Out of respect for the passing of William Baldwine, everything was closed to nonessential personnel for the next week.

Or at least that was what senior management had said. More likely? The cost cutting wasn’t just stopping at the grain supply.

Eventually, Mack ended up in front of one of the three storage barns. The seven-floor, uninsulated wooden buildings housed hundreds of aging barrels of bourbon on heavy wooden racking systems, the temperature variants of the seasons setting the stage for the alchemy that happened as the alcohol dated, fell in love, and married the charred fibers of its temporary wooden home.

As he opened a paneled door, the handmade hinges creaked, and the rich, earthy scent that hit him as he stepped inside reminded him of his father. The interior was dark, the beams supporting the rows and rows of barrels rough cut and worn, the thin pathways that cut in between the stacked racks two boards wide and thirty feet long.

The center aisle was much broader and made of concrete, and he put his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he stalked deeper and deeper into the building.

“Lane, what are we doing here,” he asked out loud.

Bourbon required time. It wasn’t like making vodka, where you could just turn on a spigot and there you had it. If the company wanted something to sell seven years, ten years, twelve years from now? You had to keep the sills running now—

“Um … excuse me?”

Mack pivoted. Standing in the open doorway, with light streaming in behind her, a woman with an hourglass shape and long dark hair was like an apparition from some sexual fantasy. God … he could even smell her perfume or her soap or whatever it was on the fresh air passing by her body and blowing into the stacks.

She seemed equally surprised as she looked at him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in a low, unaccented voice. “I’m looking for Edwin MacAllan. I have an interview with him, but there’s nobody in the office—”

“You found me.”

There was a pause. “Oh.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just—anyway, my name is Beth. Beth Lewis. Do you, ah, do you want me to come back some other time?”

No, he thought as her hair caught the breeze and curled up off her shoulder.

Actually … I don’t want you to leave.

“I can’t reach Edward.”

As Lane strode across the business center’s reception area and into his father’s office, it was like walking into a room full of loaded guns pointed in his direction: His skin pricked in warning and his hands cranked into fists and he just wanted to turn around and beat feet out of there.

Then again, the place was eerie as hell. The dim security lighting from his power cut tinted everything with a grim portent, and the ghost of William Baldwine seemed to lurk in the shadows.

Lane had no clue why he’d come in here. The police were probably pulling up in front of Easterly right now.

He shook his head as he looked at the regal desk and the big carved chair that was like a throne. Everything about the pair was like a stage set from a Humphrey Bogart film: A crystal decanter full of bourbon. A silver tray of cut-crystal glasses. A picture of Little V.E. in a silver frame. A humidor with the Cubans his father had liked on the other corner by the Tiffany lamp. A pack of Dunhill cigarettes and a gold lighter next to a clean Cartier ashtray. No computer. No paperwork. And the phone was a high-tech afterthought, dwarfed by the lifestyle, the objet d’arrogance.

“This is only the second time I’ve been in this office,” he murmured toward Lizzie, who’d stayed by the door. “I never envied Edward.”

While she glanced around at the leather-bound books, and the diplomas, and the photographs of William with prominent national and international men, he found himself focusing on her: the way her hair, which had been blonded by the sun; her breasts as they filled out her black polo shirt; her long, muscled legs, which were showed off by those shorts.

Lust clawed into his gut.

“Lizzie—”

Jeff walked into the open doorway. “Okay, they’ve all left. The place is empty, and your lawyer’s gone back to the house to meet the police. Do you know how to change the code on that door? Because I would, if I were you.”

Lane blinked to clear the mental image of him shoving everything off the desk and putting Lizzie right up on it naked.

“Ah, I don’t, but we’ll figure it out.” Lane stretched his tight back. “Listen, can you give me a quick idea of exactly what you found at corporate?”

Jeff glanced around and didn’t seem particularly impressed by the grandeur. “On the surface, the transfers I flagged look like your garden-variety debt-service payments to various banks. But then there are these huge balloon payments—and that was what got me worried first. Tracing the money transfers, I discovered notations for something called WWB Holdings—which turned out to be William Wyatt Baldwine Holdings. I believe it’s a case of off-balance sheet financing that’s gone out of control, and if so, I’m confident it qualifies as embezzlement. Now, when I did some Internet searches and called in a favor at UBS, I couldn’t find anything anywhere on precisely what WWB Holdings is or where it’s located, but I’ll let you guess who was in charge of it.”

“Sonofabitch,” Lane muttered. “That’s where the household money went, too. WWB Holdings. So how much are we talking about?”

“Seventy-two million. So far.”

As Lizzie gasped, Lane shook his head. “Damn it.”

Lizzie spoke up. “Wait, what’s off-sheet balance—”

“Off-balance sheet financing.” Jeff rubbed his eyes like he had the same headache Lane did. “Basically, it’s when you leverage the assets of one company to secure debt for another. If the second entity fails, the bank or lender expects the first one to pay up. In this case? I’m willing to bet that the funds lent to WWB Holdings were embezzled and when the loan terms weren’t met, the Bradford Bourbon Company’s money was used to meet the obligations. It’s a way of stealing that’s a little less obvious than just writing yourself a corporate check and cashing it.”

“Over one hundred and forty million?” Lane crossed his arms over his chest as he was struck by a fury that made him want to trash the office. “That’s the total. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“And that seventy plus million is just transfers from the operations accounts through February. There are going to be more. There’s an escalating pattern to it all.” Jeff shrugged. “I’m telling you, Lane, it’s time to involve the FBI. This is too big for me to keep going—especially because I have to go back to New York. It’s been a helluva vacation, though.”