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Mason Morgan’s cold eyes glared at Grosse.
He put down his coffee cup.
“If there is nothing else,” Morgan said as he began to get to his feet.
“Just one more bit of business . . .” Grosse said.
Morgan dropped his enormous frame back down, causing the big chair to rock under the suddenly returning weight.
“Yes? What is it?”
Grosse reached into his briefcase and removed the thick folder from earlier.
Mason Morgan saw that it was legal-pad size, its edges worn. There was a faded yellow label on the upper left tab: MORGAN, CAMILLA ROSE.
Grosse took out a sheet, and said, “This is something, I suppose, that might be most surprising.”
“More than the lost hundred million? How is that possible?”
Grosse leaned forward and slid the sheet across the desktop. As he did so, Morgan took a look—and his eyes began darting over it.
Morgan saw that it appeared to be some sort of government document. He saw “City of Philadelphia Marriage License Bureau—City Hall, Room 415.” He noted that it was an officially attested copy, with an original signature in ink and a seal, and dated five years earlier.
Grosse watched, impressed that Morgan’s expression, except for the darting eyes, remained unchanged.
After Morgan appeared to be finished scanning it, he looked up at Grosse, who produced a second sheet from the folder. Grosse slid the marriage license back and pushed the second sheet in front of Morgan.
“If you wish to keep these,” Grosse said in a reasonable tone, “I have additional exemplified copies in my office.” When Mason did not respond, he added, “Either way, I will see that copies are delivered to your legal department.”
Morgan picked up and studied the second sheet. It was a certificate of marriage dated a week after the marriage license and signed by a Philadelphia justice of the peace.
“Who is this fellow, this O’Keefe?” Morgan finally said, putting the sheet of paper back on the desk.
“A very fine gentleman from a well-known and respected family in Orange County.”
“Pennsylvania? There isn’t an Orange—”
“California,” Grosse said. “Camilla Rose was married in a quiet ceremony to the young man, James O’Keefe, who she met out there. He founded a Silicon Valley start-up that had bid on a project for her camp on Monterey Bay.”
Grosse, producing a third sheet of paper, went on. “They traveled widely for a while. Camilla Rose wanted to expand her camps to other countries. That got postponed because”—he slid the paper toward Morgan and watched his eyes slowly open wide—“exactly ten months later, she gave birth to a son, Harold Thomas Morgan II.”
He paused, letting the name sink in.
Morgan saw that there was bold lettering at its top reading STATE OF CALIFORNIA, and there was an embossed official seal at the bottom. Mason picked it up and studied it, his eyes focusing on CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH.
“This child is now age three,” Morgan said.
Grosse pointed to the birth date on the document.
“Turns four next month,” he said.
Morgan’s eyes went from Grosse to the birth certificate, and he shook his head just perceptibly before he slid it back.
“Unfortunately,” Grosse said, then slid a final sheet across the desk, “the union was not to last.”
Morgan saw that it was a court document, a certified page titled FINAL DECREE OF DIVORCE.
“The separation was by mutual consent,” Grosse said, “with Camilla Rose waiving custody and visitation rights, although she could have had either if she wanted.”
