Broken Trust

by W. E. B Griffin

  He paused, then added, “I can’t believe it. First Kenny and now Camilla Rose? Since I first saw the news, I’ve been calling Joy but getting no answer.”

  “She’s meeting with one of my detectives,” Payne said.

  “And, Mr. Austin,” Harris put in, “we need to hear about what happened with the shooting, from your perspective. As well as what you can tell us about who Ms. Morgan could have been with prior to her death.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Do you know if she was using?” Harris said. “Or if anyone she was around was using?”

  “Using what, exactly?”

  “Any illicit drugs.”

  Austin met Harris’s eyes. He shook his head.

  “Far as I know,” Austin said, “she was only doing booze. No recreational stuff. I’m guessing you know something different?”

  Austin watched as Harris glanced at Payne, who nodded once.

  Permission was not required. Payne knew Harris knew he would go along with whatever Harris decided was prudent. But both also knew it established a hierarchy in the eyes of others.

  Harris said, “Security went up to her condo after finding her body at approximately four this morning and found the door had been left wide open. Evidence of alcohol and drugs was everywhere. There had been a party and everyone was gone.”

  Austin looked back and forth between them. He then sighed heavily.

  “I was afraid that something like this would happen.”

  “Like this?” Payne parroted.

  “That she’d get around the wrong people and relapse.”

  “And why would she?”

  “Pressure, Payne. She’s been under a lot, even more than usual. And then this shooting . . . It had to push her over the edge. She left here yesterday a mess.”

  Matt Payne nodded, and said, “I drove her back to The Rittenhouse. She admitted to being, as you say, a mess. But she did not strike me as being in a bad way. And when I saw her last night coming out of the Library Bar, she seemed pretty upbeat. Certainly not suicidal.”

  “She was probably entertaining her friends,” Austin said. “That always makes her happy.”

  Payne considered that, then said, “You have the names of those ‘wrong’ people? And of her friends?”

  “Yeah, sure. I can get you names. I’ll need my computer. My phone disappeared in the crash. I imagine it melted in that damn inferno.”

  “Speaking of the incident yesterday,” Harris said, taking out his notepad and pen from his coat pocket, “how about we go over what happened?”

  Austin looked at the side table. It held a box of tissues, a small, insulated chromed carafe, and a short stack of white foam cups. With some effort, he used his left hand to take a cup from the stack, place it upright, and then, still using his left hand, pour water in it from the carafe.

  “You guys thirsty? I called down the hall and tried to get some coffee, but that fat-ass nurse said it’d be at least another hour. Told her I’d pay her to get me some—I’d kill for La Colombe—but she said there’s no coffee shop open this early.” He sighed. “I don’t even want to be here. Not in a goddamn teaching hospital. I want to be where the doctors already know what the fuck they’re doing. You know, they even named this place after that Kraut quack doctor who believed in homeopathy? It’s true. And that’s ridiculous pseudoscience. I mean, come on . . . The guy declared coffee caused diseases.”

  Austin raised his eyebrows in question.

  “We’re fine,” Payne said.

  Austin nodded, then drank maybe half the water, put the cup back on the table, then looked between Payne and Harris.

  “All right. Before we get into yesterday”—he groaned as he pushed himself off the bed with his left hand—“I need to drain the ol’ lizard.”

  He turned and, in obvious pain, began moving toward the restroom.

  [ THREE ]

  John Austin, cradling his right arm, dropped back on the edge of the bed nearly five minutes later, and said, “Okay, Payne, where you want me to start?”

  “How about the beginning?” Payne said.

  “Then that’d be right after we had lunch. Me and Kenny were going to run errands while Camilla Rose went to the spa for a facial. We had just got the truck from the valet when she came running out of the hotel. I’d forgotten the cash.”

  “What cash?” Payne said.

  “For the vendors. They were due their advance payments and they like cash.” He chuckled. “Don’t we all?”

  “How much?”

  “Does it matter? Is it illegal to pay people with cash anymore?”

  Payne didn’t respond immediately.

  He met his eyes, and he said, “Depends, of course, on what you’re buying.”

  Austin held his stare a long time, then said, “I think it was in the neighborhood of fifteen, maybe twenty grand. We were only paying two vendors, I think. Camilla Rose decided how much they got. I didn’t have a chance to count it or even look inside, thanks to some asshole with a shotgun.”

  “Who were the vendors?” Harris said, looking up from his notes. “What service do they provide?”

  “Hell if I know. I was just supposed to deliver the money, get a receipt, then get on with the day.”

  “Deliver the money where?”

  “She said the addresses were on the individual envelopes.”

  “All right,” Payne said. “So you came out of the hotel, then what?”

  “I gave the valet the ticket for the Escalade.” He shook his head. “Damn thing was brand-new. Didn’t have fifty miles on it yet.”

  “Shame. Nice vehicle,” Payne said. He was quiet a moment, then added, “Will your insurance cover the damage?”

  “Not mine. It’s registered in Camilla Rose’s name. She bought it to give me . . . for my birthday, next week.”

  “That’s very generous.”

  “What can I say, Payne?”

  “If the Escalade’s, basically, yours,” Harris put in, “any reason Mr. Benson was driving it?”

  Austin exhaled.

  “Easy. He didn’t drink near as much the night before. My head was hurting, so I asked Kenny if he’d drive.” Watching Harris note that, he went on. “Then, just as we were pulling away, Camilla Rose ran out with that envelope of cash. And then we took off. I was looking down, stuffing the envelope in my sweater, when Kenny said, ‘What the fuck?’

  “I looked up in time to see, just as we about got to the street, that damn van squealing to a stop in front of us. Kenny nailed the brakes and the horn at the same time.”

  “That was the first you’d seen it?”

  “The van? Yeah. And then the first I’d seen that chrome door open and then the shotgun barrel poke out the side. I didn’t realize that that was what it was until a split second before the damn thing went off.”

  Harris made a note, then asked, “What did you do?”

  “What the hell would anybody do? I fucking ducked! Kenny did, too. But he couldn’t get to the floorboard like me.”

  “Did he get hit?”

  “Not then. The guy missed. It was un-fucking-believable. Someone—Joy, I think—when Camilla Rose had her come here, said most of that round hit a Bentley parked behind us. But that’s where our luck ran out.”

  He paused, and looked distracted. Then he made a wry grin.

  “Ol’ Kenny, he never took anything off anyone, and he really started cussing a blue streak. Then he got really pissed and hauled ass at the van, intending on ramming the hell out of it. But then another blast, and I guess since we were closer, that one really found the mark. I heard all kinds of rounds hitting the truck. And then Kenny said, ‘Shit!’ right before we hit the van.”

  “And you were where?” Payne said.

  “All balled up, fetal-like, on the floorboard, t
rying to make this enormous damn body as small a target as possible. I mean, I had just looked up and seen Kenny’s neck basically explode. He was screaming and trying to control the truck. There’s blood going everywhere. And then he groaned this god-awful sound, and I saw his head droop. And when he slumped over, his foot floored the gas pedal.

  “And I’m wedged down, knowing there’s no way to get up and maybe get control of the truck. So while the truck’s swerving, I’m trying to reach up to the keys to kill the damn engine. But they’re just out of reach, so I’m trying to pull myself off the floor. Then, next thing I know, the truck’s sliding. We clip something, and the damn truck rolls over. That throws me off the floor. And then there’s all these noises—oh, man, the noises—they were deafening. And now I’m flying across the ceiling—or whatever you call the top of the truck—and bouncing from window to window. I can see sparks flying outside. Then, all of a sudden—Wham!—we smack something hard. And I go flying one more time.”

  He reached again for the foam cup of water, his left hand shaking.

  After he had sipped from it, he looked back and forth between Payne and Harris.

  “Scariest damn thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life,” Austin said.

  “I’m sure,” Payne said. “So after that, after you went flying one more time . . . ?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I don’t remember a damn thing until I’m on the sidewalk and looking up at a couple of cops and the truck is all in flames and there’s sirens screaming up to us.

  “Then the EMTs started going to work on me. And Camilla Rose ran up. She kinda lost it when she saw all the blood. Those two cops tried to keep her back. When the EMTs found the envelope under my sweater, I asked them to give it to her. They told her I seemed okay, I was going to make it, but they had to take me to the ER. She told me later—here—that she wanted to ride along, but they said she couldn’t and the cops got her a cab.”

  Everyone was quiet as Harris took more notes.

  Finally, Austin broke the silence. “You never said . . . Did the bastards who did it get caught?”

  “No,” Payne said, “there was a chase, but they got away. We did recover the van, and some evidence inside.”

  “Do you have any idea who did it?” Harris said.

  Austin remained silent a long moment.

  “Let me tell you, Detective, that damn question’s been going through my mind. I’m in wealth management. Sometimes people don’t get the return on investments they’d hoped for and then they make some noise.” He paused, then added, “But do this? I can’t imagine. So then I was thinking maybe it’s something simple—like the wrong Escalade? I mean, legally, it was Camilla Rose’s. But they could’ve been after someone driving another one? Lots of them around . . . And driven by people with money.” He paused, then added, “Popular with the drug dealers in Miami Beach, I can tell you. Escalades . . . And those Range Rovers.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Harris said, writing again. He then looked up, and said, “Can you tell us more about Mr. Benson?”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “You said he never took anything off anyone,” Payne put in. “Any reason someone would target him? Maybe retaliation?”

  Austin, in thought for a long moment, shook his head.

  “What about his company?” Payne said.

  “NextGen? What about it? Great start-up. And Kenny’s got an amazing product that’s going to revolutionize the medical markets. He is—was—going to be amazingly wealthy.”

  Harris said, “Then you’ve actually seen this device that—?”

  “Yes,” Austin interrupted. “And it will be huge, once it gets past the damn FDA approval.”

  “Are you aware,” Harris went on, “that some owners of company stock are angry that Mr. Benson has withheld—”

  “Yes, yes,” Austin interrupted again. “And they’re just being impatient and greedy. And stupid. The government’s the holdup.”

  “Some have claimed to have lost a lot of money. Are you aware of any threats to Mr. Benson that—”

  “You’re thinking that that would’ve led to this shooting?” Austin said. “Look, every company has shareholders complaining about something they think the company should or shouldn’t be doing. The fact is, NextGenRx is about to make incredible money.”

  Payne said, “And, presumably, you were going to manage that wealth for Mr. Benson?”

  “Well, it’s what I do.”

  “How is your relationship with Mason Morgan?” Payne said.

  “He’s a fucking prick,” Austin snapped. “And what’s he got to do with any of this, Payne?”

  “Interesting you say that. Camilla Rose told me that you said Mason Morgan was behind the shooting.”

  “She said I said that?” He shook his head. “She told me that that was what she thought.”

  “Did she say why?”

  Austin appeared to think about that, then frowned.

  “It’s no secret she didn’t like Mason,” he said. “Despised him, actually.”

  “Any particular reason?” Payne said.

  “I told you—he’s a fucking prick. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  Payne didn’t respond.

  He finally said, “I need to ask a personal question.”

  “What?”

  “Were you and Camilla Rose romantically involved?”

  “What the hell?” Austin said. “How is that relevant?”

  “Could you just answer the question?” Payne said.

  Austin looked angry at first, then his expression changed, and he appeared to be measuring how he would respond.

  “We were very close,” he finally said, the edge in his tone gone. “It was—she was—extremely complicated.”

  “Were you intimate physically?”

  Austin just looked at him.

  “You mean, like, sex? Yeah, sure.”

  Payne turned to Harris, and said, “Anything further for Mr. Austin, Detective Harris?”

  “Not for now,” Harris said, tucking away his notepad and pen as he turned toward Austin. “Thank you for your time. I am sure we will be in touch soon. You’ll be at The Rittenhouse?”

  “Yeah, soon as I can get the hell out of here,” Austin said, then added, “So, that’s it?”

  “We’re all ears if you have something you’d like to add,” Payne said.

  Austin looked up at the television. The newscast was showing a live shot of a female reporter standing outside the yellow police tape, the exposed front of the tent-covered Jaguar ten feet behind her.

  “What’s going to happen with Camilla Rose?” he said. “I mean, right now? Next?”

  Harris said, “She will be, as Mr. Benson was, taken to the medical examiner’s office. An autopsy is required to determine exact cause of death.”

  Austin, stone-faced, looked into the distance, then nodded slightly.

  “What about her fund-raiser gala?” Payne said. “Will it go on?”

  “I suppose. Maybe, out of respect, it shouldn’t. But I don’t see why not. Everything’s in place. People are coming, if not already here. Joy can run it. She’s been there every step. And I can help her in some capacity.”

  “You might want to be behind the scenes,” Payne said, “as opposed to some high-profile role.”

  “Well, I think that’s a given, considering how I now look like the walking dead.”

  “I wasn’t referencing that,” Payne said. “Have you considered getting protection? Maybe a private security service? At least until we get a better idea of what all’s happened?”

  “Private security—as in, a bodyguard? I really haven’t thought about that. I can take care of myself. I don’t need some rent-a-cop looking over my shoulder for me.”

  Payne nodded, then handed him his business card.

/>   “Here’re my numbers. Call if you think of anything,” he said, and led Harris out the door.

  —

  Halfway down the corridor, Tony Harris said, “You believe him?”

  Payne, who was scrolling through the messages on his cellular telephone, said, “About what?”

  “Any of it . . . All of it . . .”

  “Some of it, yes. Saying the SUV was hers, for example, when I gave him the opportunity to say otherwise, tells me—granted, in a very small way—that he’s capable of telling the truth. But other parts of his story, like the vendor cash and their relationship, make me think, no, I don’t buy it.”

  “What the hell was that about? Asking if they had sex?”

  Payne looked up from the phone, and said, “When I went to the front desk at the hotel and asked if there was a guest by the name of Joy Abrams, I also asked if the register showed Austin and Benson were guests.”

  “And?”

  “No rooms registered under Benson, but two under Austin.”

  Harris’s eyes lit up.

  “Could mean anything,” he said.

  “Including,” Payne added, “that Austin shares neither Camilla Rose’s condo nor her bed.”

  “‘Extremely complicated,’ he called their relationship.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” Payne said, his tone more bitter than he expected. “Ain’t they all?”

  He looked back down at his phone, and added, “McCrory texted that the Abrams woman had a meltdown when he informed her of what happened.”

  “Jesus . . . But I’m not surprised.”

  “He also said—and said Abrams confirmed—that Camilla Rose’s emergency contact is her lawyer in Florida.”

  “I would have bet money that it was her mother,” Harris said. “Or maybe her brother.”

  “Mother, sure, but a lawyer makes sense. Especially if you believe what they say about, to use Austin’s phrase, ‘that fucking prick of a brother.’”

  Payne tapped the screen, then groaned.

  “I really hate these calls with blocked IDs,” he said. “Especially multiple ones, in a row, to my personal number. Just say who you are if you really want me to answer your call.”