Payne read it aloud. “‘Austin got lucky this time.’”
[ THREE ]
Harris and Payne walked toward the Crown Vic after leaving the coal tower.
Harris had just punched in a number on his cellular telephone and now said into it, “Please connect me with Mr. John Austin’s room.”
He looked at Payne, who said, “Better try both rooms he has in his name.”
“There’s only one now. After the crime scene guys packed up the room Benson had used, Austin gave it up.” Harris paused, then said, “Damn it. Got voice mail.”
He broke off the call.
“Hank should still be there doing interviews,” Payne said. “Have him get security and go check the room.”
“You’re reading my mind,” Harris said, nodding.
Payne’s phone vibrated, and when he looked at it, he muttered, “What the hell?”
“What?” Harris said.
Payne’s head jerked up. He began a quick scan of the immediate area, looking from Penn Treaty Park to the left, then up at the main power plant building, then along the riverbank to the right.
“Is it just coincidence with the timing or is someone watching?” he said, handing the phone to Harris for him to read. “All I can make out is that pair of joggers on the trail.”
Harris looked, saw that the two were in the middle of doing stretching exercises at one of the park benches, then glanced at the phone.
He read the text message aloud: “‘We gave those jagoffs to you. The dumbasses went rogue. The triggerman is the big bastard, if that makes any difference. There could be others, but we’ll handle it.’”
He handed the phone back, and said, “They found blood in the back of their abandoned van. Maybe they can match it to this guy.”
“If he’s got any left,” Payne said as he wrote a reply message: Tell me more . . .
Immediately after he sent it, another message box popped up: NOT A VALID NUMBER.
“Damn it,” Payne said. “Invalid.”
“They sent that text to the same number you gave out at The Rittenhouse, right?” Harris said, meeting Payne’s eyes. “The caller ID box is red.”
“Yeah. And I handed out a bunch of cards, said to share the numbers with anyone.”
They approached the Crown Vic and got in.
“What the hell could be The Rittenhouse connection to the killers?” Harris said as he started the engine.
Payne looked out at the tower, then said, “And what I’m wondering is why, instead of calling nine-one-one, they didn’t also text me that we could find these guys here?”
“Maybe two different people? Or, if the same person, they were just given your number?”
“Or maybe they didn’t want to establish a pattern,” Payne said. “Hell if I know. But we need to find Austin now or find someone who can get a message to him.” He read the text again, and said, “It makes my blood boil. The bastards abuse two human beings, then string them up like trophies. It’s barbaric. Who knows what else they are capable of?”
“Apparently,” Harris said, with a nod toward Payne’s phone, “at least more of the same.”
Payne looked out the windshield, then turned to Harris.
“You have Camilla Rose’s assistant’s number?”
Harris shook his head. “We can get it from McCrory.”
“Wait,” Payne said, and dialed Camilla Rose Morgan’s cellular phone number. “This might be quicker.”
Payne expected that his call, as before, would automatically roll over to voice mail—the forensics lab now had possession of her cellular telephone, the pieces of which had been recovered beside the Jaguar—and he could again get Joy Abram’s mobile number from the end of the recording.
But there was no recording. Instead, following what sounded like two clicks, a familiar woman’s voice answered.
“Good afternoon, Matt. It’s Aimee Wolter. What can I do for you?”
After the initial shock—first, that a live person had answered, and, second, that it was a woman—the explanation for that fell into place.
Payne, who was familiar with Wolter both from her business and from the social circuit, knew there was a reason she named her firm Dignatio Worldwide. She was well known for protecting the dignatio—Latin for dignity, reputation, honor—of an international clientele. Corporations to celebrities, she handled the heavy hitters.
He remembered that Aimee Wolter had managed the publicity for the Harold Morgan Cancer Research Center’s fund-raising campaign, which, of course, Camilla Rose had run. It logically followed that her kids charity was a client, too.
Aimee Wolter picked up on Payne’s hesitation.
“You’re not the first to be caught off guard,” she said. “With the event still scheduled for tomorrow night, and Joy handling everything as best she can, we decided that I should cover Camilla Rose’s phone calls and had her number forwarded to mine. Some I don’t answer until I know what they’re calling about, but your name came up on the ID. Is this about my interview this morning with your detective? Have you learned—”
“We need to talk,” Payne interrupted. “But, first, do you or Joy Abrams know where John Austin is?”
“Hold on,” Wolter said. Payne heard her raise her voice. “Anybody hear from that asshole Austin yet?”
Payne’s eyebrows rose.
A second later, Wolter was back on the phone. “No idea where he is, Matt. We went to the hospital this morning and he’d signed himself out. And there was no answer when one of my assistants knocked on his hotel room door.”
“What time was that?”
Payne heard her raise her voice again. “When did Samantha knock on that bastard’s door?”
Wolter came back on the phone. “At nine this morning, and again around one this afternoon.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not exactly a fan of Austin’s?”
“Because I’m not. I’m absolutely crushed about what’s happened to Camilla Rose. She wasn’t just a client; she was a friend. And I’m furious. I can’t help but think that what happened is because of something he’s done.”
“Do you know of something?”
“No, nothing specific. Which is what I told your detective. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
Payne was quiet, then said, “Okay. It’s critical I find Austin as soon as possible. There’s reason to believe he’s in more danger.”
“Because of yesterday,” she said, her tone questioning.
“I cannot say but . . .” Payne began, felt his phone begin vibrating, and said, “Sorry. Hold a second.”
When he pulled it from his ear to look at the screen, he saw the caller ID read DENNY COUGHLIN.
“All right,” he said into the phone. “I’ve got to take this call. Please let me know if you hear from him. I’ll be in touch shortly.”
“Sure thing, Matt,” she said, and hung up.
Payne tapped the screen and answered the call: “Yessir, Uncle Denny?”
Harris looked at him.
“Yessir,” Payne, after a moment, said. “I do believe I’ve been there a time or two. See you tomorrow.”
[ FOUR ]
Ninth and Vine Streets
Chinatown
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 5:02 P.M.
A little more than a mile south of the deserted power station—and a block away from the Roundhouse—Philadelphia City Council President William G. Lane, Jr., stood on the brakes of his silver Mercedes-Benz SUV as he approached the broken curb beside a building construction site. Beneath a tall tower crane, a massive skeleton of steelwork rose more than thirty stories.
Lane was in his early forties, with an average build and a very black complexion. He kept his dark hair short and had a three-day growth of beard that almost masked
the heavy pitting of acne scars. He wore designer sunglasses, a black blazer over a gray merino wool sweater, and dark slacks with Italian loafers.
The luxury SUV’s large tires eased over the crumble of concrete, crunching to a stop alongside the fifteen-foot-tall, fabric-covered chain-link fence that encircled what months earlier had been a parking lot of asphalt.
Lane took a final pull on his cigarette, opened the sunroof and exhaled through it as he tossed the smoldering butt.
I really don’t have a good feeling about this, he thought, checking his cellular telephone, then sending a text message to John T. Austin that simply read I’m here.
As he began to light another cigarette, he smelled fried food. He glanced at the two-story building directly across Ninth Street and saw a restaurant. Its big window had WONTON KING in faded red lettering and, under that, what he assumed was Chinese. By its door, a teenage male was putting a large white bag into the cargo basket of a battered moped. On the basket was plastic signage displaying a phone number and WONTON KING—SPEEDY DELIVERY.
Lane turned and looked through the windshield. There was an enormous double gate ten feet ahead, the gates folded open against the interior of the fencing. A driveway of crushed stone, rutted from the steady traffic of heavy-duty trucks and industrial equipment, led inside.
On the far side of the open gates was a black Chevy Tahoe. Lane wondered if the SUV was Austin’s. It was parked on the broken sidewalk in front of a ten-foot-square vinyl banner. The banner had an architectural rendering of the construction project: a thirty-three-story, glass-sheathed tower. Above the rendering was HOUSE OF MING—LUXURY CONDOMINIUM LIVING—PRE-CONSTRUCTION PRICING FROM $1 MILLION. Under the dollar figure was a box that read REMAINING UNITS AVAILABLE, and then, on a sticker that clearly had been affixed over a series of similar stickers, the number 12.
Amazing, Lane thought. Out of more than probably two hundred condos, only a dozen are left to buy before the place is even finished. Just like Austin said.
Wonder how long the dives like Wonton King will last with the property values going up?
But, then, I bet the developer’s brother-in-law—or cousin, nephew, whatever—have already used a straw buyer to get that property for dirt before anybody had a clue this high-rise was going in.
I do give Austin credit. He said the one big benefit of Chinatown being “the ugly stepchild of Center City” is it’s got the last cheap real estate that can be converted into prime properties.
Chinatown—which covered about forty blocks, from Arch Street north to Vine, and Broad Street east to Seventh—was in Lane’s district. He knew only a few parcels there remained diamonds in the rough. And with councilmanic prerogative—Philadelphia’s city charter dictated that council members, because they knew their district and constituents best, were granted final approval over land sales in their districts that got the green light from the Vacant Property Review Committee of the Philadelphia Redevelopment Authority—he effectively controlled them all.
Lane looked back at the Tahoe but could not see anyone in it. He glanced through the open gates and saw a line of construction workers, all in heavy work clothes, reflective orange safety vests, and white polymer hard hats. They were on the far side of a wooden shack—a sign in front read ALL VISITORS MUST CHECK IN HERE—and looking as if they were clocking out for the day.
From around the edge of the open left gate, a tall white male came walking out. He also wore an orange vest and white hard hat. But instead of construction worker’s clothing, he had on a gray parka over a black cardigan sweater and blue jeans. He also wore shiny black Western boots with pointed toes.
Is that him? Jesus Almighty, it is . . .
Lane immediately noticed two things about Austin: first, the blue-black bruise that covered the right side of his face, and then that he looked deeply saddened.
He really got beat up bad in that wreck. On top of losing two people he was close to.
Austin slipped off the vest and, using his left hand, tossed it and the hard hat onto the hood of the Tahoe. He turned and looked toward Lane’s SUV.
Lane waved, and Austin acknowledged him with a short nod, before walking toward the front passenger door of the Mercedes.
Behind Austin, an eighteen-wheeled tractor-trailer rig was pulling in through the open gates. An enormous blue, shrink-wrapped modular unit was strapped to the flatbed trailer, dwarfing it. Seeing that made Lane recall the first ones Austin had showed him in South Florida. It had been two years earlier, at a manufacturing plant west of Miami, after they had visited the construction site of a condominium high-rise overlooking Biscayne Bay.
—
Austin drove Lane, in a white Ford Expedition with a license plate that read NEXTGEN05, the dozen miles from downtown Miami out to an industrial complex on the edge of the Everglades, the vast wilderness known as the river of grass.
They followed the eight-lane Dolphin Expressway out, passing Miami International Airport along the way. Lane, after adjusting the dash vent so that the cold air blew directly on him, stared out the window, taking in the sights, as he listened to Austin. He drank from a can of Jai Alai India Pale Ale that Austin had given him when they first got in the SUV. Austin had pulled two of the craft beers from a small cooler he had on the floorboard behind the driver’s seat.
Lane had already decided that drivers in Miami were bad enough, but Austin was even worse, speeding through heavy traffic while drinking and talking a hundred miles an hour, either to Lane or on his cellular phone.
“The developer of that condo project,” Austin now explained to Lane, gesturing with his right hand between sips of beer, “is handling the sales himself, including making all the loans on the individual units. And because these are private mortgages—the money comes from an investors’ fund I put together—they are not held to the same lending rules as banks.”
“No lending rules?” Lane repeated, his gravel voice incredulous.
Austin nodded as he exited the expressway just west of the Florida Turnpike.
“Right,” he said. “Banks that make mortgages are required by law to confirm that the buyers are legit, that they’re not, for example, laundering drug money. They make buyers prove where their funds come from. But private mortgage is like me reaching in my pocket and lending you the money personally. I come up with the terms—it’s up to me what the interest rate will be, how much of a down payment I want, and if I care where your money comes from.”
Lane looked at him. “You’re laundering money?”
Austin shook his head as he glanced at him.
“Hell no. I am making money by bringing investors together in a fund that delivers a high return on investment, and taking my percentage from that. Each fund—in this case, the Morgan Partners Florida Capital Fund III—provides the developer with the money to build and market his project. Which includes handling the private mortgages.”
Lane nodded.
“Now,” Austin went on, “the developer is going to do his due diligence. But a lot of the buyers, to keep their names out of public records, have set up a corporation to be the buyer of record. These corporations, the sole purpose of which is owning the property, often are owned by another corporation the buyer has set up under the buyer’s control. But the thing is, you can follow that paper trail only so far, especially because it can lead to foreign countries, and that gets complicated and expensive. So, the developer, after vetting the paper trail to his satisfaction, simply decides the terms of sale, including if there’s a premium involved.”
“That’s never a problem?”
“Occasionally,” he said, draining his beer. “But buyers really want the property. And with demand exceeding supply, those who balk are replaced by others who pay up. More and more, there’s not even a note—buyers are paying cash in full.”
“This investors’ fund of yours sounds solid.”
&
nbsp; “Rock solid,” Austin said, glanced at Lane, and went on. “And with that demand high, there’s no end in sight. Take the Chinese. They are awash in cash they want to invest. Some of it is state-sponsored, some of it quiet money. They love America—and they really must: we owe them one-point-three trillion, which is mind-boggling money—and they’ve been on a buying spree. They’re snapping up our existing landmark hotels—from two billion to buy the Waldorf Astoria in New York City to almost that much for California’s Hotel del Coronado—and they’re building these other high-end properties. And then Chinese individuals, as well as buyers from other countries—from Central and South America to Europe—are buying into them. This Miami condo you just saw? There’re foreigners who’ve bought three, four condos at once.”
“And before it’s finished?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s a lot of hidden wealth. With the Chinese, you’re talking about a country with a billion more people than America. They’re already showing huge interest in the House of Ming Condos, and we haven’t even broken ground. So far, according to the developer handling its private banking, about a third of the pre-sold units were bought by Chinese parents planning for their kids to use.” He paused, looked at Lane, and added, “None of which would been happening if you hadn’t used your veto that got us that parcel.”
“Councilmanic prerogative,” Lane said. “If it’s good for Philly, and especially my district, I’m all for it.”
“And it is great for Philly,” Austin said, nodding. “Every year, the University of Pennsylvania alone enrolls thousands of foreign students. Medical students, engineers—you name it, they want it. There’re three hundred thousand Chinese attending U.S. universities. That’s twice the number of five years ago. And, after graduating, you can bet many want to stay, especially if they can snag a EB-5. More than three-quarters of last year’s—almost ten thousand EB-5s—went to mainland Chinese.”
Lane nodded. He knew about the reasonably new visa program that was a fast track to U.S. citizenship. All a foreign national had to do was invest at least a million dollars in a U.S. business that created and maintained at least ten jobs for current American citizens, plus jobs for himself and his family members. In exchange, the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service issued green cards to the foreign national, to the spouse, and to their children under the age of twenty-one, followed by full citizenship.
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