Broken Trust

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Like Camilla Rose, Detective, Austin is intelligent. You are aware that he now is in wealth management . . .”

  Payne and Harris nodded.

  “. . . But he’s not the good kind. And that, of course, concerned me.”

  “I’m guessing the bad kind is one who loses your money,” Payne said, his tone wry.

  “Indeed, that is an absolute truth. But the difference between good and bad is also about how they are compensated.” He paused, and added, “You must know this, yes?”

  “Kindly educate me. As Detective Harris can attest, I’m not very bright and can always learn something new.”

  Mason Morgan looked back and forth between them, not sure if he was being mocked or not, then decided to go on. “The good kind of wealth managers charge a very small percentage of your portfolio as their management fee. Ergo, the more money your investments make, the more they earn, too.”

  “Got it,” Payne said.

  “The other kind, the bad kind, is essentially a stockbroker—which my grandfather told me was ‘really little more than a used-car salesman with shiny, expensive shoes.’ They make their money from commissions on the buying and selling of stocks and bonds and various other financial instruments. If a stock’s price starts to slide, for example, the broker may suggest getting out and investing in another stock that he declares, with great conviction, is undervalued and destined to rise in price. Which may or may not be true, especially if the brokerage firm is pushing certain financial products it has an interest in . . . But that’s a whole other subject.”

  Payne said, “And this used-car salesman with shiny, expensive shoes gets a commission, and maybe a company bonus, from both the dumped shares and the newly acquired ones.”

  Morgan nodded.

  “I knew you knew, Matthew. Thus, it is in the broker’s best interest, not the client’s, to do so. And, let me tell you, Austin is one remarkable salesman. Big, bright smile, a backslapper, your instant new best friend. Always with the next con going on. I would suggest always having your hand on your wallet when in his presence.”

  The multiline telephone on the desk began making a trilling sound. Morgan’s eyes darted to its caller ID display, then he glanced at his wristwatch. He made a face of annoyance as he grabbed the receiver.

  “Let me call you right back,” he snapped, then more or less slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

  Mason Morgan quickly pushed himself out of his high-backed leather chair.

  “Gentlemen, I do have a meeting I must make. We can continue this later. Meantime, I’ll get the file my security people compiled on Austin to you.”

  IV

  [ ONE ]

  The Rittenhouse Condominiums

  Residence 2150

  Center City

  Philadelphia

  Friday, January 6, 11:01 A.M.

  Homicide Sergeant Matt Payne, standing on the terrace of Camilla Rose Morgan’s leased unit, peered over the glass-topped, slate-tiled wall and saw, twenty-one floors below, the roof of the Crime Scene Unit’s canopy tent. A panel van with MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE markings honked twice as it backed up and then parked just outside the yellow tape.

  When he turned back, he had a clear view of the gas-fueled fireplace. Laying on the slate—next to a large crystal snifter and, on its side, an empty bottle of Rémy Martin VSOP cognac—were the extravagant high heel shoes she had worn the previous night, one of which she used to hold open the elevator door for Matt.

  Now he could see in his mind’s eye Camilla Rose at the fireplace, taking photographs of herself, while she waited for him.

  I wonder, beyond what I have real reason to believe is an itch she anxiously wanted scratched, if she also really had something to tell me.

  That telling me she did wasn’t just a way of luring me into her lair.

  He glanced beyond the fireplace, through the large windows, and saw Tony Harris peeling off his blue latex gloves while talking with a crime scene investigator who was balancing a digital video camera on his shoulder. The interior was brightly lit, and it looked as if every bulb in the three-bedroom condominium had been switched on.

  The lighting made for an impressive sight—it was a remarkably beautiful unit, despite the detritus—and he could hear the realtor’s nasal voice droning in his head.

  “Mr. Payne, these truly luxurious condominiums were built with the finest of materials and superb craftsmanship. Of the one hundred and fifty units in the building, typical is the two-bedroom, two-bath, with eighteen hundred square feet. Then, at the upper end, we have the penthouse—a forty-two-hundred-square-foot property, with fourteen-foot-high ceilings, and a six-hundred-square-foot tiled terrace, featuring a natural gas fireplace.

  “And the hotel itself is of five-star quality—indeed, it’s world-class. Should you have guests, we have an arrangement for quite nice discounts on rooms. And, of course, our residents enjoy significant discounts in its restaurants and with the all-hours room service, and also use of concierge and housekeeping services.”

  Matt turned and went out on the terrace. In addition to overlooking Rittenhouse Square, the view he scanned took in both big rivers, as well as such instantly recognizable landmarks as, to the east, the Mall, with Independence Hall, and, next to it, the Liberty Bell, and, to the north, the massive Museum of Art, and, just past that, on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill, the docks and buildings of Boathouse Row.

  Amanda would love this, he thought. We sure wouldn’t need a place quite so big, but it would be every bit as nice.

  Matt could also see, just beyond the Museum of Art, on the far side of Fairmont Park, the 2601 Parkway condominiums, where his sister, Amy, lived.

  That reminds me . . . wonder if she’s home? Or maybe nearby?

  He checked the time, then sent her a text message and slipped the phone in his pocket.

  Payne then surveyed the terrace and tried once again to visualize what could have been Camilla Rose Morgan’s last moments.

  He looked—for what he figured had to be the twentieth time—from the slate wall down to the tent and then back up. He thought it was possible that she could have positioned herself in such a way—Stupidly standing on the ledge to take another photograph with the city lights in the background—that she then could have lost her footing and balance.

  And her life.

  But in listing the order of probability, Payne’s gut had put “fallen by accident” last, behind “jumped” and “pushed.”

  And then, considering her mind-set—She said she found her calling with helping sick kids, which included hosting the fund-raiser, and going after her brother to get her money—and considering how damn terrifying the ground looked from this perspective, he simply could not come up with a logical reason that justified her ending her life by jumping.

  Which leaves “pushed.”

  But by who? And, for the love of God, why?

  And then he mentally went over what he and Harris had heard from John Tyler Austin and Mason Morgan.

  After some time, he heard behind him, “Matt?”

  Payne turned and saw Harris approaching.

  “Crime scene guys are packing up,” Harris said. “What’re you thinking? I could smell the gears smoking from all the way inside.”

  Payne started pulling off his blue latex gloves, and said, “I’m thinking that I don’t have a damn clue. But at least one thing bothers me for certain.”

  “About?”

  “Camilla Rose clearly had her issues,” Payne began, and shared what he felt in his gut.

  Harris then nodded, and said, “Well, that’s about as good as we have to go on at this point. We sure as hell haven’t found a smoking gun here.”

  “And the one thing that bothers me for certain is the fact that she was (a) striving to build a facility to provide a better life for kids who are
dealing with some seriously tragic situations, and (b) naming it for their father, who wished to be remembered for being altruistic.”

  “Why does that bother you?”

  “It flies in the face of Mason Morgan’s already stinking-rich kids winding up with the money. It’s not like she hadn’t proven herself capable. From all those billions, her brother couldn’t, short of giving her everything that she wanted, make more money available for the charities? Something he knew his father would have approved? No. Instead, the sonofabitch squeezed her out.”

  Harris grunted. “They say life ain’t fair.”

  “Understatement of the day.” He paused, then added, “When I was at UP, there was no end to the cutthroats who were going on to business school. To them, everything’s blood sport. And it’s not just about making money—it’s about winning and not losing. Those bastards devoutly believe in the Golden Rule.”

  “What? ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you’? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “That’s because it’s the other one: ‘He who has the gold rules. They see no top end to what they can amass.’”

  Harris nodded a couple times, then said, “Some kids who have jerks for parents turn out okay in spite of them. Maybe the Morgan kids will see the light and use the money for what she intended.”

  Payne looked skeptical, and said, “Yeah, sure—when pigs fly out their overprivileged asses.”

  Looking past Harris, Payne saw McCrory stepping out onto the terrace.

  “Here comes Dick,” he said.

  “Hey, Matt,” McCrory said as he approached. “We got from hotel management the names and info on the bartenders and servers working last night. Nasuti is running them down. And I’m supposed to meet with Joy Abrams in an hour. Looks like she’s finally calmed down.”

  Payne’s brow went up.

  “You said she had a real meltdown when you broke the news?” Payne said.

  “Oh, yeah. What did sailors call those things? Banshee wails?” McCrory said, looking almost embarrassed. “I mean, she made the effing bottles behind the bar rattle. It was difficult trying to console her, she was shaking and crying so bad.”

  “Jesus,” Harris said. “Drama queen.”

  “You get anything out of her?” Payne said.

  McCrory shook his head.

  “About all she could get out between wails was that she hadn’t been in the bar the night before because she’d been feeling under the weather. Then she popped to her feet, said she had to go to her room for some privacy, and bolted from the bar, crying and covering her face with her hands. When she called a little while ago, she said she was trying to contact Ms. Morgan’s mother and lawyer and could meet with me at noon.”

  “What about what Tony just said?” Payne said. “Do you think that was genuine grief? Or just a dramatic display?”

  McCrory made a face. “Painfully real. It’s obvious she was really fond of the Morgan woman. Said she wasn’t just a boss but a good friend, too.”

  Payne nodded.

  “Anyway,” McCrory went on, “when she called, she said she’s got the master list of attendees for the gala and that she’d called around and came up with a short list of who was in the bar. I’ll get Kennedy to go through it with me.”

  Thirty-six-year-old Detective Harold W. Kennedy, Sr., was an enormous—at six-one, two-eighty—African-American who had grown up in West Philly.

  Payne said, “Split up the names of those in the bar with him and interview them first. And see if they’re any of the same names Hank gets from the bartenders, et cetera . . .”

  “Right.”

  “I got a glance at a couple through the doorway last night. They looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell you who the hell they were.”

  Harris looked at his watch, and said, “I figured that by now I would’ve heard back from Gerry McGuire about Dignitary Protection’s list. I’ll try him again in a minute.”

  “Hey, I heard some rumor that Sandy Colt is coming,” McCrory said, sounding somewhat star-struck.

  “Oh boy,” Payne said, dripping with sarcasm. “Stanley Coleman. My favorite pedophile.”

  Then he thought, I wonder if Terry will be in tow?

  Long-legged, blonde, and beautiful, Terry Davis was vice president of the West Coast division of Global Artists Management, which had Colt as a client. Matt had met her while working with Dignitary Protection. She also happened to be an old friend from school of Daphne Nesbitt, who, playing matchmaker, had invited Terry and Matt to the Nesbitts’ house for dinner. Their relationship turned out to be very short-lived.

  I doubt she shows up. Not after being with me when those robbers shot up my car.

  She’ll probably never grace this city—not to mention me—with her presence again.

  Shit! Kind of like Amanda? She heard that whole story—and the others she stuck in that damn obit—from Amy.

  Maybe Amanda’s worried she’ll one day wind up in the cross fire, too.

  McCrory was looking at Payne with a questioning expression.

  “Stanley Coleman went to West Catholic High,” Payne said. “Afterward, as a struggling thespian, he had his name legally changed to Sandy Colt. Then, for reasons that baffle me, considering his so-called talent, he became famous.”

  Colt, unbelievably handsome and muscular, had started out as lead singer in a rock band, then leveraged that fame to get minor parts in a police series on television, then used that to get a small role as a detective in a dramatic motion picture. When that motion picture exploded at the box office—mostly, Payne thought, thanks to its computer-generated special effects—he starred in a half dozen sequels.

  Payne had seen only the first picture and quickly had lost interest after too many scenes stretched credibility, even by Hollywood standards. Especially one in which Sandy Colt’s character had a shoot-out and, holding a full-sized Model 1911 Colt .45 sideways, fired twenty-two shots without reloading, from a semiautomatic that could hold, at most, eight rounds, and that was with one chambered.

  “Last time Colt was in town,” Harris told McCrory, grinning widely, “it was for a fund-raiser for his alma mater, West Philly High . . .”

  “Why’s that funny?” McCrory said.

  “. . . And newly promoted Sergeant Payne here got sandbagged by Monsignor Schneider, who grandly suggested that Payne’s ‘real-life exploits could serve as the basis for one of Stanley’s films.’”

  “Say, that’s really something,” McCrory said.

  “Not really,” Payne said.

  “Colt,” Harris went on, “had heard all about the famed Wyatt Earp of the Main Line. And he was as thrilled about getting to do ride-alongs with Sergeant Payne as Sergeant Payne was pissed off about having to babysit a cartoon actor. Colt’s enthusiasm pretty much dropped more than a bit when Matt threatened what would happen to him if he (a) did not take a vow of chastity for his entire visit to our City of Brotherly Love, and (b) violated said vow.”

  McCrory’s eyes went to Payne.

  “Is he pulling my leg?”

  Payne shook his head.

  “I’d been told by his Hollywood agent,” he said, “that Colt liked young girls—”

  “Damn perverts,” McCrory blurted, his eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but I got daughters . . .”

  Harris said, “Rest assured that no harm had to come to Stanley’s crown jewels at the edge of a dull knife. The vow was kept. And he did raise more than a half mil for the West Catholic Building Fund.”

  “And if he, indeed, is here,” Payne said, “the same deal’s in force.”

  McCrory said, “I didn’t know all that.”

  “I’ll bet,” Payne said, “that Camilla Rose placed many tithe envelopes in the church’s collection plate. Which strongly suggests that Monsignor Schneider, and maybe even the Archbishop, are listed as going
tomorrow night. Which means there will be other politicians, particularly ones of the elected variety, which means I really don’t want to go, if I can avoid it.”

  He paused, looked at McCrory, and added, “Let me know, too, what the Abrams woman says about that envelope of cash. Invoking the famous Jason Washington’s never leave a stone unturned philosophy . . .”

  He stopped when he felt a familiar vibration in his pocket and pulled out his cellular telephone.

  “Aha, finally,” he said, looking at Harris. “It’s the family shrink.”

  Harris nodded.

  “Good call,” he said. “She’s always been helpful figuring out these head cases.”

  Dr. Amelia A. Payne was the Joseph L. Otterby Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania.

  “Sigmund!” Matt began. “How’s—”

  “I got your message,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m meeting Mom at noon for lunch at the house. Come join us. And if, for once, you are nice to me and behave, I’ll tell you more than you want to know about the bipolar roller-coaster ride.”

  “Define nice and behave,” Matt said, but then realized that he was talking to a broken connection.

  [ TWO ]

  Providence Road

  Wallingford, Pennsylvania

  Friday, January 6, 12:01 P.M.

  After getting his car back from the valet—which had taken some time because a large section of the Rittenhouse circle drive remained blocked with police units—Payne took Broad Street down to Interstate 95, the Delaware Expressway, then drove south on it toward Chester. He would, in about ten miles, then make the turn onto I-476.

  Matt enjoyed the drive out to the family home in Wallingford. In addition to getting him out of the city, it gave him time to think—although, in the event there was bad traffic, sometimes far more than he wanted.

  When Payne had eased himself behind the wheel of the 911 and plugged his smartphone into the USB port, he had considered calling Amanda while en route. He had not heard anything from her since he left her condo the previous night and he wondered if that was because she had seen the news about his involvement in the shooting and was now even more upset. So much so that she had nothing else to say to him.