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He gasped, felt his heartbeat racing again.
Jesus!
He reached the barrier of glass and looked over the side. He saw nothing but the brick-paved drive at the building’s entrance.
And the tears came.
Why . . . why did this have to happen?
After a minute, he shook his head, then used his sleeve to wipe away the tears. He turned and went back into the condo and over to the marble-topped island in the kitchen. He poured another small pile of white powder and, after reaching for the small knife, repeated the ritual.
He was halfway through sniffing the second line when he heard a knock at the front door. He jerked his head and looked toward it.
Who the hell is that?
Maybe it’s my stuff already?
As he approached the wooden door, there was more knocking, rapid, impatient. He put his right eye to the peephole, saw an annoyed male’s face, sighed with relief, as he shook his head. He opened the door.
Michael Grosse, a muscular, athletic thirty-five-year-old who had earned his law degree at the University of Miami, stood in the corridor, holding the extended handle of a black carry-on suitcase. On top of it was a w
ell-worn brown saddleback briefcase. Grosse had intense blue eyes, blond hair that fell to his shoulders, and the deep-tanned leathery skin of someone who had spent a great deal of time in the sun.
Austin thought Grosse, who he knew regularly wore tropical shirts and shorts to his law office but now was in a dark pin-striped two-piece suit and a collarless blue shirt, looked like a fish out of water.
Austin made a sweeping gesture with his left arm, and Grosse entered.
“What the hell took you so long?” Austin said, locking the door, then following Grosse into the living room.
“Nice to see you, too, Johnny,” Grosse said, the sarcasm thick. “But to answer your question, I had to borrow a plane at West Palm, and got here as soon as I could.” Eyeing Austin from head to toe, he added, “Jesus Christ, you look like shit.”
“So everyone keeps telling me. In those exact words.”
“I need a drink,” Grosse said, and pulled his bags toward the kitchen.
He placed his suitcase beside the island, again putting the briefcase on it. He saw the lines of powder on the countertop.
“That what I think it is?” Grosse said.
“Help yourself to all you want. There’s plenty.”
“Not just no but hell no. And I thought you quit using.”
Austin frowned as he shrugged.
“Call it extenuating circumstances,” he said, then looked past Grosse to the glass railing of the balcony.
Grosse looked out in that direction, realized what Austin meant, and closed his eyes as he dropped and shook his head. He exhaled audibly.
“This all just gets worse by the minute,” he said. “Did you have her doing that shit, too? You went back to self-medicating? Is that what happened?”
“Fuck you. I did not. In fact, I never made her do anything she didn’t want to do. No one did, as you should know.”
Grosse stared at him with a look of disbelief, shook his head, turned, and went to the wet bar at the far end of the kitchen.
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.”
