The Angels' Share (The Bourbon Kings #2) - J. R. Ward Page 0,68
for me.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s understandable.” Smile. “Let me ask you something. What kind of car do you drive?”
Edward shrugged. “I don’t, really. My Porsche is back at Easterly. It’s a stick shift, so it’s not really all that practical anymore.”
“When was the last time you were back home?”
“That isn’t my home anymore. I live here.”
“Fine, when were you last at Easterly?”
Edward thought back to him and Lane getting into the business center so that those financial records could see the light of day. Technically, it hadn’t been breaking and entering, but Edward sure as hell wouldn’t have been welcomed there. And yes, he had stolen corporate information.
Then he had had that moment with Miss Aurora, the woman wrapping her arms around him and breaking him up on the inside.
Lot of security cameras at Easterly. Outside and inside the house. Inside the business center.
“I was there a couple of days ago. To see my brother Lane.”
“And what did you do while you were there?”
“Talked to him.” Used a back door into the network to extract information. Watched his father make a deal with Sutton. After the bastard hit on her. “We just caught up.”
“Hmm.” Smile. “Did you borrow one of the other cars? I mean, your family has a lot of different cars, don’t they?”
“No.”
“They don’t? Because when I was there yesterday, I saw a big bank of garage doors out in back. Right across from the business center where your father worked.”
“No, as in I didn’t take any of the other cars out.”
“The keys to those vehicles are in the garage, right? In a lockbox with a combination.”
“I guess so.”
“Do you know the combination, Mr. Baldwine?”
“If I did, I’ve forgotten it.”
“That happens. People forget pass codes and passwords all the time, don’t they. Tell me something, are you aware of anyone who might have held a grudge against your father? Or wanted to harm him? Maybe had a reason to get revenge against him?”
“It’s a long list.”
“Is it?”
“My father had a habit of not ingratiating himself to others.”
“Can you give me any specific examples?”
“Anyone he’s ever dealt with on a personal or professional level. How’s that.”
“Fractious, indeed. You said your father was healthy, in comparison to yourself. But were you aware of any illnesses he might have had?”
“My father believed real men did not get sick.”
“Okay.” The pad got shut without the detective having written anything in it. “Well, if you can think of anything that will help us, you can call me here. Either one of you.”
Edward accepted the business card that was held out to him. There was a gold seal in the center, the same one that was on the detective’s shirt. And Merrimack’s name and various numbers and addresses were printed around it as if it were the sun.
At the bottom, there was the phrase “To Protect and Serve” in cursive writing.
“So you think he was murdered?” Edward said.
“Do you?” Merrimack gave a card to Shelby. “What do you think, Mr. Baldwine?”
“I don’t have an opinion one way or the other.”
He wanted to ask if he was a suspect, but he already knew that answer. And Merrimack was keeping his cards close to his chest.
Smile. “Well. Nice to meet you both. You know where to find me—and I know where to find you.”
“The pleasure was all my mine.”
Edward watched the detective saunter out into the bright light of the early afternoon. Then he waited a little longer as an unmarked police car proceeded down the main lane and out to the road beyond.
“You weren’t with me,” Edward murmured.
“Does it matter?”
“Unfortunately … it does.”
TWENTY-TWO
At least his father’s attorney wasn’t late.
As Lane checked his Piaget, it was four forty-five on the dot when Mr. Harris brought the venerable Babcock Jefferson into Easterly’s main parlor.
“Greetings, Mr. Jefferson,” Lane said as he got to his feet. “Good of you to come.”
“Lane. My condolences.”
William Baldwine’s executor was dressed in a navy blue suit with a red and blue bow tie and a crisp white kerchief in his breast pocket. He was a sixty-something, wealthy version of a good ol’ boy, his jowls protruding over the collar of his formal shirt, the scent of Cuban cigars and Bay Rum aftershave preceding him as he came across to shake hands.
Samuel T. rose from the other sofa. “Mr. Jefferson. I am here in the capacity of Lane’s attorney.”
“Samuel T. How’s your father?”
“Very well.”
“Give him my best. And anyone is welcome here upon the invitation of the family.”