You, too."
"Well, I thought you'd like to know that I'm removing the seal on the controller's office." Merrimack smiled. "We have everything we need from there."
"Good," Lane said.
"We were wondering about that," Lizzie murmured.
"Were you? What a coincidence." The detective got a little pad out. "Now, I'd like a list of people who have access to the security sector of the computer network. Do you know who has that information?"
"Not a clue." Lane shrugged. "I'm happy to ask the IT department at corporate. Maybe they know."
"Or maybe your brother Edward knows."
"Perhaps."
"Tell me something, did he play a role in installation of the security programs?"
"I don't know." Okay, that was a lie. "Why?"
"You don't know whether he did or he didn't?"
"I haven't been much involved with this household or the business until recently. So I can't really tell you."
"Okay." The detective clapped the pad against his open palm. "I think I'll just call your brother directly, then."
"He doesn't have a cell phone. But I can give him a message to get in touch with you."
"No need. I know where he lives." The detective looked around. "Sure is impressive in here."
"It is."
"You must miss your father."
Anyone who was fooled by this casual, Columbo-esque routine was an idiot, Lane thought.
"Oh, of course. I miss him to distraction."
"Father and son. It's a special bond."
"Yes."
There was a pause, and when Lane didn't take things paternal any further than that, Merrimack smiled again. "I heard your brother Max is home again. That's kind of a surprise. It's been a while since he's been to Easterly, hasn't it."
"Yes."
"But he's been in Charlemont for a number of days." As Lane frowned, the detective lifted a brow. "You didn't know that? Really? Well, I've got a couple of witnesses who say he and Edward were together. The afternoon of the day your father died. Did you know about the two of them meeting up?"
Lane felt a curse shoot up his throat, but he kept it to himself by force of will. "That's putting me on the spot, you realize."
"Is it? It's just a simple question."
"No offense, Detective, but you're conducting a homicide investigation. There are no simple questions coming from you."
"Not as long as you're telling the truth and not trying to protect someone. Are you protecting someone, Mr. Baldwine? Or do you have something yourself that you're hiding? Because we've got a lot of information that's working for me. I strongly encourage you to be as open and honest as possible."
"Are you saying I'm a suspect?"
"If you were, I'd be talking to you downtown. And we're not there yet, are we." Smile. "I am curious, though, as to whether you were aware that your two brothers met up."
Lane breathed deep in his belly, refusing to give in to the urge to leap up, run down to the cottage where Max was camping out, and beat the shit out of the guy until he found out what the hell was going on.
The detective smiled again. "Well, I guess it's pretty clear you didn't know about that. The witnesses say it was just the two of them alone. They were spotted on the Indiana side of the river. Below the falls. Right by where your father's body was found, actually."
Lane smiled back. "Maybe they were just enjoying the view of the river."
"Or maybe they were talking about what might happen to a body if it got dropped off the Big Five Bridge." Merrimack shrugged. "Or perhaps it could have been the view. You're right."
*
"Where have you been?"
As Gin entered her bedroom suite, she was not surprised to find Richard sitting in one of her white silk chairs, his face twisted in a rage, his lanky arms and legs twitching as if her being out on her own at night was a personal affront to him.
Like someone slashing his tires. Spray-painting graffiti all over his office. Lighting a Bible on fire in front of him.
Closing the door, she waited for the usual mania she felt around him to put gas in her veins. She braced herself for the high-octane rush of crazy, the one that helped her through these situations. She got ready for the cutting words that came to her mind from out of nowhere, and that sly, bitchy smile to hit her face.
None of it materialized.
Instead, she experienced a crushing weight settling all over her body, to the point that, even as he burst up from the chair and came across the white rug at her, she couldn't move. It wasn't because she was scared of him--at least, she didn't think that was what was happening. Rather, her body had turned into a numb block . . . while her consciousness sailed above the immovable stone of her flesh.
She watched from somewhere over her right shoulder as he ranted and raved, grabbed her arm, shook her, threw her onto the bed.
Hovering over herself, she played witness to what happened next, feeling nothing, doing nothing . . . even seeing the back of his head, his shoulders, and his legs from her lofty vantage point as he tore at her clothes and pulled at her limbs.
Underneath her body, the duvet was getting so messy, the former order ruined, the fine Egyptian cotton wrinkling up as he sweated on top of her.
Gin focused mostly on her own face. The features were quite beautiful. The eyes, however, were totally vacant, with all the inner light and life as a pair of cobblestones. The composure was admirable, she supposed. Lying back and thinking of England, or something.
Bergdorf's, was it Samuel had said?
When Richard was done, he sagged and then removed himself. And Gin's body just lay there as he said some more things. Then he turned on his heel and left with his chin up, like a boy who had successfully defended his sandbox from the older kids and now was content to leave it be as the dominance had been the thing for him, not the particular possession.
After a while, Floating Gin came down from above the bed and sat beside Real Gin. She didn't want to go back in her body yet, though. It was better to be apart from it all. Easier . . .
As she had a passing thought that she should cover up, Real Gin's arm moved and pulled the duvet over their lower body.
In the stillness, Gin reflected that maybe she deserved what she got. She had treated everyone around her with derision, deliberately and knowingly flaunted every rule there was, been judgmental and cruel for sport, led the mean girls' club in every grade, camp and school she'd ever been in--and now that all the classrooms and gathering of degrees was in the rearview mirror, she was at the forefront of the catty women of leisure.
Well, at least that had been the case.
Given the crushing numbers of people who had not showed up at her father's visitation? And the fact that Tammy wouldn't come anymore? She had clearly bee
n demoted.
So maybe this was karma.
Maybe this was what happened when you threw bad energy out into the world. Maybe this was the tsunami of what she'd done to others coming back to crash on her shoreline.
Then again . . . maybe she had simply married an asshole for all the wrong reasons and Richard was a sadistic rapist and victims were never to blame--and it was up to her to be clear-eyed and courageous and end this before he killed her.
Because that was where they were headed: She had seen Richard's eyes get excited like a hunter's did. He wasn't going to be satisfied over time with the level of violence they were currently at. He was going to keep pushing it because he got off on the hurting and the subjugation--but only if it had a fresh edge to make things really sizzle for him.
He'd learned to bully at the feet of masters. And now he was getting off on being the one doing the intimidation.
Maybe she should just kill him first?
That was her last thought as sleep claimed both parts of her, her body and her soul, the blanket of unconsciousness easing the traffic jam in her head: Yes, maybe the way out was just to get rid of him.
And not in an annulment kind of way.
FORTY-FOUR
The following morning, Lane left Lizzie asleep in their big bed at Easterly as he took a quick shower and got dressed. Before he left, he spent a moment watching her in her slumber and thinking that he'd so picked the right woman.
And then he was on his way, striding down the corridor, descending the front stairs, leaving out the main entrance.
The Porsche came awake at the turn of the key, and he sped down to the bottom of the hill, taking a left and going to the Shell station. A large coffee and a cardboard breakfast sandwich later and he was heading to the local branch of the bank, going around bicyclists, getting stuck behind a school bus, cursing as a minivan full of kids nearly wiped him out.
Then again, that might have been his fault. He hadn't slept well and the coffee hadn't properly kicked in yet.
What the hell had his two brothers been doing on that shoreline? And why had that shit not come up in conversation?
Because they had something to hide. Duh.
After Detective Merrimack and Pete the Geek had finally left the business center, Lane had had the impulse to drive out to the Red & Black, but he wasn't sure whether Team CMP was going to head that way themselves. After all, Edward rarely answered that phone for anybody, and the detective had the focus and follow-through of a bloodhound on a scent.
The last thing Lane wanted was to appear confrontational in front of a peanut gallery of police--and he was sure as hell ready to do some hot stepping all over both of his brothers.
In the end, he and Lizzie had stayed on the estate, making love in the pool house again and then upstairs in the tub . . . and in the bed.
Great stress relief. Even if it didn't change what was going on.
Pulling into the bank's parking lot, he found an empty space and realized he'd picked the same one he'd used before when he'd first found out there were problems.
He almost backed up to leave the car somewhere else.
Recognizing that magical thinking wasn't going to help, he got out and left the top down even though the sky was heavy with rain not yet fallen and the weatherman was calling for a tornado watch. That was the thing with Kentucky. There was no seasonal weather: You could start the morning off in shorts and a T-shirt, need your torrential rain gear at noon, and end the afternoon with a parka and snow boots.
As his phone rang, he took it out of the pocket of the linen jacket he'd worn the day before. When he saw who it was, he almost let it go into voice mail.
With a curse, he accepted the call and said, "I'm getting you the money."
Even though he had no clue how.
Ricardo Monteverdi's panties were back in a wad, the ten-million-dollar cash injection thanks to Sutton having bought fewer days of peace than Lane remembered bargaining for. The man was once again pulling the whole we're-out-of-time, save-my-ass-before-I-ruin-your-family thing, and as he droned on, Lane measured the sky once more.
Lenghe's jet was due to arrive in forty-five minutes--and if it wasn't on time, it was going to get delayed for hours and hours.
"Gotta go," Lane said. "I'll be in touch."
Hanging up, he waited for an SUV to pass and then strode over to the double doors. The local branch of PNC was your standard-issue glass-fronted, single-story box, and as he walked in, that attractive blond manager came forward to greet him.
"Mr. Baldwine, how nice to see you again."
He shook her hand and smiled. "Mind if we talk for a minute?"
"But of course. Come inside."
He went into her office and sat down in the chair for customers. "So my father has died."
"I know," she said as she took a seat on the other side of her desk. "I'm so sorry."
"I'm not going to mess around with--thank you, thank you for that. Anyway, I'm not going to mess around with trying to shift signatories on the household account. I want to open a new one, and I'm going to wire three hundred thousand dollars into it ASAP. We're going to have to transfer the automatic payments for all Easterly employees over to the new account effective immediately, and I need a list of anyone whose salaries pinged the old one and bounced. It's a big mess, but I want to take care of everything today, even if the funds aren't live until Monday."
Lizzie was going to work with Greta to get a handle on the staffing this morning, and hopefully they could sort everything out and get people transitioning off the payroll immediately. The faster they could cut employees, the fewer expenses they were going to need to cover.
"But of course, Mr. Baldwine." The manager began typing on her keyboard. "I'll need some identification, and tell me, where are the funds coming from?"
From out of nowhere, he heard Jeff's voice in his head: I'm investing in your little bourbon company.
Hell, if his friend could write a check, so could he. And there were more funds he could pull from his trust if he had to, but he was going to have to start selling stock after this. The key was making sure he kept Easterly's roof over his mother's head, the skeleton crew they were going to retain on the estate paid, food in the pantry, and the electricity and the running water on. Oh, and Sutton Smythe's mortgage payments needed to be covered, too.
After that? Everything was nonessential until they got this all worked out.
As he handed over his driver's license and his account number at J. P. Morgan, she smiled. "Very well, Mr. Baldwine. I'll be happy to take care of this for you right away."
Lane left the bank about twenty minutes later. He'd signed everything he had to, initiated the transfer, and called Lizzie to give her the update. Sorting through the direct deposits was going to be a thing, and Lizzie was going to let the bank manager know who was staying on and who was getting let go--
Lane stopped in the middle of the parking lot.
Standing right next to his car, with a mountain bike by his side and a way-too-old look on his face . . . was Rosalinda Freeland's son.
*
Lizzie ended her call with Lane and took a seat in the first chair in the controller's office that caught her eye. It wasn't until she put her hands on the padded arms and leaned back . . . that she realized it was the armchair Rosalinda Freeland had been found dead in.
Bursting back up to her feet, she brushed at the seat of her pants even though the slipcover had been removed and the pillows cleaned.
"So what do you think?" she asked Greta.
The German looked up from the laptop on Rosalinda's old desk. Like the rest of the office, which was as cheerful and light-filled as a gopher hole, the desk was free of non-functionals, nothing but a lamp, a pen holder full of blue Bics, and an in-box on the blotter.
Likewise, there had been no personal effects to remove after the passing. And not because the woman had emptied the place of them prior to the tragedy.
"She kept very go
od records, ja." Behind a set of bright pink, round-as-bubbles reading glasses, pale blue eyes were alert and focused. "Come see. Iz all the goods."
Lizzie went around and peered over her partner's shoulder. There was a chart on the laptop screen of names, contact information, hourly rates, and bonuses. Scrolling to the left, Greta was able to show everything that had been paid out to anyone for the previous five years, month by month.
"Very good. This is very good." Greta removed her glasses and sat back. "I call out names, you tell me what we do vis them."
"How many people are there?"
Greta reached out to the mouse and scrolled. Scrolled. Scrolled.
Annnnnnnd scrolled.
And still with the scrolling.
"Seventy-sree. No. Seventy-two."
"Wow. Okay, let's go through them one by one." Lizzie grabbed a white pad that had EASTERLY embossed across the top and then snagged one of the Bics. "I'll take notes."
Greta held up her hand. "I will stop. Taking salary, that is. Put me down, top of zee list."
"Greta, listen--"
"No, Jack and I have no need for me to work. My kids, they're gone, they're on their own. I had the salary because I deserved it and I still do. But right now?" Greta pointed to the screen. "These are in need of money more. I still work, though. What else would I do?"
Lizzie took a deep breath. With her having paid off her farm, she had decided to stop accepting money for the short term as well, but that felt different.
This was her family now.
"We'll pay you," she said, "in arrears when we can."
"If that makes you feel better."
Lizzie put out her palm to shake on it. "It's the only way I'll agree."
When Greta reached forward, her large diamond ring flashed, and Lizzie shook her head. Her partner was probably the only horticulturist in the country who was almost as wealthy as the estates she "worked" for. But the woman was constitutionally incapable of not being busy at something.
She was also, aside from Lane, Lizzie's source of sanity.
"I don't know how long it's going to take," Lizzie said as they clasped hands. "It could be--"
"Where's your butler?"
At the sound of an all-too-familiar female voice, Lizzie looked up.
And promptly let out a string of curses in her head: Standing in the doorway, looking like she owned the place, was Lane's ex-wife. Make that almost ex-wife.
