That caused him to remember that Payne had given him a business card and asked that he call. Grosse had decided he would pay him the courtesy but never had had the opportunity because of dealing with Austin.
He reached in his pocket and felt the stiff card was still tucked in his money clip.
He pulled it out and looked at it a long time. He picked up his cellular phone, then put it back down with the card.
He reached over and opened the flap of his well-worn brown saddleback briefcase. He removed from it a heavy file folder that was more than two inches thick.
He opened the folder, ran his finger down the printed sheet that had been Scotch-taped to the inside flap, and stopped at the contact information for Mason Morgan. He went over to the couch, picked up the telephone on the coffee table, and punched in Morgan’s number.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” he said after a pause. “This is Michael Grosse—”
He paused and listened.
“Yes, I am calling from her condominium. Please accept my deepest condolences—”
He paused again to listen.
“That’s correct. Please forgive me, as I realize this is very last-minute and it’s been some time since we spoke. But . . . could I perhaps impose on your time at your soonest convenience for a short talk? An informal talk?”
He paused, then replied, “Of course. A cup of coffee sounds perfect.”
[ THREE ]
The Roundhouse
Eighth and Race Streets
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 10:02 A.M
After a numb Matt Payne had left Denny Coughlin’s office and eased the door closed behind him—he had feared he might snap and slam the damn thing shut—he crossed the curved hallway and went to the bank of curved exterior windows. He looked down at Race Street, to where his car was parked at the curb, then glanced across the street, off to the right, over Franklin Park.
Jesus! he thought. What just happened?
His mind was still spinning, his ears still ringing. His head felt hot, his temples throbbing with his rapid heartbeat.
It feels like my head is about to explode any second.
I need to get some air.
He turned and quickly followed the corridor around to the stairwell and went down it as fast as he could, with every few steps feeling a sharp pain from his wound.
A blast of cold hit him as he went out the door of the front entrance. The air stung but also seemed to clear his head a little. He inhaled, and stopped walking. He looked for a minute at The Friend—the bronze statue of a uniformed Philadelphia policeman holding a young girl on his hip—before continuing down the steps to the sidewalk.
He walked past his car, heading toward Eighth. At the corner, out of mindless habit, he hit the button for the crosswalk signal, then, impatient, smacked it twice more.
Everything’s broken in this damn city, he thought.
Aw, why do I bother? Screw it . . .
He started to step off the curb and cross the street before the traffic signal cycled—but was startled by two long loud blasts of an air horn on an eighteen-wheeled tractor-trailer rig.
He turned and saw the big rig slowly pulling onto Eighth Street through the fabric-covered chain-link fence of the House of Ming Condominiums construction site. The truck had an enormous empty flatbed trailer, which was rolling very close to the gate and a couple of parked pickups, one topped with a metal rack loaded with long iron pipes and the other covered with the blue-flame logotype of the city-owned Philadelphia Gas Works.
As the trailer cleared the pickups, and the gate, there came more honking, this time from behind the tractor-trailer. It was a steady, long blare from a smaller horn.
Suddenly, a black Chevy Tahoe shot out of the fencing and came around the tractor-trailer, then cut in front of it. Two cars coming down Eighth had to make evasive maneuvers to avoid hitting the SUV.
Just another jerk driver, Payne thought. Breaking a half-dozen laws right in front of the Roundhouse.
Insane . . .
The Tahoe ran the red light, its tires squealing as it took a fast left turn onto Race Street, flying right past Payne.
Sonofabitch! he thought when he got a clear look at the SUV’s driver talking on a cellular telephone. Even without the bruise, I could’ve made out who that is.
What’s Austin doing?
Payne watched as the speeding Tahoe passed where his Porsche was parked.
One damn way to find out . . .
He headed for his car.
—
Matt Payne, driving hard, caught up to John Austin’s Tahoe right as it turned onto North Broad Street.
Staying almost a block back, he trailed it all the way up Broad, then out of the city.
Where the hell is he going? Not to Easton?
Payne glanced at his fuel gauge. The needle indicated he had only a quarter tank remaining.
I’ll be on fumes if he does.
He plugged his phone into the console USB outlet, tapped the icon on the dash screen.
The sultry voice that sounded like Kathleen Turner filled the car. “Yes, Marshal?”
“Call Tony Harris’s mobile.”
There were two rings, then Harris’s voice: “What can I do for you, Sergeant . . . boss . . . sir? How did your meeting with Carlucci go?”
Payne thought, Well, he essentially told me that you won’t be calling me boss much longer.
He said, “I’ll fill you in later. Right now, I’m tailing John Austin.”
“Interesting. What is he up to?”
“He’s going hammers of hell in a late-model black Tahoe. Headed toward Doylestown, maybe Easton. No idea why. But he’s in a hurry.”
“Anything I can do?”
“No, just keeping you updated. I’ll let you know what happens. I’m guessing you have nothing new—”
“And you’d be wrong.”
“What do you have?”
“I’m pretty sure I have a new sore on my ass from sitting here so long.”
Payne heard McCrory in the background, laughing.
“And congratulations to you on that impressive achievement, Detective Harris.”
“Actually, Matt, we got the vetting papers on Austin that Mason Morgan had sent over. I just skimmed them and am about to go back through them again. Was going to call you about it when I was done. It’s got lots of detail on years ago, not so much lately. For what he probably paid for it, you’d think there’d be more. A helluva lot more.”
“Mason told us he has not seen Austin for maybe five years, when Camilla Rose took off, too.”
“Yeah. And this vetting pretty much peters out about four years ago. Guess Mason gave up worrying about Austin around that time. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Call if you need me.”
“Will do, Matt.”
—
For the next half hour, as the surroundings became more and more suburban, Payne kept focused on the taillights of the Tahoe—and on the dropping needle of his fuel gauge.
His brain still spun, but nowhere near as overwhelmingly as earlier, and he attributed that to the vehicle. Taking drives in the 911 always helped clear his mind.
Just south of Doylestown, driving past clump after clump of the usual mix of roadside stores—mostly fast-food joints and convenience stores—he began wondering if Austin just might be headed to Easton. Or farther.
He glanced again at the fuel gauge. The needle now touched the red zone.
This is not looking good, he thought just as the warning ping sounded and the exclamation point illuminated on the instrumentation. Damn. Can’t risk it much longer . . . but can’t quit. He’s up to something.
Five miles later, near the exit for U.S. 202, Payne saw the Tahoe braking at a sign on the right that
read BUCKS COUNTY HOME IMPROVEMENT.
It took Payne a couple seconds for it to register why the name seemed familiar.
So that’s where the pressure washer trailer was stolen.
There can’t be a connection between it and Austin. Can there?
Has to be coincidence . . .
Austin continued past the home improvement store, pulling into the parking lot of a mini-mart next door.
Payne saw that just beyond the mart was a gas station. He glanced at the fuel gauge. The needle sat as far as possible in the red.
“Damn. Too close.”
Payne passed Austin as he entered the mart. He pulled up to a fuel pump island where he and the car would be mostly hidden if Austin happened to look that way when he came out.
As Payne filled the tank, he kept an eye on the mini-mart and the home improvement store. He tried to think if there was any significance to the fact that the equipment had been stolen way out here, some twenty-five miles north of the city, and way back in November.
What was their time line? Had the doers all along planned on using the pressure washer on the shooters strung up in the coal tower?
For two months?
Or had it simply been available, after having been stolen for some other purpose?
That text that fingered the shooters said they had acted on their own—“went rogue”—which really suggests a spur-of-the-moment act, not one more than a month in the making.
Austin came out of the mini-mart holding a small brown paper bag. Payne rushed to return the nozzle to the pump as he watched Austin pull a quart bottle of what looked like orange juice from the bag. Austin emptied about half of the bottle into a potted plant, got back in the SUV, and looked to be pouring two little bottles into the orange juice.
Making himself a screwdriver breakfast, Payne thought.
More miniatures for the self-medicating. Probably got them from Camilla Rose. Or she got hers from him.
Payne, watching as Austin’s Tahoe blew past, put the car in gear and started rolling. He looked in the mirror for traffic, saw it was clear, then glanced back at the home improvement store. He decided if it worked out, he would stop there on the way back.
Spend ten minutes or so, ask a few questions, see if there are any stones under the stone that could be turned over.
—
Austin took the exit for U.S. 202, heading east toward New Hope.
So he’s not going to Easton, Payne thought, hitting his turn signal to follow him.
After a mile or so, Payne saw the Tahoe’s brake lights come on, and then, ahead of it, saw a line of slowing traffic. He could see up ahead, at the top of the rise, the emergency-flashing light bar on a police cruiser that had stopped on the roadway.
As the stop-and-go traffic crept closer, Payne saw an officer standing beside the cruiser, a silver Dodge sedan with DOYLESTOWN TOWNSHIP POLICE covering its side in bold, reflective lettering. He was directing a line of eighteen-wheeled tractor-trailer rigs that was exiting a manufacturing facility about thirty yards off the highway on the right.
On the browned-grass shoulder of the highway on the far side of the big rigs, he caught a glimpse of a folded-over, half-inflated cartoon animal that looked to be about the size of a school bus. Around it were a dozen beefy men—all wearing bulky winter coats and distinctive red hats—a few of whom were busy getting the animal fully inflated while the others set up folding chairs and coolers nearby.
What the hell is that inflatable thing doing out here?
Looks like one of those jump houses for a kid’s birthday party.
The big-rig trucks rolled out and turned onto U.S. 202, headed in Payne’s direction. He saw that they carried identical cargoes—enormous pods, shrink-wrapped in plastic, that hung over the sides of the trailers.
And he realized that the trucks were more or less identical to the one that had driven out of the construction site right before Austin raced out of it. Including signage on the driver’s door reading FMM, LLC, DOYLESTOWN, PENNA.
After the last of ten trucks passed and the cop directed traffic to begin moving, Payne saw Austin turn the Tahoe in the plant’s entrance.
Payne slowed and looked as he approached the entrance. There were steel gates on either side of a guard shack, one an entrance, one an exit, both now closed. On the shack was signage that read FUTURE MODULAR MANUFACTURING, LLC. / NO VISITORS / NO TRESPASSING.
A gate opened, and the guard waved with his clipboard for the Tahoe to enter.
Payne tried to get a better look at what was inside, but the solid fencing blocked his view. Then he heard the angry screech of a whistle being blown, and, when he looked, he saw the traffic cop by his bumper, motioning for him to move along.
Payne looked at the men setting up along the roadside. Two were pulling red signs from the metal rack of a pickup truck. Their red hats had bold white lettering that read PLUMBERS UNION LOCAL 324.
Payne drove up to the next large intersection and turned around.
Approaching the entrance again, he pulled into a fast-food joint’s parking lot across the street from the plant, stopping when he had a clear view of the guard shack and gates.
He also had a perfect view of the inflatable cartoon animal, now almost fully blown up and rocking in the cold wind. What he saw was the exact opposite of kid-friendly. It was a rabid, teeth-baring rodent. And it held a red sign identical to those the men held: DON’T BE A RAT! UNION JOBS FOR UNION WORKERS!
Payne shut off the engine and studied the protesters.
He picked up his phone—the dash had gone dark with the ignition key off—and texted Tony Harris. Please ask McCrory to see what he can dig up on Future Modular Manufacturing in Doylestown. And what, if any, connection to John Austin he can find.
Payne settled back in his seat to keep watch on the plant’s guard shack. His mind drifted back to his meeting with Denny Coughlin, and ten or so minutes after considering all that had happened, he wondered if he should share it with Amanda. He decided that that could wait, at least until after Carlucci’s press conference.
With the backed-up traffic finally cleared, the cop got in his car and drove off. Shortly after that, the protesters started marching back and forth in front of the entrance to the plant.
Payne’s phone rang and he picked it up.
“What did Dick find out, Tony?”
“He’s still working on it. But I just got word we ID’d the fat guy in the coal tower by his fingerprints. And his blood matched what was found in the back of the stolen van, so that backs up that anonymous text saying he’s the shooter. Also, Krowczyk said that when they first looked at the cell tower dump from Thursday—specifically, at the window between twelve hundred to fourteen hundred hours—the burner flip phone recovered in the van is definitely on it. No surprise there—”
“Yeah. And?”
“And when they cracked that phone, all that was on it was a series of texts from one specific number—another burner phone that also was listed on the tower dump—a half hour before the shooting, then another text every five minutes right up until the shooting.”
“Someone at The Rittenhouse was a lookout.”
“That’s what it smells like to me, too, Matt. But good luck tracking them down.”
“So, who was the shooter?”
“One Daniels, Scott J., white male, age forty-one, with an address in South Philly. He had a meaty rap sheet. Mostly minor offenses. But one was for assault. He beat the living hell out of a construction worker with an iron pipe. Served six months of an eighteen-month sentence, got released three months ago. Still working on getting an ID on the smaller guy.”
“Ugly way to go,” Payne said, watching the line of marching protesters. “But looks like the bastard got as good as he gave.”
“Dumbasses went rogue,” Payne thought again. “There could be o
thers, but we’ll handle it.”
Harris said, “I’ll let you know what Dick comes up with.”
There was a long silence.
“You still there, Matt?”
“Yeah. That construction worker this Daniels thug beat up. Was he union?”
“You mean, like an electrical union guy?”
“Or plumbers, carpenters . . .”
“I don’t know. Can check. Why would it matter?”
“Never know, right? Stone under the stone and all.”
Harris grunted.
“Must be a real challenge being a wiseass all the time, Sergeant . . . boss . . . sir.”
“Sorry. Having a bad day.”
Payne saw the exit gate start opening and the nose of the Tahoe pulling up. The Tahoe pulled through it, followed by a Mercedes-Benz SUV.
As the vehicles approached U.S. 202, the protesters, two of whom were using cellular phones to take videos, hurried over to block them, then jumped out of the way when the SUVs accelerated.
Payne saw Austin at the wheel of the Tahoe as it turned onto the highway, headed back toward Philly. Then he saw the other driver.
“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.
“What?” Harris said.
“New development. Ask McCrory to expand on that last request to include one Willie Lane.”
“I could have asked him in the interview, but he postponed it.”
“That’s because I just saw him here with Austin,” Payne said, starting the car and pulling onto the highway.
[ FOUR ]
One Freedom Place
Fifty-sixth Floor
Center City
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 10:35 A.M.
“I do very much appreciate you taking time out of what I’m sure is a busy weekend,” Michael Grosse said.
He followed Mason Morgan across the high-ceilinged office while looking out the enormous wall of windows that reached floor to ceiling. Morgan waved him into one of the two overstuffed leather-upholstered armchairs in front of the desk.
Broken Trust Page 26