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Grosse picked up the steaming coffee cup and walked toward the bedroom that Austin was using. Its door was wide open, the lights on.
“Hey, you up?” he said. “We need to talk.”
There was no answer. He sipped his coffee as he looked inside.
The bed was empty, its blankets pushed into a pile to one side of the mattress. The lights blazed in the bathroom, and when he looked in, there was a toilet kit on the counter and a toothbrush left in the sink. It was otherwise untouched. Towels still hung in neat rows on the wall rack, with another folded over the glass door of the shower.
Grosse felt a knot form in his stomach. He walked out of the bedroom.
“Johnny?” he called out, then repeated it louder. “Johnny?”
He went back to the kitchen and looked out the wall of windows. The sky was overcast, an ugly gray morning that looked bitter cold—and, he thought, depressing.
He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled out his cellular telephone, and tried calling Austin. Voice mail picked up on the third ring.
Grosse, thinking about all that Austin had said and done the previous night, began wondering how desperate he had become.
What the hell could he have done?
He put the phone on the island as he took a deep breath.
He glanced back out at the balcony—and his heart sank. Against the glass panel wall, a white china coffee cup lay upside down.
—
Immediately after Matt Payne had left, Michael Grosse watched John Austin almost run into the kitchen. There, Austin fumbled pulling something from his pocket and eventually came up with a clear plastic bag containing a white powder. He removed a small knife from the stainless steel rack by the sink.
“Hey,” Grosse said. “No more of that.”
Austin ignored him. He poured a small pile on the counter.
Grosse marched into the kitchen and with a smooth, fast motion brushed the pile into the sink with his hand. He turned on the water.
“You son of a bitch!” Austin said.
“That shit has caused enough trouble, Johnny. You need to lay off.”
Austin picked up the knife and held it tight as he concentrated on pouring another pile.
Grosse did not think that Austin would try to attack him, but it was clear the threat was made.
“You snort that, I’m calling Payne. I’m sick of this. You can spend the night in jail, for all I care. Then you can go back to rehab, or whatever.”
Austin stopped. He turned his head and glared at Grosse.
“You don’t like it,” Grosse added, “then too goddamn bad. Call it tough love, or whatever else they say in rehab.”
Austin stared at the bag in his hand.
“Have a drink, if you really need to self-medicate, Johnny. But not that.”
Austin finally tossed the bag on the counter and started for the bar.
Grosse considered pouring that down the drain, too, but decided that could really cause Austin to turn violent.
—
“I understand you being upset about those pictures Matt Payne showed us,” Grosse said as they stood on either side of the kitchen island, an almost empty bottle of Johnnie Walker between them. “But you have got to get yourself together.”
