Broken Trust

by W. E. B Griffin

  Harkness pulled a small spiral notepad from his shirt pocket. He flipped pages, read his notes, then looked at Payne.

  “Driver’s a guy from West Palm Beach named Kenneth Benson, thirty-two years old,” he said. “He was unconscious. Shot up real good. That’s where all the blood came from. The EMTs working on him said he took multiple hits to the upper body, with one to the neck. Said it looked like with buckshot.”

  Payne nodded.

  “That’s what it looked like back at the scene of the shooting—buckshot,” he said. “How about the passenger?”

  “The passenger,” Harkness went on, “is a thirty-five-year-old named John Austin. He somehow missed getting hit. Suffered some cuts from glass, was pretty badly banged up, but that was it. Call it a miracle, or something. He got transported to Hahnemann first.” The wail of the siren from the ambulance that just left the scene could be heard as it headed up Eighteenth Street, and he added, “The driver got put in that meat wagon. The paramedic said they’ll probably pronounce him at Hahnemann’s.”

  “That makes this job yours, right?” Foster said. “I mean, Homicide’s.”

  “That’s what’s known in the unit as job security,” Payne said, triggering another chuckle from the EMT. Then he added, “If it was single-aught buckshot, each round has nine pellets, and each of those lead balls is the size of a .32 caliber bullet. And I saw the shooter get off two rounds. How the hell did the passenger manage to not get shot?”

  Foster shrugged. “Just damn lucky, all I can figure. Except for getting banged up. Didn’t have his seat belt on and got thrown around the back of vehicle.”

  Payne just looked at him.

  “No seat belt?” he then said. “Maybe that’s it. He got lucky and saw the shotgun before the first round went off. Or got even luckier when it did, ducking down on the floorboard and using the engine block for cover.”

  Foster and Harkness exchanged glances.

  “I just figured he’d left his seat belt off,” Foster said, nodding thoughtfully. “Hiding behind the fire wall makes sense.”

  “Their friend . . .” Harkness said. “She showed up right after we dragged the two out of the vehicle. Said she’d run down from The Rittenhouse. That’s how I found out they were all staying there.”

  “Good-looking blonde woman, mid-thirties, nicely dressed, right?” Payne said.

  “Yeah,” Harkness said. “A real beauty. The rich kind, you know? Wasn’t happy she couldn’t ride along in the ambulance. She calmed down real quick when I flagged a cab to take her to Hahnemann.” He paused, then added, “So, then, you saw her?”

  Payne nodded. “Near the shooting. Who is she?”

  Harkness pulled from his notepad what looked like a business card and handed it to Payne.

  “She gave me this.”

  Payne’s eyes went to the card.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Camilla Rose Morgan. That was her. Didn’t recognize her.”

  “She someone important?” Harkness said.

  “That is what’s known as a vast understatement, but you were right about the rich part,” Payne said. He motioned with the card. “I can keep this? You have the info off it?”

  “Sure thing, Sergeant Payne.”

  “By the way,” Payne said, “nice work, you two. Pulling those guys out took real guts. Not everyone would’ve taken the risk.”

  “Thanks,” they said over each other.

  “You would have done it,” Simpson, the EMT, said. He gestured toward Payne’s bloodstained shirt. “You have done it. Just one example is ol’ Ray-Ray damn near making you number 373.”

  The blue shirts nodded their agreement and obvious admiration.

  The news media was still reporting, weeks later, on Homicide Sergeant M. M. Payne’s foot chase of eighteen-year-old Rayvorris Oliver, a street-corner drug dealer, after Ray-Ray’s partner had just shot up a North Philly coffee shop.

  Payne, who had been in the coffee shop talking with a confidential informant who had been their target, took out the shooter when he attempted to aim the semiauto at Payne. Oliver fled the scene.

  After running through multiple overgrown, weed-choked lots, Payne had been ambushed by Oliver—and took a bullet in the gut.

  Payne returned fire, then collapsed from his wound.

  Ray-Ray died at the scene, making him homicide number 372 for the year. His partner had become number 371 moments after his bullets killed an innocent bystander—number 370—who had been eating at the coffee shop’s back counter.

  The shootings had been, and remained, big news because the city was not only living up to its unwelcomed epithet of Killadelphia, it was doing so with record numbers of deaths. And there was no reason to expect a reprieve anytime soon.

  “Thanks,” Payne said to Simpson, then looked between Harkness and Foster. “But, fact is, I let you guys go into harm’s way while I chased—and lost—the shooter. And you performed admirably.” He paused, then added, “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Payne took a couple steps away from them, then pulled out his cellular phone and thumbed a text message: Can you meet me at Hahnemann ER in maybe 20?

  A minute later, his phone vibrated once with a reply message: Once again, boss, you’re a day late and a dollar short. I’m already at ER. And you’ve been requested by name.

  [ THREE ]

  Hahnemann University Hospital

  Broad and Vine Streets

  Center City

  Philadelphia

  Thursday, January 5, 4:30 P.M.

  Matt Payne took Sixteenth Street a dozen blocks up from Rittenhouse Square, then turned right onto Vine Street. He braked for the red signal light at Seventeenth Street. The emergency room entrance at Hahnemann’s was a half block ahead on the right, and he could see a few marked police sedans and fire department ambulances parked along the curb out front.

  He glanced left and then right, and his eye went to the enormous banner attached to the tall chain-link fence that had been erected around an old parking lot that was being turned into a construction zone.

  The white vinyl banner read HAROLD MORGAN CANCER RESEARCH CENTER—COMING SOON!

  In the middle of the banner was an architectural rendering of a new twenty-story tower that would have a skybridge over Seventeenth Street connecting it to the existing hospital complex.

  The banner also had multiple listings of those involved in the project.

  Under the largest heading, PLATINUM DONORS, he saw the names of at least forty companies and individuals, many prominent ones he immediately recognized. Payne was not surprised to see at the top was Morgan International, which Camilla Rose Morgan’s father had built from a small pharmaceutical manufacturer in Philly. Directly beneath that was Richard Saunders Holdings, which he knew to be the parent company of Francis Franklin Fuller V’s multibillion-dollar empire that included major media and real estate companies, among other ventures.

  Along the bottom of the banner, in smaller lettering, under the heading FOR THE CITY OF PHILADELPHIA, was listed every politician from the mayor’s office and the city council to the local state house representatives.

  Camilla Rose spearheaded the fund-raising for that building to honor the old man and his losing battle with that aggressive cancer, Payne thought.

  And I know this because Amanda had me write a nice check.

  Damn sure not platinum level, but more than I wanted.

  Payne heard honking behind him. He looked out the windshield; the traffic signal had cycled to green. He drove through the intersection, and after passing three of the red-and-white ambulances that were idling short of the ER drop-off, he turned in to the covered bay.

  He parked the Porsche in a spot next to an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. He could see the driver of the gray Police Interceptor, Detective Anthony Harris, standing inside the sliding glass do
ors of the emergency room entrance and talking on his cellular phone.

  After entering the ER doors, Payne moved toward Tony Harris, who he now saw held a brown folder.

  Harris, who was thirty-six and slight and wiry and beginning to bald, had fifteen years at the police department. Having worked cases with Payne—in Special Operations and now in Homicide—he counted himself among those who did not buy into what some had said, both behind Payne’s back and to his face, after Payne had joined the department. To wit: that he was “just a rich kid with connections playing cop.”

  Tony not only liked and respected Matt, he enjoyed working with him. Harris had been around the block enough times to know that some cops would never be satisfied that Payne, who was both tough and smart as hell, genuinely had earned his stripes. Including his recent promotion to sergeant, after scoring number one on the examination.

  Harris’s eyebrows went up as he looked at Payne’s midsection. He ended his call and slipped the phone in his pocket.

  “Jesus, you here to be treated or what?” Harris said, motioning toward the dried bloodstain on Payne’s shirt.

  “Damn,” he said, zipping up his fleece jacket enough to cover it. “I forgot.”

  “Is it okay?”

  “Yeah. I apparently aggravated the wound ducking for cover when I saw the shotgun.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Long or short story?”

  “Make it a short one, or longish short.”

  “Okay,” Payne began. “So, I ditched a doctor’s appointment in order to meet with a realtor at The Rittenhouse—”

  “Very nice,” Harris interrupted.

  “This will be the long, long version, if you intend to keep interrupting.”

  Harris gestured grandly with his hand for Payne to continue.

  Payne said, “You were right about Amanda being really pissed about me getting shot. It’s caused all kinds of serious problems. So, attempting to spread oil upon troubled waters, I went there . . .”

  A few minutes later, he finished. “And they’re trying to run to ground the shooter and driver and anyone else who may have been in the van. I went back to the scene. After hearing that it was Camilla Rose Morgan who was connected to the victims, and that she had followed them here, figured I’d see what I could find out.”

  “You mean what we could find out. You texted me, Sergeant . . . boss . . . sir.”

  Payne knew that Harris, who had a decade more time on the job than he did, took some pleasure in needling him about it. But Payne also knew that, though technically on paper he was Harris’s superior, he had a helluva lot to learn from him.

  When Payne transferred from Special Operations to Homicide, Harris had been in Jason Washington’s squad. Both were happy to have the newly promoted Sergeant Payne join it.

  “Right, we,” Payne said. “I checked in with the Black Buddha and he said I should find out all that I can—all that we can. He’s sent McCrory with a bunch of other detectives to the scene.”

  Homicide Lieutenant Jason Washington, Payne’s immediate supervisor, was enormous—six-foot-three, two hundred twenty-five pounds—and very black. Washington—who regarded himself, and was generally regarded by others, as not only the best homicide detective in Philadelphia but possibly the best on the entire eastern seaboard—took no offense to the nickname. He said a Buddha was wise and deeply thoughtful. And there was no denying his distinct complexion.

  Payne added, “Jason also relayed the news that the van, which came up as having been stolen months ago, had in back at least two spent shells of double-aught buckshot.”

  “Jesus,” Harris said after a moment. “You really do attract the bullets.”

  “How did you get here so quickly? And talk to the Morgan woman?”

  “I was already here. Had to come get this file for the Polaneczky case. When I was headed out, they were wheeling in the Rittenhouse victims. One of the EMTs recognized me, and when I nodded toward the gurney, he said, ‘ART.’”

  “Art?” Payne parroted.

  Harris chuckled. “Yeah, I wasn’t familiar with it, either. He translated: assuming room temperature.”

  Payne grunted. “So that was Benson.”

  “Right,” Harris said, and looked at his notes. “The deceased is Kenneth Benson, thirty-two. He’s got a Texas ID—”

  “Texas?” Payne interrupted. “Harkness and Foster, the guys who pulled him and Austin from the Escalade, said they were from Florida—specifically, West Palm.”

  Harris nodded. “Both victims have home addresses in Houston. Benson is—was—the CEO of a pharmaceutical company based in Boca Raton. It’s called NextGenRx. The ER doc, after pronouncing him, said he counted four hits of buckshot. Pellet that got him in the neck ripped open the carotid, and the severed artery clearly is what caused him to bleed out.”

  Payne nodded. “Harkness said there was an enormous amount of blood in the SUV. What about Austin?”

  “John Tyler Austin, aka J.T. and Johnny, thirty-five, also of Houston, has a vacation home in Florida, in West Palm. He has his own investment firm that specializes in wealth management. Maybe more important: he’s romantically involved with Camilla Rose Morgan. I got that from her. And that that new Escalade they were in was registered to her.”

  Payne nodded thoughtfully.

  “McCrory should be grabbing copies of the surveillance videos,” he said, “especially from the steak house and the hotel. Can you get someone to run deep background on Benson and Austin, including any social media? Hell, for that matter, Camilla Rose, too.”

  “That’s one of the things I was arranging for on the phone just now.”

  “Great. I’ve already had the Black Buddha’s mantra repeated to me.” Payne then mimicked Washington’s deep sonorous voice, “‘Turn over every stone, Matthew, then turn over the stone beneath it.’”

  Harris then said, “This Morgan woman said she knows you. Which is why I said you were requested by name.”

  “She did? Now, that’s really interesting. I know some people who do know her personally. But I know her mostly by reputation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Camilla Rose Morgan has been running charities since she was an undergrad at the Wharton School—”

  “A gala is what she said she’s here for,” Harris interrupted. “Her Camilla’s Kids fund-raiser is Saturday night. Something about special camps for children dealing with terminal diseases.”

  “Yeah, mostly cancer patients. They’re probably holding it in the hotel ballroom at The Rittenhouse,” Payne said. “She’s one of those supersized personalities who is always happy and who everyone likes. The ultimate party girl.”

  “She sure as hell didn’t look like that when I saw her just now.”

  Payne nodded, then went on. “And that partying has led to a long history of rehab visits. Not that that’s been a big secret. She always called it ‘going to the spa to get a cleanse.’ And she readily pointed out all the Hollywood celebrities and rock stars who did the same.”

  “She mentioned that more than a few celebrities—her ‘special friends,’ she said—are attending the event,” Harris said, then chuckled. “You know, with any luck, you can get temporarily assigned again to Dignitary Protection.”

  “Not no—hell no. Been there, got the T-shirt. That did not work out well last time. I have no patience with the special types. Rather rip out my stitches with a dull knife first.”

  Harris snorted.

  The protecting of VIPs visiting the City of Brotherly Love fell to the Dignitary Protection Unit. Sometimes there were a few VIPs in town requiring protection, sometimes dozens, and sometimes none at all—which caused staffing of the unit, dependent on demand, to fluctuate wildly.

  The solution to supplying the surges was the temporarily reassignment of detectives from their divisions.
Usually these detectives—who wore coats and ties, not uniforms—came from the Special Operations Division, as did the uniformed officers of Highway Patrol, which fell under Special Operations. Having citywide authority, members of Special Operations were more familiar with policing Philadelphia as a whole than, for example, an officer or detective assigned to patrol just a single district.

  It didn’t hurt that Highway Patrol officers were the elite of the department. And that they put on quite a showing with their elaborate 1920s-style uniforms—gleaming black leather double-breasted jackets, Sam Browne belts, black knee-high cavalry boots with breeches tucked in and bloused—while riding massive Harley-Davidson motorcycles with lights flashing and sirens screaming.

  Thus, a dignitary being escorted around town could have as many as a dozen of the city’s best-equipped, best-trained street-savvy uniforms protecting him or her.

  Payne went on. “But no surprise about the celebs. People flock to her like moths to a flame. Of course, doesn’t hurt that the Morgan fortune is in the billions of . . .”

  Payne didn’t finish his sentence as he looked beyond Harris.

  Down the hallway, a door had opened partially, and the tall blonde Camilla Rose Morgan was stepping through it. Payne saw that she had a weary face, one deep in thought, and she moved with slow, deliberate steps. There was dried blood on her clothing.

  As Payne began walking toward her, she lifted her head and her eyes went to him.

  “Matthew,” Camilla Rose Morgan said, her voice strained. “How are you?” She made a faint smile. “You’re not going to yell at me again, are you?”

  “Ms. Morgan,” he said, holding out his right hand. “I understand Mr. Benson was a friend. My condolences.”

  She stepped toward him and shook his hand.

  “Thank you. And, please, it’s Camilla Rose.”

  He nodded, then said, “Forgive me, but I don’t recall our having met. And when I yelled at the valet stand, I did not know it was you. I’m afraid I didn’t immediately recognize you. My focus was on the shooter.”