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“I don’t know. Can check. Why would it matter?”
“Never know, right? Stone under the stone and all.”
Harris grunted.
“Must be a real challenge being a wiseass all the time, Sergeant . . . boss . . . sir.”
“Sorry. Having a bad day.”
Payne saw the exit gate start opening and the nose of the Tahoe pulling up. The Tahoe pulled through it, followed by a Mercedes-Benz SUV.
As the vehicles approached U.S. 202, the protesters, two of whom were using cellular phones to take videos, hurried over to block them, then jumped out of the way when the SUVs accelerated.
Payne saw Austin at the wheel of the Tahoe as it turned onto the highway, headed back toward Philly. Then he saw the other driver.
“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.
“What?” Harris said.
“New development. Ask McCrory to expand on that last request to include one Willie Lane.”
“I could have asked him in the interview, but he postponed it.”
“That’s because I just saw him here with Austin,” Payne said, starting the car and pulling onto the highway.
[ FOUR ]
One Freedom Place
Fifty-sixth Floor
Center City
Philadelphia
Saturday, January 7, 10:35 A.M.
“I do very much appreciate you taking time out of what I’m sure is a busy weekend,” Michael Grosse said.
He followed Mason Morgan across the high-ceilinged office while looking out the enormous wall of windows that reached floor to ceiling. Morgan waved him into one of the two overstuffed leather-upholstered armchairs in front of the desk.
“Happy to oblige,” Morgan said as he gestured toward the silver coffee service that was on the polished-granite desktop. “How do you take yours, Mr. Grosse?”
“Black, thank you. And, please, call me Michael.”
Grosse—whose regular routine in Florida found him running on the beach or surfing or working out in his private gym when it stormed—could not help but be baffled by Morgan’s obvious disdain for exercise.
How could someone with so much be so obese? Grosse thought.
He’s got to be pushing two-fifty. It just hangs in folds, from his jowls to those huge hips. Makes him look a lot older than forty-something.
Is chasing money at the expense of your health really that important?
Get off your arrogant fat ass . . .
Morgan picked up the insulated, silver-plated carafe, filled two fine-china cups, and placed one at the edge of the desk before Grosse.
Morgan went behind his desk, lowered himself into the leather judge’s chair, then sipped his cup while waiting for Grosse to speak.
