Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

“In West Palm, at the rehabilitation facility,” he said, “when we went to pick up Camilla Rose. He came on so strong and charming that I felt he was trolling. I’d seen that behavior in others and naturally suspected that Austin smelled the money, a lot of it, and was working on getting his claws in Camilla Rose.”

“It wasn’t possible there was a genuine attraction?”

“Did you get a good look at her in that photograph?” Morgan said. “Let’s be candid, Matthew. Please!”

Payne considered that, then said, “And so you had him investigated.”

“For her sake, first and foremost, as well as the family’s.”

“And you found what? Did he just happen to wind up in Florida, in this particular West Palm rehab, or did he go there, as you say, trolling?”

Morgan took a sip of coffee, then said, “Aren’t I doing your job for you?”

“I’m just asking questions.”

Morgan made a sour face.

“And so you are,” he said. “My apology. I said I would help and I will. I learned that Austin’s wild side went back to at least age sixteen, when he caused an automobile accident that killed a young man. He had been drinking.”

“He was found guilty of vehicular homicide, felony DUI?” Harris said. “Do you have the name of who died?”

“The name’s in the file; I’ll get it for you. But, no, Detective, Austin’s parents had the financial wherewithal to hire that hotshot, high-profile Houston criminal defense attorney. He pled to a lesser charge and got off with probation. It didn’t hurt his case that the driver of the other car, the one who died, also had a blood alcohol level in the double digits. And then there were lesser wild episodes during his college years.”

He took a sip of coffee and then continued. “When Austin wound up in West Palm, it was because he had gone back to self-medicating the chemical imbalance in the brain, which is a fancy way of saying he was drinking away the mood swings. He had just spent three months at the Henninger House on Galveston Bay—arguably among the top-five clinics, if not the best—but because those who are bipolar tend to believe they have all the answers to everything, he said his diagnosis was suspect and wanted a second opinion.”

“Three months?” Payne said.

“Yes. And, understand, that is at seventeen hundred dollars a day. West Palm runs around twelve hundred. Another clue that he has some money. Insurance does not cover such facilities.”

Payne quickly did the rough math.

Jesus. That’s close to a hundred fifty grand for ninety days.

All wasted when he went back to the booze . . .

“After the last time we got her out of rehab, which had been Henninger House,” Morgan said, “she announced that she needed time for herself. I suspected she took off with Austin, but don’t really know.”

“Where did she go?”

“I’m not exactly sure. At some point—toward the end, I believe—back to California, to the Napa Valley and Carmel. One of her kids’ camps is out there, on Monterey Bay. But, I think, first Santiago, Chile, then Mendoza, in Argentina.”

“And she was clean and sober?” Payne said. “In all thos

e wine countries, of all places?”

Mason Morgan shrugged. “All I know is, I did not hear a word from her. She communicated only through her lawyer, who handled her affairs, including her quarterly payments.”

“You weren’t bothered by that?”

“Absolutely not. Why would I be? Have you any idea what it’s like waiting for a surprise call in the middle of the night, knowing you have to drop everything and rescue someone? Only to know that once you get them clean and sober, they’re just going to relapse? It sucks the life out of you.” He paused in thought, then finished. “So, no, it was a welcome relief not to hear from her. No news is good news, they say. Besides, my conscience was clear. We had time and time again rushed to her rescue. No good deed . . . et cetera, et cetera.”

Payne nodded.

“How long was she gone?”

Mason Morgan rubbed his chin, then said, “A little over two years, I believe. Then I received a letter from her lawyer—an e-mail—that she was ready to return. And within days she was back in full form, once again overseeing the day-to-day running of her charities and the company philanthropies.”

“Mr. Morgan,” Harris said, “when was the last time you saw Austin and your sister?”