“Ah …” The bank manager cleared her throat. “Mr. Baldwine, I’m sorry, there are not sufficient funds in the account.”
He took out his phone. “No problem, I’ll just call Prospect Trust and initiate a transfer. How much do we need?”
“Well, sir, the account is overdrawn by twenty-seven thousand, four hundred, eighty-nine dollars and twenty-two cents. The overdraft protection is covering that, however.”
“Give me a moment.” He went into his contacts and called up the PTC administrator in charge of the family’s funds. “I’ll just wire it in.”
Obvious relief bloomed in her face. “Here, let me give you some privacy. I’ll be out in the lobby when you’re ready. Take your time.”
“Thanks.”
While he waited for the connection to ring through, Lane tapped his loafer on the marble floor. “Oh, hey, Connie, how are you. It’s Lane Baldwine. Good. Yes, I’m in town for Derby.” Among other things. “Listen, I need you to wire some money into the general household account at PNC.”
There was a pause. And then the woman’s smooth, professional voice became strained. “I’d be happy to, Mr. Baldwine, but I don’t have access to your accounts anymore. You removed them from Prospect Trust last year.”
“I meant out of my father’s accounts. Or my mother’s.”
There was another pause. “I’m afraid you’re not authorized to effect transfers of that nature. I’d need to speak to your father. Is there a way you could get him to call in?”
Not if he wanted the money. Given that dear ol’ daddy was trying to squeeze Gin, there was no way the grand and glorious William Baldwine was going to help facilitate her release.
“My father’s out of town and unreachable. How about I put my mother on the phone?” Surely he could go to her and keep her conscious long enough to order a hundred and twenty-five grand into the household account.
Connie cleared her throat just as the bank manager had. “I’m so sorry, but that … that will not be sufficient.”
“If it’s her account? How can it not be?”
“Mr. Baldwine … I don’t want to speak out of turn.”
“Sounds like you’d better.”
“Will you please hold for a moment?”
As piped-in music drawled into his ear, he burst up out of the stiff chair and paced in between the potted plant in the corner, which he discovered was plastic when he tested a leaf, and the floor-to-ceiling, double-hung windows that looked out onto the four-lane road beyond.
There was a beeping tone and then a male voice came over the connection. “Mr. Baldwine? It’s Ricardo Monteverdi, how are you, sir?”
Great, the CEO of the company. Which meant whatever the answer was had tripped the “delicate situation” wire. “Look, I just need a hundred and twenty-five thousand in cash, okay? No big deal—”
“Mr. Baldwine, as you know, at Prospect Trust, we take our fiduciary responsibility to our clients very seriously—”
“Stop right there with the disclaimers. Either tell me why my mother’s word isn’t good enough for her own money or get off my phone.”
There was a period of silence. “You are leaving me no choice.”
“What. For God’s sake, what?”
The next stretch of quiet was so long and dense, he took his phone from his ear to check he hadn’t lost the call. “Hello?”
Cue the throat clearing. “Your father declared your mother mentally incompetent per the rules of her trusts earlier this year. It was the opinion of two qualified neurologists that she was, and is, incapable of making decisions at this time. So if you require funds from either of their accounts, we will be more than happy to accommodate you—provided the request comes from your father in person. I hope you understand that I am walking a fine line here—”
“I’ll call him right now and get him to phone in.”
Lane ended the call and stared out at the traffic. Then he went over to the door and opened it. Smiling at the manager, he said, “My father’s going to have to call Prospect to initiate the transfer. I’ll have to come back.”
“We’re open until five o’clock, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Back out in the bright sun, he kept his phone in his hand as he strode across the hot pavement, but he didn’t use the thing. He also didn’t remember the drive home.
What the hell was he going to do now?
When he got back to Easterly, there were two more police units in the courtyard by the garages and a couple of uniforms standing at the front door. He parked the Porsche in its usual waiting spot to the left of the mansion’s main entrance and got out.
“Mr. Baldwine,” one of the officers said as Lane approached.
“Gentlemen.”
The sensation of their eyes following him made him want to send the group far away from his family’s house. He had a tweaking paranoia that there were things happening behind the scenes he knew nothing about, and he’d just as soon eyeball those skeletons privately first—without the benefit of Metro Police’s prying stares.
Taking the stairs up to the second floor, he went to his room and shut the door—then locked it. Over by his bed, he picked up the receiver on the house phone, dialed nine for an outside line, and then entered *67 so that the number of the extension he was calling from would not register on any caller ID. When a dial tone came over the line, he entered a familiar exchange and four-digit series.