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“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—”
