About an hour after Metro Police arrived at Easterly, Lane was allowed to leave the scene for a short period of time. He wanted to talk to Lizzie to let her know what was going on, but he had to take care of Gin first.
The Bradford Family Trusts were all administered and managed out of the Prospect Trust Company, a privately held firm with billions of dollars of assets under their control and a speciality in handling the super-wealthy in Charlemont. As they were not a traditional bank, however, the household checking accounts were run out of the local branch of PNC—and that was where he went with the checkbook he’d taken out of Rosalinda’s desk.
Parking in the lot by the one story boutique building, he wrote the check out as payable to Cash in the amount of seventy-five thousand dollars, forged his father’s name on the signatory line, and endorsed the back as payable to the Washington County Jail.
As soon as he pushed into the beige and white lobby, he was intersected by a young woman in a navy blue suit and discreet jewelry. “Mr. Baldwine, how are you?”
I just found a dead body. Thanks for asking. “Fine, I need to get this check certified?”
“Of course. Come into my office.” Leading him over to a glass enclosure, she shut the door and took a seat behind a tidy desk. “We’re always pleased to help your family.”
He slid the check across the blotter and sat down. “I appreciate it.”
The sound of fingernails tippity-tapping on the computer’s keyboard was mildly annoying, but he had so much bigger fish to fry.
“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?”