Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

“Austin’s fancy version of that is: ‘While we do our best to offer outstanding investment opportunities, we also make sure the buyer knows that nothing is guaranteed.’”

Grosse picked up the prospectus and began reading aloud. “‘All potential investors in our offering (hereafter The Fund), before buying any security or investment instrument, must read and understand the entire prospectus and any memorandum. Be aware that these will cont

ain what are known as forward-looking statements. And that these statements address the performance of investments into the future and are OPINIONS of the company. At the time of offering, these OPINIONS are considered factual BUT are subject to influences beyond The Fund’s control, to include economic, business, and other unknowns that could effect the performance of The Fund.’”

He looked at Payne, and added, “Et cetera, et cetera.”

Payne nodded. “So if the market tanks, or another bubble bursts, you’ve been warned.”

“More or less. Certainly cautioned. What they like calling an abundance of caution. No one could sue for fraudulent enticement. But the investors, after hearing a twenty percent return, their eyes glaze over the fine print. Greed gets ’em every time. Even people who know better.”

“Unbelievable,” Payne said, shaking his head. “Austin raked in all that money, made a billion-dollar gamble, and blew it by going cheap—by not hiring union workers. It brought down his whole house of cards.”

“And would have brought down Camilla Rose, had she not taken my advice and let me invest her personal funds.”

Michael Grosse began returning the papers to his briefcase.

“Austin can’t survive this,” he said, “not when Morgan’s lawyers get the feds involved. I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls them from the hospital. Taking everything Johnny said at face value—which, I grant you, isn’t exactly wise, but, in this case, it’s adequate. Considering all he admitted to, he is looking at doing serious time.”

“Yet he still thinks he can recover,” Payne said, “pull a hundred-million-dollar rabbit out of his hat.”

Grosse nodded, and began to say, “Well, he got away with it a long—”

Their heads all turned as they heard a thundering Boom! in the distance.

The lights dimmed. Windows rattled. Car horns up and down the street began honking.

Explosion, Payne thought. Those are car alarms it triggered.

“What the hell was that?” Michael Grosse blurted.

“Something big just blew up,” Payne said, getting to his feet. “Could just be another of those PECO underground power transformers. Infrastructure in this city needs a lot of work. I’ll be in touch.”

[ FOUR ]

The Bellevue

200 South Broad Street

Center City

Philadelphia

Saturday, January 7, 8:55 P.M.

“It has not been a bad crowd, considering the circumstances,” Aimee Wolter said, taking a sip from her martini. “A lot of cancellations—including Stan Colt, thank God, who did write a big check—but that’s not surprising. Camilla Rose was the real draw.”

She was standing with Sergeant Matt Payne and Inspector Peter Wohl, both impeccably dressed in black tie and dinner jackets. They surrounded a high table covered with a white tablecloth near one of the eight well-stocked open bars. Between Payne and Wohl were drinks, two club sodas with lime in highball glasses, meant to suggest cocktails.

“I’d write that big check just to keep that pervert Colt away,” Payne said, causing Aimee to laugh.

Matt Payne looked around the grand ballroom. In addition to blue shirts posted outside, including the immaculately dressed Highway Patrol, there were a dozen plainclothes detectives spread out among the two hundred attendees.

His eye stopped at Willie Lane, who was seated at his table, staring at a cocktail glass. Payne noted that he had been going to the bar often, and, judging by how long the bartender kept the bottles upended, ordering doubles or triples. A waiter, a teenage male with a short black ponytail and carrying a couple pitchers of water, was making another cycle around the table, topping off glasses.

Surprising to Payne, the dinner had been better than expected—he had devoured his filet mignon and grilled asparagus—and the comments from the four after-dinner speakers were mercifully short.

There had followed an onstage skit performed by a score of children who had attended Camilla’s Kids Camps, and, after they had exited stage right—a few children in wheelchairs with IV drip lines hanging from bottles above their heads—the master of ceremony announcing over the applause that there would be a fifteen-minute break before the final presentation.