He felt like they were all staring at him. But he was wrong. If they were looking in his direction, it was because they were checking out his Porsche.

A tinny bell rang as he pushed into the cold space of the store, and there it was. A line-up of Charlemont Courier Journals, all with the headline he’d been dreading splashed above the fold in Las Vegas Strip–sized font.

BRADFORD BOURBON BANKRUPTCY.

The New York Post couldn’t have done it better, he thought as he got a dollar bill and a quarter out. Picking up one of the copies, he put the money on the counter and gave a rap of his knuckles. The guy at the cash register looked over from whoever he was helping and nodded.

Back at the Porsche, Lane got behind the wheel and popped the front page flat. Scanning the first set of columns, he opened to the inside to finish the article.

Oh, great. They had reproduced a couple of the documents. And there was a lot of commentary. Even an editorial on corporate greed and the rich’s lack of accountability, with a tie-in on karma.

Tossing the thing aside, he reversed out and hit the gas.

When he got to the main gates of the estate, he eased off on the speed, but it was only to count the number of news trucks parked on the grassy shoulder like they were expecting a mushroom cloud to take flight over Easterly at any second. Continuing on, he entered the property at the staff road and shot up the back way, passing by the vegetable fields that Lizzie cultivated for Miss Aurora’s kitchen and then the barrel-topped greenhouses and finally the cottages and the groundskeeping shed.

The staff parking lot was full of cars, all kinds of extra help already on site to get things prepared for the visitation hours. The paved lane continued beyond that, mounting the hill parallel to the walkway that workers used to get to the house. At the top, there were the garages, the back of the business center, and the rear entrances to the mansion.

He parked by the maroon Lexus that was in one of the spots reserved for senior management.

As soon as Lane got out, Steadman W. Morgan, chairman of the Bradford Bourbon Company’s board of trustees, emerged from his sedan.

The man was dressed in golfing clothes, but not like Lenghe, the Grain God, had been. Steadman was in Charlemont Country Club whites, the crest of the private institution in royal blue and gold on his pectoral, a Princeton Tiger needlepoint belt around his waist. His shoes were the same kind of loafers Lane wore, without socks. Watch was Piaget. Tan was earned on the links, not sprayed on. Vitality was good breeding, careful diet, and the result of the man never having had to wonder where his next meal was coming from.

“Quite an article,” Steadman said as they met face-to-face.

“Now do you understand why I kicked them all out of here?”

There was no shake of the hands. No formalities honored or exchanged. But then good ol’ Steadman was not used to be anyone’s second-highest priority and clearly his Brooks Brothers boxers were in a bunch.

Then again, he had just learned he was sitting at the head of the table at a very bad time in BBC history. And Lane could sure as hell relate to that.

With a sweep of his hand, Lane indicated the way to the back door of the business center and he let the two of them in with the new pass code. Turning lights on as they went, he led the way into the small conference room.

“I’d offer you coffee,” Lane said as he took a seat. “But I suck at making it.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“And it’s a little early for bourbon or I’d be drinking some.” Lane linked his hands and leaned in. “So. I’d ask you what’s on your mind, but that would be rhetorical.”

“It would have been nice if you’d have given me a heads-up on the article. On the issues. On the financial chaos. On why the hell you locked senior management out.”

Lane shrugged. “I’m still trying to get to the bottom of it myself. So I don’t have a lot to say.”

“There was plenty in that damned article.”

“Not my fault. I wasn’t a source, and my no comment was as bullet-proof as Kevlar.” Although the reporter had given him quite a bit to go on. “I will say that a friend of mine, who is an investment banker who specializes in evaluating multi-national corporations, is here from New York, and he’s figuring it all out.”

Steadman seemed to compose himself. Which was a little like a marble statue struggling to keep a straight face: Not a lot of work.

“Lane,” the man started off in a tone that made Walter Cronkite seem like Pee-wee Herman, “I need you to understand that the Bradford Bourbon Company may have your family’s name on it, but it’s not some lemonade stand you can shut down or move at your will just because you’re blood. There are corporate procedures, lines of command, ways of—”

“My mother is the single largest shareholder.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to turn this into a dictatorship. Senior management has an imperative to get back into this facility. We have to convene a search committee to hire a new CEO. An interim leader must be appointed and announced. And above all, a proper internal audit of this financial mess must be—”

“Allow me to be perfectly clear. My ancestor, Elijah Bradford, started this company. And I absolutely will close it down if I have to. If I want to. I am in charge, and it will be so much more efficient if you recognize this and get out of my way. Or I’ll replace you, too.”

The WASP equivalent of murderous rage narrowed Steadman’s baby blues. Which, again, was not much of a change. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“And you have no idea how little I have to lose. I will be the one to appoint a successor to my father, and it will not be any of the senior vice presidents who came in here every morning to suck up to him. I will find out where the money went, and I will singlehandedly keep us in business if I have to go down and run the sills myself.” He jabbed a finger into Steadman’s flushed face. “You work for me. The board works for me. Every one of the ten thousand employees getting a paycheck works for me—because I’m the sonofabitch who’s going to turn everything around.”

“And exactly how do you propose to do that? According to that article, there are millions missing.”

“Watch me.”

Steadman stared across the glossy table for a moment. “The board will—”

“Be getting out of my way. Listen, you each get paid a hundred thousand dollars to sit around and do absolutely nothing. I’ll guarantee every one of you a quarter of a million dollars this year. That’s a one hundred and fifty percent raise.”