“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.”

“Mr. Jefferson,” Lane spoke up. “This is my fiancée, Lizzie King.”

Annnnd that pretty much hit pause for everybody in the room: Gin rolled her eyes, Samuel T. smiled, and Mr. Jefferson bowed at the waist.

Lizzie, meanwhile, shot a surprised stare in Lane’s direction and then recovered by shaking the executor’s hand and offering the guy a smile. “It’s a very recent thing.”

For a moment, Mr. Jefferson seemed positively smitten with her, his eyes twinkling in a friendly way.

“Well, congratulations!” Mr. Jefferson nodded in Lane’s direction and then refocused on her. “I would say that you’re an upgrade, but that would be disrespectful to his former Mrs. You are, however, a vast improvement.”

Lizzie laughed. “You’re a charmer, aren’t you?”

“Down to my hunting boots, ma’am.” Mr. Jefferson grew serious once more as he looked back at Lane. “Where are your brothers?”

Lane took his seat again beside Lizzie. “I don’t know what state Max is in, much less how to reach him, and Edward is—”

“Right here.”

Edward materialized in the archway, and even though Lane had seen him a day or so ago, his physical appearance was still the kind of thing you had to adjust to. He was freshly shaved and showered, his dark hair damp and curling in a way it had never been permitted to in previous years. His khakis were nearly falling off his hips, held up from the floor only by an alligator belt. His shirt was plain and blue, a leftover from his business wardrobe. It was so loose, though, it was as if he were a child trying on his father’s clothes.

And yet he commanded respect as he limped across and sat in one of the armchairs. “Mr. Jefferson. Good to see you again. Excuse my rudeness, but I must sit down.”

“I’ll come to you, son.”

The executor put his briefcase down on one of the side tables and walked over. “It’s good to see you again.”

Edward shook the man’s hand. “Likewise.”

There was no small talk after that. Edward had never been one for it, and Mr. Jefferson appeared to remember that.

“Is there anyone else you have invited?”

Lane’s reflex was to wait for Edward to answer, but then he remembered that he himself had been the one to get everybody together.

“No.” Lane got up and strode across to the pocket doors that opened into the study. “We’re ready.”

He shut the two halves and went to do the same at the archway into the foyer. When he turned back around, he hung on to Lizzie’s stare. She was sitting on the silk sofa in her shorts and her polo, her blond hair pulled back, her face open.