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“I know a little something about that. I just had, as a matter of fact, a similar conversation about trust when we were discussing the Morgan and Benson cases. And then there’s Jeremiah’s warning: ‘The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?’ Tank reminded me of that biblical gem. Fitting, huh?”
Coughlin sighed audibly.
“Matty, I can honestly say that Jerry had your back for a long time. I witnessed it firsthand. But he said that with the record killings year after year, and the public’s perception of your shootings, the dynamic has suddenly changed. You should not take it personally that he’s doing this. It’s not about you. It’s about the political perspective.”
Payne, clearly in thought, was quiet for some time.
“I appreciate how you’ve handled this with me, Uncle Denny.”
Coughlin nodded solemnly.
“What kind of time line are we looking at?” Payne said. “I’d like to see through Camilla Rose Morgan’s case. I feel I owe it to her.”
Coughlin shrugged.
“It’s going to happen—Jerry as much as said it’s a done deal—but not today, or tomorrow. I think I can buy you a little time.” He paused, then added, “But, for the love of God, in the meantime just try and keep your head down.”
Payne shook his head in resignation.
“This is bullshit,” he said again.
“I know it is. But it’s not the end of the world, Matty. Not like if that damn bullet had hit you elsewhere.”
Payne sighed. He stared at his feet. His mind spun trying to process all of what had just happened. His ears rang.
First I have problems with Amanda, he thought. And now this?
I just can’t fucking win.
But . . . I should have seen it coming.
He looked up and met Carlucci’s eyes.
“I guess you’re right, Uncle Denny. On all points.”
[ TWO ]
The Rittenhouse Condominiums
Residence 2150
Center City
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 9:15 A.M.
When Michael Grosse woke up and peered at the clock, he felt angry again. He had tossed and turned most of the night, unable to sleep as the anger built.
And now I’ve overslept, he thought.
Damn you, Johnny.
Grosse came out of his bedroom and found that the small flat-screen television hanging under the kitchen cabinets was on, its volume low. Grosse also saw that, next to the TV, the single-serve coffeemaker was on and warm, and he picked through the assortment of coffee cartridges. As the machine filled a white china cup and he smelled the rich dark blend, he glanced around the condominium and out at the balcony.
John Austin was nowhere in sight. But the two bottles of whisky that he consumed almost by himself were.
He has to have one killer hangover, Grosse thought.
