“Happy to oblige,” Morgan said as he gestured toward the silver coffee service that was on the polished-granite desktop. “How do you take yours, Mr. Grosse?”
“Black, thank you. And, please, call me Michael.”
Grosse—whose regular routine in Florida found him running on the beach or surfing or working out in his private gym when it stormed—could not help but be baffled by Morgan’s obvious disdain for exercise.
How could someone with so much be so obese? Grosse thought.
He’s got to be pushing two-fifty. It just hangs in folds, from his jowls to those huge hips. Makes him look a lot older than forty-something.
Is chasing money at the expense of your health really that important?
Get off your arrogant fat ass . . .
Morgan picked up the insulated, silver-plated carafe, filled two fine-china cups, and placed one at the edge of the desk before Grosse.
Morgan went behind his desk, lowered himself into the leather judge’s chair, then sipped his cup while waiting for Grosse to speak.
“As I’m here to begin getting Camilla Rose’s affairs in order,” Grosse began, leaving his coffee untouched, “I thought that there were a number of items you should be made aware of before they became publicly known to all.” He paused, then added, “To give you time to prepare for them, as opposed to being blindsided.”
Mason Morgan nodded.
“That is quite considerate, Michael. And, frankly, unusual. I am not accustomed to such.” He paused again, then said, “Forgive me for asking, but do you feel comfortable doing that? Is it . . . ethical?”
You’re questioning my ethics? Screw you, you pompous, arrogant ass!
“Of course,” Grosse said. “Absolutely ethical. These events have already happened. And I am not violating any lawyer-client privilege.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“My office received from Morgan International’s charity office a copy of the notice sent to John Austin demanding the return of its investments.”
“It was absolutely necessary,” Mason Morgan said, stone-faced, his tone equal parts officious and defensive. “As was the timing. And, I’m sure you’ll agree, there never is a good time for that sort of large-scale financial separation.”
“I do understand. Minimizing the pain is akin to the docking of a dog’s tail. Far better to do it all at once than a little at a time.”
Morgan made a face that suggested he found the analogy distasteful, which pleased Grosse.
“As it’s often said,” Mason went on, “and quite correctly, I might add—it’s not personal, it’s business.”
Grosse pursed his lips and nodded.
And you said that with a straight face, he thought.
Johnny was right about at least one thing. You are a fucking prick.
“I did mention the notice to Mr. Austin last night when I arrived,” Grosse went on. “He was not yet aware of it. Understandable, I think you would agree, considering the recent circumstances.”
“True. I heard he was badly injured in the attack. But . . . I am sure he has staff he can direct to execute the necessary papers.”
“He does have the staff,” Grosse said, pausing before adding, “What he doesn’t have is the funds.”
“I’m sorry? What?”
Michael Grosse explained.
As he spoke, he could see anger building in the red-faced Morgan. When Grosse had finished, Morgan’s entire body appeared to quiver.
“Absolutely incredible!” Mason Morgan exploded, his jowls shaking. “I anticipated bad things coming because of him. But not this bad. Now Camilla Rose is dead. And more than a hundred million dollars squandered.”
“Mr. Austin did say she was not aware of his actions,” Grosse said. “And, for what it’s worth, I believe him. I certainly was unaware. She told me nothing, even as I arranged for some of her own personal investments.”
Morgan was silent as he stared across the room. His face grew deeper and deeper red.
“Well,” he said, “perhaps the saddest part is that her legacy, her children’s charities, will be lost along with the money. Such a shame.”
Grosse, shocked, just stared at Morgan.
You won’t make sure that the philanthropy continues to fund that?
You would punish not only her memory but also all the sick children her work helps?
You are worse than a miserable prick . . .
An indignant Mason went on. “I will see that that son of a bitch Austin goes to jail and that they throw away the key!”
“I’m pretty sure that between the charges that will be brought by the Manhattan U.S. attorney’s office and the Securities and Exchange Commission, that that will happen with or without your, no doubt, wide influence.”
Mason Morgan’s cold eyes glared at Grosse.
He put down his coffee cup.
“If there is nothing else,” Morgan said as he began to get to his feet.
“Just one more bit of business . . .” Grosse said.
Morgan dropped his enormous frame back down, causing the big chair to rock under the suddenly returning weight.
“Yes? What is it?”
Grosse reached into his briefcase and removed the thick folder from earlier.
Mason Morgan saw that it was legal-pad size, its edges worn. There was a faded yellow label on the upper left tab: MORGAN, CAMILLA ROSE.
Grosse took out a sheet, and said, “This is something, I suppose, that might be most surprising.”
“More than the lost hundred million? How is that possible?”
Grosse leaned forward and slid the sheet across the desktop. As he did so, Morgan took a look—and his eyes began darting over it.
Morgan saw that it appeared to be some sort of government document. He saw “City of Philadelphia Marriage License Bureau—City Hall, Room 415.” He noted that it was an officially attested copy, with an original signature in ink and a seal, and dated five years earlier.
Grosse watched, impressed that Morgan’s expression, except for the darting eyes, remained unchanged.
After Morgan appeared to be finished scanning it, he looked up at Grosse, who produced a second sheet from the folder. Grosse slid the marriage license back and pushed the second sheet in front of Morgan.
“If you wish to keep these,” Grosse said in a reasonable tone, “I have additional exemplified copies in my office.” When Mason did not respond, he added, “Either way, I will see that copies are delivered to your legal department.”
Morgan picked up and studied the second sheet. It was a certificate of marriage dated a week after the marriage license and signed by a Philadelphia justice of the peace.
“Who is this fellow, this O’Keefe?” Morgan finally said, putting the sheet of paper back on the desk.
“A very fine gentleman from a well-known and respected family in Orange County.”
“Pennsylvania? There isn’t an Orange—”
“California,” Grosse said. “Camilla Rose was married in a quiet ceremony to the young man, James O’Keefe, who she met out there. He founded a Silicon Valley start-up that had bid on a project for her camp on Monterey Bay.”
Grosse, producing a third sheet of paper, went on. “They traveled widely for a while. Camilla Rose wanted to expand her camps to other countries. That got postponed because”—he slid the paper toward Morgan and watched his eyes slowly open wide—“exactly ten months later, she gave birth to a son, Harold Thomas Morgan II.”
He paused, letting the name sink in.
Morgan saw that there was bold lettering at its top reading STATE OF CALIFORNIA, and there was an embossed official seal at the bottom. Mason picked it up and studied it, his eyes focusing on CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH.
“This child is now age three,” Morgan said.
Grosse pointed to the birth date on the document.
“Turns four next month,” he said.
Morgan’s eyes went from Grosse to the birth certificate, and he shook his head just perceptibly before he slid it back.
“Unfortunately,” Grosse said, then slid a final sheet across the desk, “the union was not to last.”
Morgan saw that it was a court document, a certified page titled FINAL DECREE OF DIVORCE.
“The separation was by mutual consent,” Grosse said, “with Camilla Rose waiving custody and visitation rights, although she could have had either if she wanted.”
“She did not have issue!” Morgan blurted. “This is a sham!”
Grosse nodded thoughtfully.
“Camilla Rose thought it highly possible you might react that way. Great care was taken in securing irrefutable proof, beginning with all the proper documentation and ending with DNA samples. She even made sure that the marriage and divorce both took place here in Philly to ensure no out-of-state legal issues.”
Grosse put his hand on the folder, and said, “In here are all the agreements and trusts for Camilla Rose’s son. In a nutshell, they provide the boy with reasonable expenses until age thirty-five and then he gets the entire five hundred million—”
“What?”
“Plus whatever has not been released from the interest over the years to support Camilla Rose’s charities,” Grosse finished.
“I will have to have my legal team review any such purported papers before—”
“What you will have,” Grosse interrupted, “with all due respect, is what I give you, Mason. I will petition the court to admit the Last Will and Testament of Harold Thomas Morgan for probate.”
Mason Morgan, red-faced and breaking out in a cold sweat, looked off in the distance. His body began quivering again. He half closed his eyes and rubbed his neck. He groaned—and fell forward, his face striking the coffee cup, spilling it across the desk.
Grosse jumped to his feet. He rushed around the desk.
“Mason?” he said, feeling for a pulse.
Grosse grabbed the receiver of the desktop telephone and dialed 911.
IX
[ ONE ]
The Roundhouse
Eighth and Race Streets
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 12:05 P.M.
“Newscast’s about to come back from the commercial break,” Matt Payne called from the doorway of Lieutenant Jason Washington’s glass-walled office in the Homicide Unit. Harold Kennedy and Hank Nasuti stood behind him talking next to the flat-screen television in the corner.
Dick McCrory and Tony Harris, at a desk across the room, got to their feet, Harris hanging up the desk phone while McCrory folded closed his notebook computer and tucked it under his arm.
They made it to the crowded office just as an attractive brunette talking head on the TV announced, “We’re about to go live to City Hall, where Mayor Jerome Carlucci is scheduled to address the continuing soaring rate of vicious crimes in the City of Brotherly Love.”
“Hey, that reminds me, Sarge, congrats on winning the over-under,” Harold Kennedy, glancing at Hank Nasuti, said. “Who would’ve thought sixteen?”
“I thought you got banned from the pool,” Nasuti said. “You’ve won, what, twice?”
“Why would I be banned?” Payne said.
“I just heard someone saying, ‘Stop taking that Wyatt Earp of the Main Line’s money.’”
“Because?” Kennedy said.
“‘The marshal always bets high,’ the guy said.”
“How is that bad? Anyone can bet high.”
“But with his reputation as a quick draw,” Nasuti said, “he can influence the over-under by shooting someone.”
Kennedy chuckled. “You’re not saying he’d kill to win the bet?”
“Doesn’t have to. Over-under is the number of homicides and shootings combined. Just has to wing one. Or two. Or if he really wants a sure win, trigger an O.K. Corral shoot-out in the ’hood.”
Payne chuckled, then make a fist with the middle finger extended toward him.
“Matt,” Harris said, “that was The Krow on the phone just now. They couldn’t get anything off Camilla Rose Morgan’s phone. Just too badly damaged from the impact.”
“Great,” Payne said, shaking his head.
“I’ve got good news,” McCrory said, gesturing with the computer. “Found that Future Modular Manufacturing is owned by Austin Capital Ventures, which, of course, has John T. Austin shown as its president, slash, chief executive officer. One of the stories said the plant was built there in Doylestown to supply materials for a Camilla’s Kids camp near the Delaware north of New Hope. Now it’s supplying the high-rise condo project across the street from here and the cancer research addition at Hahnemann’s.”
“Well, that begins to explain the connection,” Payne said.
“I didn’t find a connection with Willie Lane. But did you know he’s got a gig with United Workers paying sixty-large?”
“Yep. And you can blame that on our fine city council members for making it legal to have jobs outside City Hall. Unions, especially Joey Fitz’s, love Lane. And people wonder why this city is a disaster.”
“You said you lost Lane in traffic?” Harris said.
“Yeah, he and Austin were going hammers of hell to get away from the protesters—almost clipped a couple of them who were taking pictures—and then, right as we got back in Philly, I got stuck behind two of the eighteen-wheelers that wound up crossways in an intersection. That was the last I saw of them.”
McCrory said, “And, Matt, that guy you asked about who got bludgeoned by that thug Daniels? He was a non-union carpenter going to work when Daniels, a union plumber, took a pipe to him.”
Payne, rubbing his face, nodded thoughtfully.
Heads turned to the TV as the image on it switched to what they recognized as the Mayor’s Reception Room.
“Here we go,” Kennedy said.
The ornate second-floor room appeared to have changed little since it was completed in 1890. It had rich Honduran mahogany wainscoting. A grand chandelier hung from its two-story-high ceiling. And its walls held gold-leaf-framed oil paintings of former mayors of Philadelphia, who seemed to be looking down upon the proceedings.
Mayor Carlucci stood behind the wide mahogany lectern, on the front of which was a heavy bronze replica of the seal of the City of Philadelphia. Behind him, standing in front of a United States flag, were Police Commissioner Ralph Mariani and First Deputy Police Commissioner Denny Coughlin. On the other side, in front of the blue-and-gold-striped flag bearing the crest of the City of Philadelphia, stood three members of the city council who comprised the Public Safety Committee.
“There’s the Black Budda talking with Coughlin,” Payne said.
Jason Washington had leaned in close to Coughlin and was quietly speaking into ear. He then stepped out of frame.
“And look who just showed up,” Payne said.
Willie Lane could be seen crossing the thick black-and-gold-patterned carpet. Lane joined the council members by the flag, positioning himself as the one closest to the mayor.
“Now you know why he was driving so fast,” Harris said. “He’s never been one to miss a photo op.”
“You know, that’s really one fancy room,” Kennedy announced. “I heard that Carlucci spends the thousand bucks a day they get for renting it out on those slick suits and haircuts of his.”
“Funny, I heard it was on hookers,” McCrory said, snorting at his own joke.
“Well, it ain’t finding its way into my paycheck,” Nasuti chimed in. “I can tell you that for a fact.”
They all chuckled.
“Hey, clam up,” McCrory said as Carlucci reached up and tapped the microphones. “Time for the big address
.”
“Whoopee!” Payne said. “More hot air from Hizzoner.”
Harris looked at him askance.
“Not a fan of his lately, eh?”
“Certainly not today. Probably not tomorrow, either. But let’s see what he says.”
Carlucci leaned into the microphones and in a deep, dramatic voice said, “Operation Thunder Road begins today.”
“Anybody know about this?” Kennedy said.
“Nothing,” McCrory said. “Seems we’re always last to be told anything.”
Payne and Harris shook their heads.
“Some months ago,” Carlucci went on, “I quietly asked the Honorable Randle Bailey, Esquire, to spearhead an exploratory team.”
A heavyset male stepped into frame, stopping almost directly behind Carlucci. He was in his mid-sixties. He wore a baggy two-piece suit, the jacket of which was pulled taut over his ample belly, looking ready to pop its two buttons. He had wisps of silver hair that tended to flop from one side of his scalp to the other. His beady dark eyes were set deep in a liver-spotted face.
Carlucci turned and took a long time shaking Randle’s hand while they both mugged for the media.
“That Bailey,” Harris said. “Yet another who just loves to be in front of the cameras.”
“That is when Randy Randle’s not groping the almost attractive women behind the cameras,” Payne said.
“Almost attractive?” Harris parroted.
Payne grinned. “They apparently like the attention, and don’t complain. It’s when Randy Randle plays grab ass with the pretty ones—literally, gets touchy-feely—that the complaints start. He really has a thing for TV reporters, preferably the hot blonde ones, something that goes beyond his usual perversion.”
“This usual perversion being . . . ?”
“What you said, his insatiable hunger for seeing himself on TV.”
McCrory said, “I thought he lost his gig with the D.C. national political committee for doing exactly that, groping the local affiliate’s ace reporter?”
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