Continuing up to the garages, he parked his car under the magnolia tree and went directly to the rear entrance of the business center. After he entered the code Edward had had him use, he yanked open the door and stalked his way to the reception area, passing those offices, that conference room, that dining room.
Men and women in suits looked up in alarm, but he ignored them.
He didn’t stop until he was inside the glass office of his father’s assistant. “I’m going in to see him now.”
“Mr. Baldwine, you can’t—”
“The hell I can’t.”
“Mr. Baldwine, he’s—”
Lane threw the door open and—
Pulled up short. His father was not behind that desk.
“Mr. Baldwine, we don’t know where he is.”
Lane glanced over his shoulder. “What?”
“Your father … he was supposed to be traveling this morning, but he never showed up at the airport. The pilot waited for an hour.”
“You called the house, of course.”
“And his cell phone.” The woman put her hand over her mouth. “He’s never done this before. No one has seen him in the mansion.”
“Shit.”
Dear Lord, now what?
As Lane bolted out of there, the assistant’s voice called after him, “Please tell him to call me?”
Back in the morning sunshine, he fell into a flat-out run for Easterly’s kitchen entrance. Busting through, he ran past the stainless-steel counters and punched open the door into the staff hallway. He took the back stairs two at a time, nearly plowing into a maid who was vacuuming her way to the second floor.
Down the hall. Past his room. Past Chantal’s.
To his father’s.
Lane skidded to a halt in front of the door, and thought that he really wasn’t ready to have a Rosalinda, Part II, with his own father—but not because he didn’t want to see the dead body of one of his parents.
No, it was more because if the man was going to need a coffin, Lane was going to damn well be the one who put that bastard’s head on the tufted pillow.
Lane threw things open. “Father,” he barked. “Where are you.”
Marching in, he listened for a response and then shut the door behind himself—just in case the man was alive: He was going to hurt the sonofabitch, heaven help him, but he was so going to hurt him.
Chantal might be a slut and a liar, but a woman should never be hit. No matter the circumstance.
“Where the fuck are you,” he demanded as he opened up the bathroom.
When he didn’t find the man hanging in the glass shower enclosure, he doubled back and went into the wardrobe room.
Also nothing.
No, wait.
His father’s suitcase, the monogrammed one he used so often, was open and partially packed. But … packed badly. The clothes were messy inside, hastily thrown in by someone who had little to no experience in doing the duty for himself.
Rifling through the contents, Lane found nothing of note.
But he did notice that his father’s favorite watch, the Audemars Piguet Royal Oak, was missing from the lineup inside the velvet-lined watch case. And his wallet was gone.
Heading back into the bedroom, he surveyed the furniture, the books, the desk, but had no idea if there was anything out of place. He’d been in here only a handful of times … and not for at least a good twenty years.
“What are you up to, Father,” he asked the quiet, still air.
Following an instinct, he went out, reshut the door, and jogged back down the staff stairs to the first floor. It took him less than a minute to get out to the garages and once inside, he counted the cars. The Phantom was still there, but two of the Mercedeses were missing. Chantal had obviously been in one.
His father had to have taken the other.
The question was … where.
And when.
FORTY-FOUR
“Y’all can’t be doing this again. Come on, now, wake up.”
Edward batted at the hand that pulled at his arm. “Lea … me ’lone.”
“The heck I will. It’s cold in here, and you’re not up to this.”
Edward opened his eyes slowly. Light was coming through the open bay at the end of the stable, catching swirls of hay dust and the profile of one of the barn cats. A mare whinnied across the way, and somebody kicked their stall—and off in the distance, he caught the low-pitched growl of one of the tractors.
Holy shit did his head hurt, but it was nothing compared to his ass. Funny how a part of the body could be both totally numb and in pain.
“Y’all need to get the hell up …”
All the chatter made him curse—and try to focus.
Well, what do you know. There were two Shelbys talking at him: His newest employee was standing over him like a disapproving teacher, her hands on her lean hips, her jeans-clad legs and booted feet braced as if she were considering soccer-balling his head.
“I thought you didn’t curse,” he mumbled.
“I don’t.”
“Well, I believe you just said a bad word.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you getting up, or am I sweeping you out of here with the rest of the debris.”
“Don’t you know that ‘hell’ is a gateway word? It’s like marijuana. Next thing you know, you’ll be dropping ‘fuck’ bombs left and right.”
“Fine. Stay there. See if I care.”