The mirrored bar held a wide variety of expensive liquors, more than a couple dozen bottles. Many were unopened, causing Grosse to wonder if it had been recently restocked. He scanned them before grabbing a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label.
He turned and gestured with it toward Austin, who said, “Sure.”
“Suppose that makes me an enabler,” Grosse said, turning back to the bar and pulling down two crystal glasses. “But booze, I guess, is better than that crap you’re abusing.”
“Go to hell.”
Grosse half filled the glasses with the scotch whisky, added a splash of water and a single ice cube to each, handed one glass to Austin.
Grosse held up his glass, tipped it to Austin, and said, “To Camilla Rose.”
Austin did the same, adding, “And Kenny.”
Grosse took a heavy sip, looked out to the balcony. He shook his head again, then looked at Austin.
“Anything new about what happened to her?”
“I’ve heard nothing since I called you.”
Grosse glanced around the condominium. “This place looks untouched since I was here last week.”
“It was cleaned this afternoon. Apparently she had a party before . . . before what happened.”
Grosse nodded as he scanned the room. “I keep expecting her to make her usual grand entrance, floating in here from her bedroom, dressed to the nines, filling the room with that incredible personality of hers. This place feels eerily empty without her.”
“I know.”
Grosse took another sip of his drink, and said, “Well, anyway, first of all, I finally got in contact with Camilla Rose’s mother. She took the news—maybe because she sounded half in the bag—rather well.”
“When is she coming?”
“No time soon—”
“Jesus, why am I not surprised? She really is one cold bitch.”
“Because she’s on a cruise ship off Patagonia.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten she was going on that. For some reason, I thought it was next month.”
“Yeah, well, even if she skips the ten days in Mendoza and Buenos Aires that’s scheduled before she gets off the boat, earliest she can be back in the States is a week from now. The boat she’s on isn’t big enough to land a helicopter, if she was up to that.”
“Can’t say I’m disappointed. I don’t want to deal with her.”
Grosse walked over and opened the weathered-leather flap of his saddleback briefcase.
“There is something you do need to deal with.”
“What?”
He pulled out a manila folder and from it removed a single sheet of paper. He put it on the countertop.
“That’s a copy of the e-mail I got at noon from Morgan International. Your firm should be getting notice, if you haven’t already.”
“About what? I haven’t looked at any business e-mails today.”
“It’s about Morgan International’s philanthropy arm. They want their investments returned.”
“What? Which investments?”
“All of them,” Grosse said. “They want all the money that Camilla Rose invested in your funds returned.”
“The philanthropy does? Or Mason?” Austin said as he snapped up the sheet and read it. Then he blurted, “That miserable son of a bitch!”
Austin tossed the paper back on the counter, and stared at it.
“All of it?” he repeated, his tone incredulous. He looked at Grosse, and added, “Maybe Camilla Rose was right. The prick tried to have me killed. And, when that failed, he’s now going after the money.”
“She said her brother was behind the shooting?” Grosse said. “I remember her telling me a long time ago that there was a lot of friction between you and Mason.”
Austin nodded, adding, “You don’t think he went after her . . . ?”
Grosse was silent.
“Frankly,” he said finally, “Mason being who he is, none of that makes any sense. What, exactly, was her proof that he was after you?”
Austin shrugged, started pacing. His whole body shook. He gestured out at the balcony, and, his voice quivering, said, “He pulls this shit when her body isn’t even cold.”
Austin slammed his crystal glass on the counter and began moving toward the hallway half bath, walking fast.
“I can’t say that I disagree,” Grosse said, watching him with interest. “The timing is more than a little . . .”
Austin sprinted to the bathroom and disappeared. He kicked the door shut. A second later came violent retching sounds.
“Distasteful,” Grosse finished.
Now, that’s damn interesting, he thought.
Grosse went to the bar, refreshed his drink, and stood by the sliding glass doors to the balcony, sipping the scotch whisky as he looked out at the lights of the city. He was halfway through his drink when he heard the bathroom door click open and then the hum of the fan.
Grosse watched Austin in the reflection as he went to the kitchen and retrieved his drink, guzzled it.
“Must’ve been something I ate,” Austin said without conviction, his voice uneven.
Grosse turned toward him.
“You can’t get them their money, can you, Johnny?”
[ FOUR ]
Matt Payne, driving fast westward on Walnut Street, downshifted and braked as the traffic signal at South Broad cycled to yellow, then red.
“Damn it,” he muttered, coming to a stop.
He looked across the street at the elegant Bellevue—what old-timers still referred to as the Bellevue-Stratford, the enormous landmark hotel’s name for most of its hundred-plus years’ catering to the city’s wealthy and powerful.
He saw parked next to its grand entrance were a pair of Highway Patrol motorcycles. The spotless Harley-Davidson Electra Glides gleamed in the lights of the entrance. And, next to them, he saw that there was a hotel welcome sign bearing the logotype of Camilla’s Kids Camps.
And so the show goes on, he thought.
Those must be the brand-new bikes that Camilla Rose had the Morgan trust pay for.
Payne saw the car’s in-dash screen show that he had an incoming call from his father. He touched the icon to answer it.
“Yes, sir?”
“Hey, Matt. You doing okay?”
“Sure. I’m afraid to ask why you ask.”
“No particular reason, I guess. Just always concerned.”
“Probably doesn’t help with Amy’s meddling.”
“Don’t be angry with her. She wouldn’t hesitate pointing out that you’re the one with a healing bullet wound.”
“Point taken.”
“Look, I made a couple calls on that Miami lawyer.”
“And you found out that he’s up to his ears in Bolivian marching powder.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“If you don’t know, then I guess he’s not. It’s cocaine, Dad.”
“That’s right. I did know that. Lord knows, there’s enough of that down there in South Florida.”
“And in South Philly. And heroin. It’s everywhere. And bad guys needing legal counsel because of it.”
“True. But, at least from what I gather, this Grosse isn’t one of them. He’s an interesting fellow, with an extremely successful practice. His firm has a high-end clientele—”
“Explaining why Camilla Rose had him.”
“Right. And he handles the very complex needs of the very wealthy very quietly. From what I’m told, it’s all aboveboard.”
Matt watched the traffic light cycle and visually cleared the intersection before accelerating through it. He glanced a second time to the right. A block up was the Union League, and, another block just beyond it, City Hall loomed.
“What, for example?”
“A lot
of his work is in creating corporations. And a lot of that offshore accounts, some established here in Delaware and Wyoming, others in the Caymans and British Virgin Islands.”
“Shell companies? Sounds like a slippery legal slope,” Matt said, downshifting to turn left in front of the Episcopal church.
“Perhaps what gets put in them, but his work establishing them, from what I understand, is entirely legal.”
Matt tugged the steering wheel to the right, and, tires rumbling, the car shot up the bricked drive to The Rittenhouse.
“Well,” Matt said, “it’s good to hear she had good representation.”
“Did you find out any more about what happened with her?”
“Not really.”
“Such a tragedy. Well, if I hear more, I’ll let you know. Be careful.”
Matt saw a valet trotting toward his door.
“Thanks, Dad.”
—
When Payne got off the elevator on the twenty-first floor of the Rittenhouse condominiums, he found there was a uniformed officer sitting in one of the two linen-upholstered armchairs across the corridor from the elevator bank.
The blue shirt, a wiry, dark-haired male who looked to Payne to be all of twenty, had taken the chair that afforded him a direct view of the door to Camilla Rose’s condo at the end of the corridor.
He had been hunched over, elbows on knees, reading something on his smartphone. But when the young officer looked up to see who was getting off the elevator, he snapped to his feet.
“Sergeant,” he announced, “no one’s gone in or out of 2150 the whole time I’ve been here.” He looked at his wristwatch, and added, “Which has been precisely nineteen minutes.”
“See anything unusual on the floor?”
“Pretty quiet. I got some strange looks from a couple people who got on the elevator, but nothing I’d call unusual.”
Payne nodded. “Okay. Make yourself comfortable. I might need you in a bit.”
“Yessir.”
—
Payne reached the door to 2150 and knocked.
After a while, he could hear heavy footsteps on the other side of the door. There was a long pause before the sound of the dead bolt being thrown open.
The door swung inward.
“You sorry son of a bitch!” John T. Austin said, his voice booming down the corridor.
Austin cocked his uninjured left arm back, his hand making a fist.
He really thinks he’s going to throw a punch?
“What the hell is your problem?” Payne said, holding his hands up, palms out. “Take it easy.”
“I heard you left the bar with Camilla Rose last night, Payne.”
“Well, you heard wrong.”
“Bullshit.”
Payne looked at him, and thought, I wonder how many other times he’s gotten jealous like this?
Payne saw Austin’s eyes looking past behind him, from where he heard feet fast approaching.
“What’s this? You bring the junior cavalry?” Austin said, putting down his arm.
Payne turned and saw the blue shirt come to a stop five feet from them. He stood erect, hands at his hips, the right hand brushing the black polymer grip of his city-issued 9mm Glock service weapon.
The blue shirt did not say anything. His narrowed eyes, looking past Payne at Austin, and his stance telegraphed his intent.
“As you were,” Payne said in a casual tone. “Mr. Austin, here, was just about to invite me in.”
Payne, surprising Austin, strode past him.
“Yes, I think I will come in,” he said as he did. “Very kind of you to ask.”
Payne heard the blue shirt chuckle.
As Payne entered the living room, he saw on the far couch a well-dressed tanned man with long hair getting to his feet. Payne walked over to him, hand extended, and said, “Matt Payne, Philadelphia Police Homicide.”
“Michael Grosse,” the man said, shaking Payne’s hand.
Grosse motioned with the cocktail glass he held out, and said, “Would you like a drink, or something?”
“Thanks, but no. You’re Camilla Rose’s lawyer.”
“That’s right—”
Austin stormed up to them, putting his face close to Payne’s.
“We weren’t finished, Payne.”
Payne now could smell the alcohol on Austin’s breath.
So, he’s drunk?
“Johnny?” Grosse said. “You want to ease up?”
“This son of a bitch was with Camilla Rose last night.”
Payne studied Austin, and thought, It’s possible he’s using the booze for against the pain. Or maybe booze and pain pills, making for a nice toxic mix.
Maybe it’s more likely, as Amy said, that he’s self-medicating.
Is this one of those mania episodes she mentioned?
“Two things, Austin,” Payne said, his tone even. “First off, as I’m sure counsel here can tell you, you hit a cop, you go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Got it?”
“Fuck you—”
“And, two, I never went inside that bar. Not that there’s any reason I shouldn’t have. But the fact is, I happened to run into Camilla Rose in the lobby outside it. And not ten minutes later, the last I saw her, she was on the elevator, heading up here to her condo.”
“Why should I believe you? You left the hospital with her after she was there with me. And then you’re seen together in the bar later that night.”
“I just told you, unequivocally, that I never was in the bar.”
“But you were with Camilla Rose.”
“I’m beginning to think that crash affected your hearing,” Payne said. “I was never in the bar. Listen, she told me she wanted to talk, said she had more information that I could possibly use. So, at her request, I went with her to talk—”
“To here, to her condo?” Austin said, stepping in closer.
Payne sighed audibly. He looked between Austin and Grosse, then said to Austin, “She went up here alone, is all I can tell you. I, instead, wound up meeting a few blocks away, with Detective Harris, who you met this morning.”
Austin took a step back as he considered that.
“Why didn’t you go up and talk with her?” he said.
Payne met Austin’s eyes as he mentally debated telling him about Camilla Rose having made a pass at him. And he wondered if he should also use the picture of her by the fireplace she had sent him as evidence. He dismissed both thoughts as fast as they had occurred to him. Damaging the virtue of any woman, especially one deceased and unable to defend herself, struck him as reprehensible.
There also was the very real chance that Austin, hearing such news, would really come unglued. It would be easy on Austin’s part to make the accusation that Payne, in taking advantage of Austin being sedated in the hospital, had rushed to be her shining knight on a white horse.
“Camilla Rose,” Payne said, “drank two vodka miniatures in my car when we were maybe a block from the hospital. She was clearly upset—she said that her nerves were shot—and, as far as I know, continued drinking until I saw her outside the bar. It was then my observation that in her condition she would not have information I could use.”
He paused, let that sink in, and went on. “And when Detective Harris called and said he did have information, that was where I went.”
He paused again, thought, What the hell, why not? and added, “In retrospect, I really regret not having gone with her, as that very likely could have changed the course of the evening.”
Austin jerked his head toward Payne at that.
And now I feel a little shitty saying that, Payne thought, but he doesn’t know the details.
And the fact is, it is damn sure true that the evening would have had a different outcome—and she could very well be alive right
now.
Austin made what looked like a face of disbelief as he shook his head. But he did not challenge Payne on what he had said.
“You can believe what you want,” Payne said, “but you’ve got bigger problems. Which is why I’m here.”
Payne looked at Grosse.
“You should see this, too. Especially if you are planning to be around him, Counselor.”
“To reiterate, I am Camilla Rose’s lawyer,” Grosse said as he watched Payne pulling out his cellular telephone. “Mr. Austin has his own, other representation.”
Payne nodded, then brought up the photograph he had taken of the message on the coal tower wall. He held the phone out toward them.
“Where the hell is that?” Austin said.
“We came across it at the crime scene with the two guys we were told were responsible for killing Kenny Benson.”
Austin looked back at the phone.
“I got lucky? Damn near dying is lucky? Just look at me!”
“We also were told that there may be another hit.”
“On me?”
“We don’t know.”
Austin looked at Grosse, then at Payne, and said, “Those two guys. You get them to confess? They say why they did it?”
Payne shook his head. “Dead guys don’t talk.”
Payne had an image that combined only their heads—the faces, side by side, were contorted but did not reveal the abuse—and showed it to Austin.
“Recognize either of them?” Payne said, studying him.
“No. Who are they?”
Payne saw that Austin stared at it stone-faced. He detected no reaction. Grosse, when Payne looked at him, shook his head.
“We’re working on that,” Payne said, putting away the phone.
“How did you find them?” Austin said.
“It’s what we do.”
Austin looked at him. “Real smart-ass, aren’t you? How do you know for sure they’re the ones?”
Payne didn’t answer.
“Okay, so what was used to write that message about me?” Austin said.
“A high-pressure industrial power washer. It was also used to shred the skin off the shooters.”
“Jesus,” Grosse said in a low voice.
Austin was quiet. He appeared to lose color in his face.
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