He hit SEND, and, a moment later, an error message box popped up: NUMBER NOT VALID.
He sent another text, and the same message appeared.
“Maybe a burner?” Harris said.
Payne drained his drink.
“That,” Payne said, waving for the check, “or maybe sent through one of those anonymous messaging websites that mask the sender’s Internet address.”
“Like the one that Temple University party girl who got dumped used to taunt the guy’s wife—‘Hey, your loving hubby’s having a wild affair.’”
“And attached a photo of her Sugar Daddy in an extremely compromising act,” Payne said. “That’s it, the one Kerry cracked. I’ll get him to see if he can run down this one after he’s gotten the cell tower dump. Right now, there’s nothing we can do until our early-morning meeting with Austin and then Camilla Rose . . .”
“Yeah.”
“So I’m going home and feel sorry for myself.”
III
[ ONE ]
Rittenhouse Square
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 4:35 A.M.
When the ringing of Matt Payne’s cellular phone on the bedside table woke him from a deep sleep at four-thirty, he immediately worried it was something to do with Amanda.
The last words he expected to hear were Camilla Rose Morgan is dead.
It had taken him five minutes in his foggy state of mind for the news to really register. Most of that fog, he realized, was because of all the scotch whisky he had consumed, the reminders of which were a throbbing head and a dry mouth that felt as if it was stuffed with cotton balls.
Then, through all that, the reason why he had hit the sauce so hard came back into painfully sharp focus. The thought of that made him feel there was a very good chance that he would become sick to his stomach. And right there and then.
He inhaled deeply, and let it slowly out, and the moment passed.
—
“Camilla Rose Morgan is dead,” Tony Harris had announced. “I’m at the scene at The Rittenhouse.”
Payne, rubbing his eyes, had then made out the sound of sirens once again bouncing off the buildings surrounding the park.
“Gimme ten,” Payne had muttered, and broke off the call as he shuffled the short distance to the bathroom, delicately checking beneath his bandage as he went.
—
Tony Harris was in the hotel lobby of The Rittenhouse, talking with Detective Richard J. McCrory, when Payne arrived exactly ten minutes later. Dick McCrory, a native of Boston, was thirty-nine, of medium build, with close-cropped dark hair graying at the temples. He had served on the department for eighteen years, six of those with Homicide.
Harris watched Payne passing through the bright glare of a television news camera while waving off a reporter’s questions. Harris motioned to McCrory, who turned and saw Payne and then disappeared around the corner.
Harris noticed that Payne looked somewhat pale and wondered how much of that was from a hangover or because he had inspected the scene before coming inside. Or both.
When the Crime Scene Unit blue shirts had arrived, they immediately erected a ten-by-ten-foot aluminum-framed canopy tent—one looking, more or less, like the square ones used by tailgaters in stadium parking lots—over a sleek silver Jaguar XJR sedan parked by the fountain. The tent’s opaque vinyl top and side panels shielded the scene—and the dignity of the victim—from the lenses of the news media, as well as from passersby and those looking down from the windows of nearby high-rises. Only the vehicle’s front and rear bumpers were exposed, and yellow police tape was strung around the XJR to create a protective perimeter.
Harris also noted that Payne had pulled on the clothes he had worn the previous night. His camel hair jacket was unbuttoned, and Harris could just make out the butt of the Colt .45 in the shoulder holster beneath it. The black leather case holding his badge hung from a chromed bead chain at the middle of his necktie. He hadn’t shaved.
“Jesus H. Christ, Tony,” Payne said, shaking his head. “The day that something like that doesn’t shake me to the core, just shoot me. Please.”
“No shit. Likewise.”
McCrory came back from around the corner bearing two large, waxed-paper cups of coffee.
He held out one each to Harris and Payne.
“Black and black, gentlemen,” he said, a distinct trace of his Southie accent still evident.
“I owe you, Dick,” Payne said, and, before taking a sip, asked, “So, what do we know?”
“Right now,” Harris said, “only that at oh-four-hundred she landed on the roof of that Jag, which is one of the chauffeured house vehicles. Made one helluva sound, then set off the car’s alarm. The guy on concierge duty ran out and found her.”
“Fell? Jumped? Pushed? What?”
Harris shrugged, and looked at McCrory.
“Door was open to her condo when they went up,” McCrory then said, “but no one was there. They found the place trashed. Looks like a party that got out of control. Booze bottles and narcotics—some coke, Ecstasy—everywhere.”
“Oh-four-hundred?” Payne said, exchanging a knowing look with Harris. “Security get any complaints?”
“None,” McCrory said. “Hank Nasuti has been upstairs making lots of new friends by knocking on her neighbors’ doors. So far, everyone has told him they know nothing, that they slept through whatever went on.” He paused and looked at Payne, and added, “How much of that you figure is the Center City version of the hood’s no-snitching bullshit?”
Payne considered that briefly, then said, “Some people here, for a number of reasons, can be very tight-lipped. But, by and large, people who invest in a place like this don’t tolerate wild parties and would say something. There are families living here, some with small children.”
He thought, Like I was hoping to be—and still am hoping to be.
McCrory nodded.
Payne looked at Harris, and said, “Last we know for certain is that she was in her condo, clearly alone, at nine twenty-five last night.”
“How do we know that?” McCrory said.
“She told me.”
McCrory looked at him, then glanced at Harris.
“Take his word for it, Dick.”
“Short story is,” Payne offered, “I ran into her as she came out of the Library Bar just after nine. She was drinking with some group there and feeling her oats. Minutes later, I watched her go up an elevator to the condos. And then I was on my way to meet with Detective Harris. She sent me, at the aforementioned time of nine twenty-five, a picture of herself on her terrace.”
“Mary, Joseph, and all the fookin’ saints,” McCrory said. “Maybe someone else was there with her? The party maybe just getting going?”
Payne shook his head.
“She was alone then,” he said.
“Ohh-kay,” McCrory said after a while, looking clearly impressed with Payne’s story. “I’d heard a rumor that you were quite the swordsman back in the day. That’s some catch.”
“Absolutely nothing happened between us,” Payne snapped, his tone matter-of-fact. “She had something to tell me, she said, and whatever the hell it was, now she’s dead.”
They locked eyes.
McCrory then shrugged.
“Yeah, Matt,” he said, looking genuinely embarrassed. “I let my mouth run. Sorry. Anyway, so we need to grab video from her floor—”
“That’s going to be a challenge,” Payne interrupted, “as there are no surveillance cameras up there. People who pay a million or more for a condominium guard their privacy rather fiercely, which is one of the reasons why they tend to be tight-lipped, too. Different story here in the hotel, with a far more transient crowd. Its floors are all covered, stairwells, everything.”
When Payne saw the questioning look on McC
rory’s face, he added, “I’ve been doing some research on the building. Long story.”
McCrory nodded, and said, “Then we’ll get the footage of her path between the elevators and the bar and start by building a time line after, say, nine, nine-fifteen. Maybe she came back down to the bar or people from the bar went up.” He paused, then added, “Bartender, waitresses—they should know who was there and when.”
“And/or they’ll know someone else on staff who does,” Payne said. “The condo residents have access to the same amenities as the hotel, from room service at any hour to housekeeping, the gym, the spa. Lots of eyes and ears.”
“Yeah, and the service industry is pretty tight.”
“Matt,” Harris said, “Camilla Rose said her assistant came to the hospital for that envelope of cash. She—or maybe it’s a he or maybe there’s more than one—should know who, at least, some of them are. But we didn’t get her name or number.”
“We can reach her through the foundation,” Payne said, then glanced at his wristwatch. “In maybe three, four hours?”
Payne carefully sipped his coffee, then his expression changed. He scrolled through his list of recent calls on his cell phone, then dialed one of them.
“I got this when I called her last night,” Payne said, holding out the phone for them to hear. “Wait for the end.”
“Hi!” Camilla Rose Morgan’s voice came over the speakerphone.
Payne felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Hearing her voice brought back mental images of her—in his car, drinking from the miniature bottle of vodka; in the tight black satin dress; in the picture on the terrace; and finally on the collapsed roof of the Jaguar—and then made him wonder if she would still be alive had he not fled the elevator . . . and her advances.
“So sorry I missed you,” she said, her voice with its usual chipper tone. “Please leave a message. If it’s foundation-related and urgent, my assistant, Joy, is happy to help you at 212-555-5643.”
“New York City number,” McCrory said, taking his cell phone out and quickly punching in the number.
Payne broke off his call as a pleasant young woman’s voice, also chipper in tone, came over McCrory’s speakerphone. There had not been a single ring; the call had rolled right into the voice mail function.
“Hello! This is Joy Abrams with Camilla’s Kids. Your call is extremely important to us, so please leave a message and we will get back to you right away. Thank you for your support!”
McCrory left a message, identifying himself as a police detective and saying he was calling about an emergency concerning Ms. Morgan. Next, he sent a text message repeating the same message.
“Stating the obvious,” Payne then said, “the instant voice mail suggests that either she turned off the phone or its battery crapped out. Like most decent people at this hour, she most likely is enjoying her sleep.”
Payne then held up his right index finger.
“Eureka!” he said. “And very likely doing so in the hotel here. Be right back.”
Harris and McCrory watched as he walked over to the front desk. A female desk clerk, her attractive face not masking her sadness, appeared from an office door behind the desk. She forced a smile. Payne said something as he held up his identification. She turned her head toward it, nodded, and then she looked down behind the desk and quickly typed on her computer terminal.
A moment later, she was saying something while reaching across the counter to hand Payne a telephone receiver.
Putting it to his ear, he silently waited almost a full thirty seconds before gesturing to the clerk to redial the number. After another fifteen seconds, he finally spoke into the receiver. He then handed it back to the desk clerk, and crossed the lobby to Harris and McCrory.
“Joy Abrams said she will be down shortly,” he announced. “She was out cold. She finally answered the second time I called. I couldn’t tell by her voice if the deep sleep had been induced by alcohol or maybe some other substance. Just sounded sleepy.”
“Then she doesn’t have a clue about her boss,” McCrory said.
Payne shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “But I told her she’d find you, Dick, at the front desk. The clerk said their security guy will give you access to the Library Bar. You can break the news to her in private. It’s small and quiet—”
“Good idea—”
“And you then can ask her (a) if she happened to be in the bar or the condo at any time last night, with or without Camilla Rose, and (b) if she knows who was with her, and (c) tell her we need to get our hands on the complete list of attendees for the fund-raiser. Meantime, get the security guy—or, failing that, someone in management—to pull a copy of Camilla Rose’s lease agreement and see who she noted as her emergency contact.”
“You got it, boss,” McCrory said.
Payne turned to Harris.
“Let’s go wake up Austin and ruin his day.”
[ TWO ]
Hahnemann University Hospital
Center City
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 5:15 A.M.
A beefy nurse in her forties, wearing faded blue scrubs and carrying a clipboard close to her ample bosom, slowly trundled down the corridor escorting Homicide Sergeant Matthew Payne and Detective Anthony Harris to the hospital room of John Tyler Austin.
As they neared it, they found the door cracked open and the overhead fluorescent lights flickering. The television was on, the volume loud, and a perky female voice could be heard announcing, “Stay tuned. Action News weather is next.”
The nurse looked at Payne and made a face, exasperation bordering on anger.
“That don’t surprise me one bit,” she said. “He’s been more than a little trouble. Demanding this. Demanding that. Wouldn’t break my heart if we could just treat-and-street him. But as bad as we need open beds, he really don’t need to be up and moving just yet.”
Payne and Harris nodded. They knew that hospitals constantly struggled to deal with uninsured patients, many of them homeless, who regularly showed up at the emergency room feigning yet another life-threatening illness. What these so-called frequent fliers really were after was three hots and a cot—food and a place to sleep—but if beds were full, what they instead got was treat-and-street—given whatever meds necessary, even if only an aspirin, and then discharged.
As the nurse began to reach for the handle and shoulder the door open, Payne said, “That’s all right. We can take it from here. Thank you.”
The nurse looked at him, then Harris, and seemed about to say something, then shrugged.
“Okay, Officers. I’ll be down at the end of the hall, if you need anything,” she said, then trundled back toward the nurses’ station.
Payne rapped his knuckle on the door, and when he heard “Yeah?” on the other side, he swung it open.
John Tyler Austin was standing beside the bed, adjusting his clothing. He had his back to the door.
He was imposing. Payne figured that he stood six-foot-three and had to be at least two-twenty. He was muscular, with broad shoulders, and a square jaw. He was wearing a faded sweater, blue jeans, and pointed-toe Western boots.
“Mr. Austin?” Payne said.
Austin turned, moving very carefully, clearly in pain. He had a deep purple-black bruise practically covering his left cheek and ear. He favored his right arm, holding it delicately across his torso.
And he looked grief-stricken.
Payne thought, He knows. He saw it on the news.
“Who the hell are you?” Austin demanded, his voice deep, his intense gray eyes looking as if they could bore holes through cold steel.
Payne produced his black leather wallet containing his badge and ID.
“Sergeant Payne, Mr. Austin. Philadelphia Police Department. And this is Detective Harris . . .”
&nb
sp; They stepped inside the room and Harris gently closed the door.
“I am afraid we have bad news—”
“I saw the goddamn news,” Austin snapped.
He gestured toward the television, hanging on a bracket high in the corner, then looked around, found the remote control, and pushed a button. The sound muted.
“So, you’re Payne, huh? What the hell happened to Camilla Rose? The news report said some unnamed source claimed she jumped from her balcony. But that had not been officially confirmed.”
“I’m afraid I can confirm it’s her,” Payne said. “We just came from the scene. I’m very sorry.”
Austin expelled air as if he had been hit in the gut. With his left hand, he reached back to the bed, then eased himself onto its edge. His head dropped.
“You need some help?” Payne said.
Austin, still looking down, silently held up his left hand, palm out, and shook his head.
Payne exchanged glances with Harris.
After a pause, Austin looked up, and said, “My God, why the hell would she do that? Do you know anything?”
“Very little on Camilla Rose, including if she did or did not jump—”
“What the hell does that mean, Payne?” Austin interrupted. “You just said she . . . Oh, I see. Maybe she fell?”
“Or possibly was pushed,” Payne said. “We just don’t know. Nor do we have much more on Mr. Benson. It’s all very early and still being investigated.”
Austin stared at him, his gray eyes turning more intense as he considered that.
Harris said, “Do you know how to get in touch with Mr. Benson’s immediate family? They need to be informed of what’s happened. And we need to ask them some questions.”
Austin shook his head.
“He has no kin. We grew up in Houston, in the same neighborhood—River Oaks. He was an only child like me. Never married.”
“Parents?” Payne said.
“They died in a plane crash two years ago in the Rocky Mountains. The old man flew their King Air into a rock-filled cloud on their way back from Colorado.”
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