When his phone rang, it was like an electric shock nailing him in the ass. Then again, lately that ringing sound was like a tornado siren going off: nothing but bad news, with the only question being what was in the path of destruction.

As he answered, Deputy Ramsey’s ocean-deep drawl came over the connection. “You should have the remains in about forty-eight hours at the latest. Even with what was found, the medical examiner has done what she needs to.”

“Thank you. Anything surprising in the preliminary report?”

“They were going to sneak me a copy. As soon as I know anything I’ll be in touch.”

“Homicide left about a half hour ago. They think someone murdered my father, don’t they? The detectives wouldn’t give me anything to go on, but I mean, it was my father’s fucking ring—”

As Miss Aurora cleared her throat sharply, he winced. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“What?” Ramsey said.

“My momma’s here.” Ramsey let out an “uh-huh,” as if he knew exactly what was up with dropping an f-bomb in front of Miss Aurora Toms. “I mean, Detective Merrimack said he was going to be interviewing people. How long until they have an idea of what happened?”

“No telling.” There was a pause. “Do you know of anyone who might have killed him?”

Yes. “No.”

“Not even any suspicions?”

“You sound like that detective.”

“Sorry, occupational hazard. So are you aware of anybody who had a motive?”

“You know what my father was like. He had enemies everywhere.”

“It’s pretty personal, though, cutting off that ring. Burying it in front of the house.”

Under his mother’s bedroom window, no less. But Lane wasn’t going to go into that.

“There were plenty of businesspeople who hated him, too.” God, that sounded defensive. “And he owed people money, Mitch. Big money.”

“So why didn’t they keep the ring and hock it? Lot of gold.”

Lane opened his mouth. Then shut it. “I think we’re getting off track.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s just say that I’ve protected members of your family before. And nothing is going to change that.”

Lane closed his eyes, thinking about Edward. “How am I ever going to repay you?”

“I’m the one paying a debt back. But now’s not the time for that. And there’s another reason I called. Rosalinda Freeland’s remains were picked up today.”

Lane pushed his plate away. “By her mother?”

“By her son. He just turned eighteen so it was legal.”

“And?”

There was another pause, longer this time. “I was there when he came in. Have you seen him?”

“I’m not sure I was even aware she had a kid.”

“His photograph is going to be on the front page tomorrow.”

“Why? I mean, other than the fact that his mother committed suicide right before my father’s body was found.”

“Yeah, I’m going to send you a picture after we hang up. I’ll call you later.”

As Lane ended the connection, he looked across at Miss Aurora. “You know Mitch Ramsey, don’t you?”

“I do, yes. All his life. And if he wants to tell you why, he will. That’s his business, not mine.”

Lane put the cell phone down on the table and dropped the subject—because like there was another option? Glancing at Lizzie, he said, “Do you think there’s any way we can do the visitation here on Thursday?”

“Absolutely.” Lizzie nodded. “The gardens and grounds are in great shape from the Derby Brunch. Everything else is easy to do on a short turnaround. What are you thinking?”

“Four to seven p.m. on Thursday night. We can keep the burial private and do it on Friday or Saturday. But I want to get that visitation out of the way.”

Miss Aurora leaned across and pushed his plate back in front of him. “Eat.”

He didn’t get a chance to. Before he could start arguing, Mr. Harris, the butler, opened the door. “Mr. Baldwine, you have a guest in the front parlor. I gather he is not expected, but he is refusing to leave.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. Monteverdi of the Prospect Trust Company.”

Lane got to his feet and took his cell phone and his plate with him. “I’m coming right now.”

Miss Aurora scooped the plate out of his hands. “And this will be waiting for you when you’re finished. You don’t eat in that part of the house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dropping a kiss on Lizzie’s mouth, Lane headed out, striding through the stark hallway that led past Mr. Harris’s suite of rooms, Rosalinda Freeland’s office—where she had killed herself—and one of the mansion’s three laundry rooms. He was pushing his way out into the formal public rooms when his phone went off with a text.

As he continued across the black-and-white marble floor of the foyer, he put his password in and was just at the archway into the parlor when the image Mitch Ramsey had sent him came up.

Lane stopped dead.

He couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

The son who had claimed Rosalinda’s body … could have been his own twin.

THIRTEEN

Printed spreadsheets everywhere. Multiple laptops with Excel files around him in a semi-circle. Yellow legal pads covered with black chicken scratchings.

For Jeff Stern, all this was business as usual. As a Wall Street investment banker, he made his bread and butter crunching numbers and finding patterns and holes in corporate financial disclosure documents. He was a master at precisely the kind of obsessive, detail-orientated, mind-numbing work required to create sense and concrete out of the oft-times deliberate obstruction and oily, creative accounting techniques used to value large multi-national companies.

“I’m here to refresh your bathroom.”

What he was not used to when he was working was a twenty-something blonde in a maid’s uniform standing in the doorway of the Four Seasons–worthy bedroom suite that was serving as his office.

Well, at least not a woman that some misogynist a-hole in the cesspool he worked in hadn’t ordered up from an escort service.