He was old school meets new school, WASPy without the condescension and prejudice, classically handsome as a Polo Ralph Lauren ad yet down to earth as a sitcom father.

As the pleasantries died off, Lane pushed the glass of fizz to the side and took the folded documents out of the breast pocket of his linen jacket. “I thought I might come down here and talk to you about this.”

Robert took the pages. “Which policy is it?”

“My father’s through the Bradford Bourbon Company. I’m a beneficiary along with my brother and sister.”

With a frown, the man started to review the terms.

“Contrary to news reports,” Lane interrupted, “we believe he may have been murdered. I know that there is a clause excluding payment in the event of suicide by the policyholder, but it’s my understanding that provided any beneficiary is not found to be the—”

“I’m so sorry, Lane.” Robert closed the documents and put his hand on them. “But this policy was canceled for nonpayment about six months ago. We tried repeatedly to get in touch with your father, but he never returned our calls or responded to our inquiries. MassMutual let it go—and it was a key man term policy. There was no equity building up in it.”

As Lane’s phone went off, he thought, well, there was seventy-five million down the drain.

“Is there something else we can help you with?”

“Were there any other policies? Personal ones, maybe? I only found this because I went through the corporate files. My father was fairly closemouthed about his affairs.”

Personal and professional.

“There were two personal ones. One was a term life, much smaller than this one.” Robert tapped the documents again. “But he didn’t act on the renewal when it came up a couple of months ago.”

Of course, Lane thought. Because he couldn’t have passed the physical, and he’d known that.

“And the other?” he prompted.

Robert cleared his throat. “Well, the other one was to benefit a third party. And that third party has come forward. I’m afraid I can’t disclose to you their identity or any information about the policy because you are not incidental to it.”

Lane’s phone rang again. And for a split second, he wanted to throw the thing at the bank of glass windows across the table.

“I totally understand,” he said as he took the document, refolded it, and put it back in his inner pocket. “Thank you for your time.”

“I really wish I could be more helpful.” Robert got to his feet. “I swear, I tried to get your father to act, but he just wouldn’t. Even though he knew it would have been to the benefit of his family.”

The story of the guy’s life.

Oh, Father, Lane thought. If you weren’t already dead …

THIRTY-EIGHT

While Lane was downtown checking into the insurance policy issue, trying to drum up some money, Jeff was waiting for the guy’s hopefully triumphant return out front at Easterly, the sun on his face, the stone steps under his ass functioning very nicely as bun warmers. Just as he was beginning to think about the merits of Coppertone, he heard the Porsche’s engine at the base of the hill. Moments later, Lane tooled to a stop and got out.

Jeff didn’t bother asking. He could read that face. “So it’s a no-go.”

“Nothing.”

“Damn it.” Jeff rose to his feet and brushed at the seat of his pants. “Listen, we need to talk.”

“Can you give me one minute?” When Jeff nodded, the guy said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

A minute and a half later, Lane re-emerged from the mansion. “Come with me.”

Jeff frowned. “Is that a hammer?”

“Yup, and a nail.”

“You’re going to fix something? No offense, but you’re not exactly the handyman type. I should know. I’m not, either, and I’ve also lived with you for how long?”

Lane went back to his car and leaned over the passenger-side door. Springing the glove box, he—

“Wait, is that a gun?” Jeff demanded.

“Yup. Boy, you’re observant. Come on.”

“Where are we going? And will I be walking on my own at the end of this?”

Lane headed across the courtyard, but not in any direction that made sense. Unless you were going out into the woods. To shoot an old roommate of yours.

“Lane, I asked you a question.” But Jeff followed before he got an answer. “Lane.”

“Of course you’ll be walking.”

“I’m really not interested in becoming your Big Pussy.”

“That makes two of us.”

As Lane breached the tree line and continued on, going deeper into the maples and oaks, Jeff stayed with the guy because he just wanted to know what the fuck he was doing.

Another fifty yards or so in, Lane finally stopped and looked around. “This’ll do.”

“If you turn on me and ask me to start digging my own grave with my hands? Then our relationship really is over.”

But Lane just went over to a tree that was dead, its skeletal branches and partially hollow trunk at odds with the verdant everything-else-that-was-around. Putting the handgun in the outer pocket of his linen suit jacket, he took out a sheaf of papers … and nailed them to the rotting bark.

Then he walked back to where Jeff had come to a halt, put two fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle so shrill, Jeff’s third-great-grandmother heard it in her grave. Up in New Jersey.

“Fore!” the guy yelled.

“Isn’t that for golf—”

Pop! Pop! Poppoppoppoppopop!

Lane was an excellent shot, the bullets shredding the paperwork into a flurry of white pieces that fell to the decaying leaves and bright green undergrowth.

When that gun muzzle was finally lowered, Jeff looked over. “Man, you Southern fruit loops with your NRA. Just out of curiosity, what was that?”

“My father’s seventy-five-million-dollar key man term life insurance policy through MassMutual. Turns out he stopped paying the premiums so it woke up dead.”

“Okay. Good to know. FYI, most people would merely throw the thing out. Just sayin’.”

“Yeah, but this was so much more satisfying, and I’ve about had it with bad news.” Lane turned around. “So you wanted to tell me something?”