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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.”
