“Unfortunately, true. And it looks like Camilla Rose is likely going to become a cold case.”
“As long as I can keep her name clear. I am not going to let anyone drag her name through the mud. She was an angel, a kind, caring, beautiful creature.”
She turned to Grosse, and said, “Fill Matt in, please.”
—
Fifteen minutes later, as Payne placed the birth certificate for Harold Thomas Morgan II on the conference table, he looked back and forth between Michael Grosse and Aimee Wolter.
“I don’t know what to say. Camilla Rose certainly was one of a kind. And that Austin . . . a hundred million bucks. Jesus.”
“Johnny really went off the deep end when Camilla Rose got married,” Aimee said. “Let’s just say he was not sorry it ended in divorce. And when it did, he spent enormous energy trying to win her over.”
“By exacting revenge on Mason Morgan,” Payne said.
“Yes,” Grosse said, “of which Camilla Rose was innocent. Her only, quote, crime, unquote, was caring too much about helping others. Unfortunately, including Johnny Austin.”
“So,” Payne said, tapping the birth certificate, “she had the child in wedlock, which means she met the provision of her father’s reworked will.”
“That’s right.”
“So the quarterly payments continue.”
The lawyer shook his head.
“No?” Payne said. “Why not? She had issue.”
“Yes. But it’s not the payments the child gets. It’s the entire principle that had created those million-dollar quarterly payments. They’re shares in Morgan International, which are currently worth just over five hundred million dollars.”
“A half-billion dollars,” Payne said. “That’s a fraction of what the company’s worth.”
“True,” Aimee said. “But it’s a lot of money, by anyone’s count.”
“Camilla Rose had trusts set up for her son. Some controlled the bulk of wealth, others her charities. They are structured to fund the camps entirely and to provide for the boy’s reasonable needs, with him gaining access to all the principle at age thirty-five.”
“The age she was when she died,” Payne said. “And having the child . . . Do you think she did that just to spite Mason?”
Aimee said, “No, Matt . . . Well, yes, there was some of that . . . But she really wanted to have a child. She wanted to try to be a better mother than she had had.”
“Tragic,” Payne said, then heard Camilla Rose’s voice in his head: I don’t think I’m cut out to be an everyday mother.
Payne felt his phone vibrate.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling it from his pocket. He glanced at the text message, boxed in red: It’s Ryan . . . FYI . . . Was gonna work valet at Bellevue tonight but heard rumor something bad might go down. Same guy who said he’d heard about that $100K from Morgan woman.
“Well, this isn’t good news,” Payne said.
“What, Matt?” Aimee said.
“There’s a kid I know casually who’s putting himself through La Salle working part-time as a car valet. He says he was going to work tonight’s event but got word something’s going to happen.”
“Could it be just someone talking?” Grosse said.
“Always could be that. And it could be a solid tip. His last one was. Service industry people are a tight community.”
Payne began writing an e-mail.
“There will be a lot of cops there, escorting the VIPs,” Aimee said.
“Guys working for Dignitary Protection,” Payne said, nodding. “I’m sending a note now alerting the guy in charge of that.”
“Earlier today,” Grosse said when Payne put down his phone, “I put in a call to Tom Brahman.”
“That Texan venture capitalist?” Payne said. “My guys never got their messages returned.”
“No disrespect intended, but they’re cops. And I’m a lawyer representing the heiress of a billionaire, among other wealthy clients. My calls tend to get returned promptly.”
Payne made a face, and nodded. “Good point.”
“I found it very interesting that Kenny Benson would accuse Tom of a short and distort in a filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission when it turns out that he apparently was doing exactly the opposite with NextGenRx.”
“Why do you say that?” Payne said.
“Slideware,” Grosse said.
“I haven’t heard this,” Aimee said.
“Brahman said he wanted to believe in Benson’s technology, wanted to invest, and, of course, have it make a fortune. He’s one of about seven hundred venture capital firms in the U.S. They invest some fifty billion bucks each year. Seeing, say, mere millions go up in smoke when a start-up dies, well, that’s just the cost of doing business. Because the others are going to make money.”
“But not NextGen,” Aimee said.
Grosse shook his head.
“Brahman said his research people found that devices measuring glucose through noninvasive methods simply don’t work. That’s a basic science that the fanciest computer coder cannot replicate. And that makes this NextGen contact lens just another so-called brilliant breakthrough known as slideware.”
“Slideware?” Payne repeated.
“Yeah. That’s what Silicon Valley calls things that work only in PowerPoint presentations. Nothing is going to replace the definitive testing of the glucose in blood because that’s the most accurate reading of glucose levels. While, yes, there is glucose in tear fluid, its levels are easily altered by humidity and temperature and other factors. Not so with actual genuine blood.”
“And that’s what the scientist who committed suicide learned the hard way,” Payne said. “So they were working a pump and dump.”
“Brahman also told me John Austin is not a huge player. He cherry-picks the smaller venture capital types, as opposed to the enormous institutional investors, which have layers of oversight and don’t invest off-the-cuff. But smaller shops can—and do. Especially when it’s with a known name.”
“Such as Morgan,” Payne said, nodding.
“What Johnny does is solicit contributors to his funds with the Morgan name. They are legit funds—for example, Morgan Partners Florida Capital Fund III—but they’re philanthropy funds that Camilla Rose controlled, not Morgan International’s. He doesn’t outright misrepresent the funds, as such, but he also doesn’t go out of his way to disabuse investors, should they think that. He’s promising people fifteen to twenty percent returns when the market is offering everyday investors three, four if they’re lucky.”
“It’s a Ponzi scheme,” Payne said.
“Pure and simple. Paying early investors high rates with the money from new investors who don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of seeing even zero percent.”
“How did that happen? You said even people who should know better got suckered by him.”
“Camilla Rose had the latitude. Mason’s hands were full, and, according to Austin, she raised enough hell about their father’s will being changed that he decided it was a battle best not fought. So she gave the money to Austin, who used it to pay the high returns, which, in turn, brought in more investors.”
He paused, then reached in his briefcase, pulling out what Payne recognized as a prospectus.
“You have heard, I trust, of the phrase buyer beware?” Grosse said.
Payne nodded.
“Austin’s fancy version of that is: ‘While we do our best to offer outstanding investment opportunities, we also make sure the buyer knows that nothing is guaranteed.’”
Grosse picked up the prospectus and began reading aloud. “‘All potential investors in our offering (hereafter The Fund), before buying any security or investment instrument, must read and understand the entire prospectus and any memorandum. Be aware that these will cont
ain what are known as forward-looking statements. And that these statements address the performance of investments into the future and are OPINIONS of the company. At the time of offering, these OPINIONS are considered factual BUT are subject to influences beyond The Fund’s control, to include economic, business, and other unknowns that could effect the performance of The Fund.’”
He looked at Payne, and added, “Et cetera, et cetera.”
Payne nodded. “So if the market tanks, or another bubble bursts, you’ve been warned.”
“More or less. Certainly cautioned. What they like calling an abundance of caution. No one could sue for fraudulent enticement. But the investors, after hearing a twenty percent return, their eyes glaze over the fine print. Greed gets ’em every time. Even people who know better.”
“Unbelievable,” Payne said, shaking his head. “Austin raked in all that money, made a billion-dollar gamble, and blew it by going cheap—by not hiring union workers. It brought down his whole house of cards.”
“And would have brought down Camilla Rose, had she not taken my advice and let me invest her personal funds.”
Michael Grosse began returning the papers to his briefcase.
“Austin can’t survive this,” he said, “not when Morgan’s lawyers get the feds involved. I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls them from the hospital. Taking everything Johnny said at face value—which, I grant you, isn’t exactly wise, but, in this case, it’s adequate. Considering all he admitted to, he is looking at doing serious time.”
“Yet he still thinks he can recover,” Payne said, “pull a hundred-million-dollar rabbit out of his hat.”
Grosse nodded, and began to say, “Well, he got away with it a long—”
Their heads all turned as they heard a thundering Boom! in the distance.
The lights dimmed. Windows rattled. Car horns up and down the street began honking.
Explosion, Payne thought. Those are car alarms it triggered.
“What the hell was that?” Michael Grosse blurted.
“Something big just blew up,” Payne said, getting to his feet. “Could just be another of those PECO underground power transformers. Infrastructure in this city needs a lot of work. I’ll be in touch.”
[ FOUR ]
The Bellevue
200 South Broad Street
Center City
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 8:55 P.M.
“It has not been a bad crowd, considering the circumstances,” Aimee Wolter said, taking a sip from her martini. “A lot of cancellations—including Stan Colt, thank God, who did write a big check—but that’s not surprising. Camilla Rose was the real draw.”
She was standing with Sergeant Matt Payne and Inspector Peter Wohl, both impeccably dressed in black tie and dinner jackets. They surrounded a high table covered with a white tablecloth near one of the eight well-stocked open bars. Between Payne and Wohl were drinks, two club sodas with lime in highball glasses, meant to suggest cocktails.
“I’d write that big check just to keep that pervert Colt away,” Payne said, causing Aimee to laugh.
Matt Payne looked around the grand ballroom. In addition to blue shirts posted outside, including the immaculately dressed Highway Patrol, there were a dozen plainclothes detectives spread out among the two hundred attendees.
His eye stopped at Willie Lane, who was seated at his table, staring at a cocktail glass. Payne noted that he had been going to the bar often, and, judging by how long the bartender kept the bottles upended, ordering doubles or triples. A waiter, a teenage male with a short black ponytail and carrying a couple pitchers of water, was making another cycle around the table, topping off glasses.
Surprising to Payne, the dinner had been better than expected—he had devoured his filet mignon and grilled asparagus—and the comments from the four after-dinner speakers were mercifully short.
There had followed an onstage skit performed by a score of children who had attended Camilla’s Kids Camps, and, after they had exited stage right—a few children in wheelchairs with IV drip lines hanging from bottles above their heads—the master of ceremony announcing over the applause that there would be a fifteen-minute break before the final presentation.
When the MC added that the open bars were awaiting, Payne had quietly said to Wohl, “Liquor becomes very cheap when it helps people write bigger checks than they would sober.”
“It’s been an impressive crowd,” Wohl said. “All A-listers.”
Payne grunted. “It’s shocking—shocking, I say—who shows up when the party thrower is heiress to a fortune . . . and spends all her time deciding to whom she will donate.”
Aimee chuckled.
“To include politicians,” Wohl said.
“To especially include politicians,” Aimee said.
“I heard that our distinguished former D.A., slash, mayor, slash, governor is in the house,” Wohl said.
“He is,” Payne said. “And you’re right about heard. You’re likely to hear Randle Bailey, Esquire, before you see him. Just listen for the growl of a guy letting loose with a string of profanities. If that doesn’t narrow the crowd down enough, look for the dumpy, silver-haired guy whose baggy suit looks like, as McCrory said, it was tailored from a circus tent—”
Aimee Wolter leaned in close, and whispered, “He gives me the creeps . . . And I can handle anyone.”
“A different-colored circus tent, from today’s press conference.”
“Speaking of circuses,” Wohl said, “what about the elephant in the room?”
“What elephant?”
“Coughlin brought me up to speed on your meeting today.”
“It’s bullshit, Peter.”
“Agreed.”
Payne looked past him and saw Amy Payne coming toward them.
“Hold that thought,” Payne said. “My sister’s coming back from powdering her nose.”
Aimee Wolter looked back and forth between them but decided not to ask.
Amy went up to Matt and put her hand on his sleeve and looked at Wolter and Wohl.
“I need a word with my brother. Would you please excuse us a second?” Amy said, pulling him aside.
“What’d I do now?” Matt said, when they stopped twenty feet away.
“I’ve been meaning to share something with you. And when I began missing Amanda here beside you . . . I suppose I’m not surprised Amanda did not come with you . . . I decided now was as good a time as any.”
“Her plane landed in Texas this afternoon,” Matt said.
“That was fast.”
“Yeah,” Matt said, the emotion evident in his voice.
“You shouldn’t be upset, Matt. What’s happening with her is to be expected.”
“Mood swings?”
“Yes,” Amy said. “You can expect hormonal levels to fluctuate wildly, affecting the level of neurotransmitters. It can take weeks for the body to return to normal. The enormous surge of hormones in the first trimester is the worst. Remember how exhausted she’d been, and the nausea she went through. It was a roller coaster—excitement, then worry, then feelings of delight, followed by fear.”
“And, boy, was it.”
“And now it’s panic attacks, depression, anxiety. Her taking this time alone I see as a selfless thing. She is sparing you.”
Payne’s eyes scanned the ballroom. “How?”
“By going through it alone. Not having you suffer, too.”
“But I want to be there for her.”
Amy nodded. “I know, Matt. And I wouldn’t expect any less of you. But she’s a tough one. Always has been. You can help her by being understanding. In a very real sense, those hormonal surges are no different than the chemical imbalances in the brain that cause mental illness.”
“A temporary insanity?”
“I wouldn’t term it that. Look, just know it’s not her fault. The best you can do is be tender and patient until her body gets back to normal.”
Payne was quiet.
“What are you thinking, Matt?”
“That I now appreciate why certain cultures segregated women from the general population and put them in menstrual huts on the far edge of their villages.”
Amy shook her head.
“Those primitive practices are still in use. But don’t be a caveman, Matt, if only for Amanda’s sake.”
—
As they rejoined the others, Aimee Wolters said, “Camilla Rose raised funds for everyone who opposed him in his mayoral and gubernatorial runs.”
“Him who?” Payne said.
“Bailey,” Aimee said. “It’s hard, though.”
“Raising money?” Wohl said.
She laughed.
“No, that’s the easy part. What’s hard is picking which of the pols is worthy of your support. Which ones can pass your smell test. Bailey didn’t. But it didn’t matter. Because he had Frank Fuller’s machine.”
“Five-F was the money behind him?” Payne said.
“Frank Fuller, and everyone who wanted to please Fuller. He starting raising money for Bailey behind the scenes after Fuller convinced him that he should run for Philly district attorney. Then he got Joey Fitz—Fuller owns all the unions, more or less, with the exception of the teachers, thanks to them working for his various companies, from the carpenters and electricians building his skyscrapers to the longshoremen—to rally behind him for mayor. Mayor Bailey, after eight years of spreading the city’s wealth among his supporters—”
“Five-F and friends,” Payne put in.
Wolter nodded. “And the unions, and passing out patronage no-show jobs to family and friends. You know, the usual. After eight years of that, with Fuller’s machine laying the groundwork for a run on Harrisburg, Bailey announced his candidacy for governor. Meantime, anticipating that there would be a vacancy at the top in City Hall, Fuller went to work behind the scenes.”
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