“Suppose that makes me an enabler,” Grosse said, turning back to the bar and pulling down two crystal glasses. “But booze, I guess, is better than that crap you’re abusing.”
“Go to hell.”
Grosse half filled the glasses with the scotch whisky, added a splash of water and a single ice cube to each, handed one glass to Austin.
Grosse held up his glass, tipped it to Austin, and said, “To Camilla Rose.”
Austin did the same, adding, “And Kenny.”
Grosse took a heavy sip, looked out to the balcony. He shook his head again, then looked at Austin.
“Anything new about what happened to her?”
“I’ve heard nothing since I called you.”
Grosse glanced around the condominium. “This place looks untouched since I was here last week.”
“It was cleaned this afternoon. Apparently she had a party before . . . before what happened.”
Grosse nodded as he scanned the room. “I keep expecting her to make her usual grand entrance, floating in here from her bedroom, dressed to the nines, filling the room with that incredible personality of hers. This place feels eerily empty without her.”
“I know.”
Grosse took another sip of his drink, and said, “Well, anyway, first of all, I finally got in contact with Camilla Rose’s mother. She took the news—maybe because she sounded half in the bag—rather well.”
“When is she coming?”
“No time soon—”
“Jesus, why am I not surprised? She really is one cold bitch.”
“Because she’s on a cruise ship off Patagonia.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten she was going on that. For some reason, I thought it was next month.”
“Yeah, well, even if she skips the ten days in Mendoza and Buenos Aires that’s scheduled before she gets off the boat, earliest she can be back in the States is a week from now. The boat she’s on isn’t big enough to land a helicopter, if she was up to that.”
“Can’t say I’m disappointed. I don’t want to deal with her.”
Grosse walked over and opened the weathered-leather flap of his saddleback briefcase.
“There is something you do need to deal with.”
“What?”
He pulled out a manila folder and from it removed a single sheet of paper. He put it on the countertop.
“That’s a copy of the e-mail I got at noon from Morgan International. Your firm should be getting notice, if you haven’t already.”
“About what? I haven’t looked at any business e-mails today.”
“It’s about Morgan International’s philanthropy arm. They want their investments returned.”
“What? Which investments?”
“All of them,” Grosse said. “They want all the money that Camilla Rose invested in your funds returned.”
“The philanthropy does? Or Mason?” Austin said as he snapped up the sheet and read it. Then he blurted, “That miserable son of a bitch!”