The Bourbon Kings

Mitch looked up just as Mr. Harris came bustling in from the dining room.

“Oh, Mr. Baldwine,” the butler said. “These gentlemen are here to see you.”

“I figured. I’ll just grab my—”

Mitch spoke up. “Can we talk somewhere privately?”

Lane frowned. “I want my lawyer present.”

When Mitch just shook his head, Lane glanced at the other officers. Neither of them were meeting him in the eye.

Lane descended down to ground level and indicated with his hand. “The parlor.”

As the four of them proceeded into the elegant room, Mr. Harris closed the double doors into the foyer—and by tacit understanding, nothing was said until the man came around to the other side of the room and closed those panels as well.

Lane crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s up, Mitch. You looking for a trifecta? Gin, then me—and now how about my father—”

“It is with profound regret that I inform you that—”

A cold shot of fear rocked through his body. “Not Edward, oh, God, please not Edward—”

“—a body was found in the river about two hours ago. We have reason to believe it is that of your father.”

The exhale that left Lane’s lungs was slow and strangely even. “What …” He cleared his throat. “Where was it found?”

“On the far side of the falls. We need you to come down and identify the body. Next of kin is preferred, but I never put a wife through that if I can avoid it.”

By way of answering, Lane went over to the bar cart and poured himself a measure of Family Reserve. After tossing it back, he nodded to Mitch and the other two members of law enforcement.

“Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.”

As he passed by Mitch, the man reached out and grabbed his shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Lane.”

Lane frowned. “You know, I can’t say that I am.”

FORTY-SEVEN

Lane told no one where he was going or why.

When he came back down from his rooms, he had his cell phone with him and his wallet, and he was careful to stay out of eyesight of the people who were eating and conversing quietly in the dining room.

No, he wasn’t telling anyone anything. Not until it was certain.

Getting into the back of Mitch’s sheriff’s SUV, he closed himself in and stared out the front windshield.

When the guy was behind the wheel, Lane said, “Does anyone know?”

“We’ve kept it quiet so far. The body washed up into a boathouse slip about a quarter mile from the falls. The people who called it in are good folk. They were shaken up and don’t want a lot of media attention or reporters on their property. It’s not going to hold forever, though.”

The ride down to the morgue was a bizarre one, time slowing to a crawl, everything too bright, too clear, too loud. And once they were inside the dull, utilitarian building, all that got worse until he felt like he was tripping, the surreal quality like something out of a Jerry Garcia cartoon.

The only thing he could do, the only thing he was tracking, was following Mitch wherever the guy went—and before long, Lane found himself in a private waiting room that was about the size of a pantry.

In the center of the wall ahead of him was a curtain that was pulled into place over what he assumed was a large glass window. Next to the setup was a door.

“No,” Lane said to Mitch. “I want to see him face-to-face.”

There was an awkward moment. “Listen, Lane, the body’s in bad shape. It went over the falls and might have even tangled with a barge. It’ll be easier—”

“Not interested in easy.” Lane narrowed his eyes on the deputy. “I want in there.”

Mitch cursed. “Give me a minute.”

As the sheriff disappeared through the door, Lane was glad the guy hadn’t fought him any harder than that—because he didn’t want to admit to the guy that the reason he needed to get up close and personal in this situation was that he had to be sure his father was really dead.

Which was stupid.

Like all these cops would waste their time making this shit up?

Mitch came back and held the door open. “Come on in.”

Walking into the tiled space was something Lane was going to remember for the rest of his life. And Jesus, it was just like the movies: In the center of the room, on a stainless-steel rolling table, was a body bag.

Absurdly, he noted that it was the exact same type as the one Rosalinda had been put into.

Off to the side of the gurney, a woman in a white coat stood with her gloved hands clasped in front of her. “If you’re ready, sir?”

“Yes. Please.”

She reached up and clasped the zipper. Pulling downward about two feet, she spread the opening wide.

Lane leaned in, but the smell of water and rot made him recoil.

He hadn’t expected his father’s eyes to be open.

“That’s him,” Lane choked out.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the coroner said as she started to rezip the bag.

When she’d finished the job, he supposed they wanted him to leave, but he just stood there staring down at the body bag.

All kinds of images coughed their way into his thoughts, a jumble of things from the past and the present.

No more future, though, he thought. There was going to be nothing further with the man after this point.

God, of all the ways he’d envisioned things ending between them … this quiet moment, in this cold medical room, with Mitch Ramsey on one side of him and a total stranger on the other, was so not it.