Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

Jesus Christ, this place looks spotless, he thought, making a quick scan of the main living room and, beyond it, the open kitchen and dining area. That detective with Payne said there’d been a party. Booze bottles everywhere. Joy must have sent a cleaning crew in.

“Hello?” he called out. “Anyone here? Hello?”

No one. Good.

He let the door click shut behind him, then threw the dead bolt, before tossing the keycard onto the glass-topped table beside the door. It landed next to a Rittenhouse receipt and a business card.

He glanced at the receipt—it read “Your account has been billed. Thank you for letting us serve you. Alicia, Housekeeping”—and picked up the business card.

It’s that damn Payne’s, he thought. Same as the one he gave me, except he wrote another number on it.

So, the bastard was here.

Or did Camilla Rose leave it? Or one of the cops?

Damn! I don’t know.

He put the card back on the table, took out his new cellular telephone, and, reading the number off the housekeeping receipt, called the hotel and asked to be connected with the front desk. After announcing who he was, he said that he wanted one of the bellmen sent to pack up all his personal items in his hotel room and deliver them to Residence 2150.

Austin walked through the living room, trying not to look toward the balcony, out where Camilla Rose last stood. As he made his way to the kitchen, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a small zippered plastic bag. It held about a half cup of a grayish white powder.

The kitchen had a large island, and on its polished-granite top, behind the deep sink’s gooseneck faucet, was a stainless steel block holding a set of high-end chef’s knives. Austin poured a small pile of the powder onto the stone and from the block pulled the smallest utensil, a paring knife with a razor-thin blade. With a practiced hand, he chopped the powder to reduce its lumps, then formed four narrow parallel lines the length of the three-inch blade.

He placed the knife on the counter, pulled open a drawer beneath it, and came out with a short cocktail straw. He inserted an end of the straw in his right nostril, pressed his left nostril to form a seal, and leaned over and inhaled a line of powder with a quick, steady, deep breath. He stood, snorting as he rubbed his nose, then placed the straw end in his other nostril and repeated the process.

As he stood leaning against the island, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the wave of warmth that began flowing through him. Numbness set in, and he felt at ease.

The interlude was interrupted by his telephone ringing.

“Damn it.”

He pulled the phone from his pocket. The caller ID showed WILLIAM LANE. He started to answer it but had second thoughts. He shook his head as the call rolled into voice mail. After a couple seconds, the phone indicated a new message. He listened to the deep gravel voice: “Johnny, it’s me. You need to call soon as you get this. I saw my uncle and did as you asked. There could be some real trouble.”

“Real trouble?” Austin said aloud, looking at the phone. “Well, Willie, no shit.”

He slid the phone across the counter, leaned over, and inhaled the last two lines. There was a bit of powder left on the counter. He licked his finger, then wiped up the residue and rubbed it on his upper gums.

John Austin, his nose beginning to run, snorted as he looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. He felt his heart race. He was not surprised to see Camilla Rose standing there, martini in hand, her head back and laughing. He knew it wasn’t actually her, only his memory of the last time he had seen her on the slate-tiled balcony. Yet the vision felt powerful.

He walked across the room and out onto the balcony. There was an icy wind, and he crossed his arms over his chest against it, taking care not to aggravate his injured right arm.

As he passed the darkened fireplace, it lit up with a Whoosh! of flames.

“Shit!” he shouted, jumping away from it.

His heart felt as if it would pound through his chest at any moment. He stared at the flickering flames, their heat cutting the bitter cold air.

Did she have something to do with this?

He glanced around the balcony and back through the condo’s windows. He saw no one in the well-lit rooms, and only then remembered that the natural gas–fueled fireplace had a timer. Camilla Rose had told him that she set it to light up nightly at seven-thirty.

Still, it had unnerved him. And he took a deep breath, let it out.

He turned and looked at the thirty-foot-long railing along the balcony’s outer edge. Its slate footing held thick, four-foot-square upright glass panels. They reflected the fireplace’s red-orange flames.

He had no idea at what point along the glass rail she had been standing before going over. But he now visualized her at its center, the cold breeze blowing back her long hair and dress. As he approached, he saw her looking over the side, back at him, then reaching out to him, the soft dress clinging to her body and flapping on her outstretched arm.

And he saw her leaning over the side—and slip away.