“Except Lane, you said?”
“We’ve got calls in to him. He’s not gotten back in touch. But since he wasn’t on the condo cameras either, odds are his will be more of the same.” He paused, and added, “At the risk of repeating what you said, without a solid stone, there ain’t no stones under the stone.”
Payne nodded.
“Well, we may be looking for something that’s just not there. Okay, shifting gears, did we get any more background on Benson? And who is running the company now? That article said that the scientist that committed suicide was the number three officer.”
“Han was three out of three,” McCrory said. “You have Benson and a chief financial officer by the name of Ronald Johnson at the top. And then Han. That was the extent of their executive office. I called the office in West Palm and got a message center. They don’t even have a receptionist or secretary answering the phone.”
“Jesus.”
“I did get a response when I tried reaching the widow,” Harris said. “Listen to this.”
Harris held out his cellular phone and played a voice mail message over the speakerphone.
“Detective Harris,” the soft voice of a male said, “my name is Samuel Nguyen. I’m down here in Riviera Beach, Florida, and returning the call that you left for Mrs. Ann Han. Your message said that you had questions for her about her husband and his death. I’m afraid that Mrs. Han will not be available. I’m sure you’ll understand that she has suffered enough with the loss of Dr. Han. She considers the case closed and has nothing further to say. We appreciate you respecting that and her need for privacy. Thank you.”
There was a clicking sound, and the line went dead.
“No stone again,” Payne said.
“After that,” Harris said, nodding, “I gave that homicide lieutenant, Jeff Murray, another try and finally got him.”
“He say if there was anything in the suicide note?”
“Yeah. That Han claimed to have been under extreme stress after being pressured to falsify lab findings for NextGen. He listed a number of processes that had been corrupted to meet Benson’s demands. Han said he knew that ultimately the product was not going to work as described, rendering the patent application worthless.”
“And the stock, too . . .”
“Right. But Benson was pushing the narrative that the stock was about to soar any day—he kept banging that drum on the Internet, telling everyone all that was needed was for the patent to be approved. And calling people idiots—whatever—if they could not see these great things coming—”
“Which would increase speculation, trigging more shares to be bought, which would cause the stock to rise.”
“Exactly. Han said he figured out quickly what Benson was up to and that he had been duped into joining the start-up to give it credibility. When he took the leave of absence—Benson suggested that Han’s stress was, in fact, a deep depression—Mrs. Han went public with the charges of corrupting the research-and-development process in the media.”
“Did anyone else corroborate what Dr. Han claimed?”
“That’s a good question, and the answer is no. Because they couldn’t. No device was released for a third party to determine if it did or did not work.”
“That’s right. Benson said he was protecting the intellectual property until the patent was issued. So it’s one’s word against the other’s.”
“Benson argued that it was simply the normal growing pains of a start-up, basically saying research and development is messy because you’re creating something that’s never existed before and it’s expected that there will be mistakes made. The company’s legal beagles fired off a cease-and-desist letter. Han, like all the other employees, had signed an NDA—”
“Nondisclosure agreement.”
“Right. His discussing their methods of research and development violated the agreement—”
“Even though they were bogus.”
“Moot point. In his suicide letter, Dr. Han said he felt shame, and felt he would never regain his good reputation. So, after his wife left for her yoga class, he popped a sleeping pill—an Ambien—then got in his SUV in the garage, started it up, put the windows down, and drifted off.”
“Loss of reputation and feeling ashamed sounds damn depressing to me,” Payne said. “And depressed people kill themselves all the time. I need to bounce this off my sister.”
Harris nodded. “This Detective Murray said the reason the Han woman clammed up was because Benson threatened to sue her for making false accusations. He made it clear that he would pay whatever it took so that the costs of defending those lawsuits would leave her bankrupt.”
“What a miserable sonofabitch.”
“It gets better. Benson spelled it out for her that because Dr. Han was sick and that their income—stock in NextGen awarded as bonuses—was tied to the company, if the company didn’t succeed, she’d be broke. That’s why this Nguyen announced in the media that she would have nothing more to say. She’d become, fearing that threat, complicit. And even with Benson’s death, that didn’t change.”
“Causing her to lose her husband sounds like reasonable motive to me,” Payne said.
“Yeah, and I asked Murray about it. He said he really doesn’t believe she’s capable of that. On a good day, she’s meek. Now she’s frail, and genuinely frightened by the whole ordeal.”
“I wonder how much of this John Austin knows,” Payne said, “and when he knew it.”
Harris shrugged.
“Well, they were old friends since childhood,” he said. “You’d think Benson told him. And you heard Austin. He believes in the company, in the product.”
“Two things,” Payne said. “One, if the company is a sham, and Austin has a significant piece, they could have been working a pump and dump.”
“What’s that?” McCrory said.
“Talk up the product, inflating the stock price, then sell out.”
“That’s fraud, right?” McCrory said.
“Yeah, but hard to prove. And for the investor, speculation isn’t illegal. People lose money in the markets every day. Caveat emptor. Or, as the master con man Phineas T. Barnum put it, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’”
“What’s two?” Harris said.
Payne nodded.
“Not to defend Austin in any way,” he said, “but money changes things. Best friends, even family members, will lie to each other over it. Whatever trust they have, it’s quickly broken.” He paused, and added, “And the more money there is, the worse it can get. Camilla Rose accused Mason Morgan of manipulating the old man into rewriting his will, calling it a ‘brazen betrayal,’ and refused to speak to her brother.”
“So,” Harris went on, “Austin could be completely innocent. Or be complicit, especially if he had money invested and it was to his financial advantage to say he believed in the product.”
Payne said, “I don’t think the phrase completely innocent has ever been applicable in Austin’s case.”
“That message they power washed on the coal tower wall,” Dick McCrory said. “You think it means Austin was the actual target? Or both were? Either way, maybe that’s how Austin ‘got lucky.’”
“All we know is, three people are dead,” Payne said, “and now he’s in someone’s crosshairs. I really don’t like the sonofabitch. But keeping him alive is the best way to find out what happened to either Benson or Camilla Rose.”
“Or, if there’s any connection, it may solve both.”
Payne felt another burning needle in his wound and grimaced.
“You sure you’re okay?” Harris said.
“Define okay,” Payne said, turning to leave. “I need to hit the head.”
Harris and McCrory popped to their feet.
“Sit, damn it,” Payne said, motioning with his hand. “Make yoursel
f useful and find that damn Austin.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and find out who’s got tonight’s over-under. I need to place my bet.”
“I already did,” McCrory said. “It’s eleven. One dead. Ten wounded.”
Harris’s cellular telephone began ringing. He glanced at its screen, then answered it.
“Yeah, Hank?”
Harris looked up at Payne a moment later as he said, “Fifteen minutes ago? And you got someone up there to watch the door?”
As Harris put down his phone, he said, “The security guys got a computer alert that a radio frequency identification keycard coded to the Morgan woman’s condo was just used in the elevator. Lobby cameras show Austin getting on.”
“I’ll go.”
He then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He took a pen and sticky notepad from the desk, wrote “Sgt Payne 16” on the paper, and stuck it on the dollar bill.
He handed it to Harris, who then read the over-under wager.
“Betting really high? Such the cynic.”
Payne nodded. “Guilty. Something’s in the air. I feel it. And I’ll let you know what I get out of Austin.”
[ THREE ]
The Rittenhouse Condominiums
Residence 2150
Center City
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 7:20 P.M.
John Austin waved the plastic keycard that Camilla Rose had left him in the hospital at the door handle. He heard the lock click open, as the light on the reader glowed green, and with his left hand turned the handle and pushed the door inward.
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.
He gasped, felt his heartbeat racing again.
Jesus!
He reached the barrier of glass and looked over the side. He saw nothing but the brick-paved drive at the building’s entrance.
And the tears came.
Why . . . why did this have to happen?
After a minute, he shook his head, then used his sleeve to wipe away the tears. He turned and went back into the condo and over to the marble-topped island in the kitchen. He poured another small pile of white powder and, after reaching for the small knife, repeated the ritual.
He was halfway through sniffing the second line when he heard a knock at the front door. He jerked his head and looked toward it.
Who the hell is that?
Maybe it’s my stuff already?
As he approached the wooden door, there was more knocking, rapid, impatient. He put his right eye to the peephole, saw an annoyed male’s face, sighed with relief, as he shook his head. He opened the door.
Michael Grosse, a muscular, athletic thirty-five-year-old who had earned his law degree at the University of Miami, stood in the corridor, holding the extended handle of a black carry-on suitcase. On top of it was a w
ell-worn brown saddleback briefcase. Grosse had intense blue eyes, blond hair that fell to his shoulders, and the deep-tanned leathery skin of someone who had spent a great deal of time in the sun.
Austin thought Grosse, who he knew regularly wore tropical shirts and shorts to his law office but now was in a dark pin-striped two-piece suit and a collarless blue shirt, looked like a fish out of water.
Austin made a sweeping gesture with his left arm, and Grosse entered.
“What the hell took you so long?” Austin said, locking the door, then following Grosse into the living room.
“Nice to see you, too, Johnny,” Grosse said, the sarcasm thick. “But to answer your question, I had to borrow a plane at West Palm, and got here as soon as I could.” Eyeing Austin from head to toe, he added, “Jesus Christ, you look like shit.”
“So everyone keeps telling me. In those exact words.”
“I need a drink,” Grosse said, and pulled his bags toward the kitchen.
He placed his suitcase beside the island, again putting the briefcase on it. He saw the lines of powder on the countertop.
“That what I think it is?” Grosse said.
“Help yourself to all you want. There’s plenty.”
“Not just no but hell no. And I thought you quit using.”
Austin frowned as he shrugged.
“Call it extenuating circumstances,” he said, then looked past Grosse to the glass railing of the balcony.
Grosse looked out in that direction, realized what Austin meant, and closed his eyes as he dropped and shook his head. He exhaled audibly.
“This all just gets worse by the minute,” he said. “Did you have her doing that shit, too? You went back to self-medicating? Is that what happened?”
“Fuck you. I did not. In fact, I never made her do anything she didn’t want to do. No one did, as you should know.”
Grosse stared at him with a look of disbelief, shook his head, turned, and went to the wet bar at the far end of the kitchen.
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