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There were gasps as well as soft moans from the crowd. A man two tables over blew his nose.
“Jesus Christ!” Payne muttered. “That part was left out of the version I saw.”
Camilla Rose came back on screen.
“And so you have some small idea of the impact that you can have on a child who may have lost all hope in life.
“Coming from a business background, I understand it is important for our corporation to be good neighbors, to give back to our community. Yet, while we are all very good at what we produce, we may have limited ability to vet the many charities that ask for support.
“In selecting a charity—which, essentially, will be viewed as an extension of your company—it is extremely important to align with one that will protect your company’s image, its brand. You want something that will make your employees to say not only do they support something they’re proud of but that they’re excited to do it.
“Here at Camilla’s Kids Camps, our organization is completely open. We’re ethical. Fiscally responsible. Transparent.
“And as to how we do, our campers say it all.”
Camilla Rose held up a small note card, and, her voice on the verge of cracking, said it was one of many she received from parents. She read from it: “Cassidy cried all the way home. She did not want to leave camp. She told us proudly that she wanted to always be a Camilla’s Can-Do Kid. Thank you and your supporters who make the miracle camp possible.”
Camilla Rose looked at the camera, and said, “Yes, thank you, supporters, for your generosity tonight. We could not do it without you. Thank y
ou for coming. Good night.”
As the houselights in the ballroom came up, Payne heard Aimee Wolter and his sister sniffling.
“Rough, huh?” Payne said, pulling a white handkerchief from the inside of his coat pocket and offering it to Aimee. His sister already had a cocktail napkin to her nose.
She waved, declining the handkerchief.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be okay. That just gets me every time. Camilla Rose was such a kindhearted person.”
Payne scanned the room. People, pulling out checkbooks and credit cards, were beginning to crowd tables along the red carpet.
Payne quickly scanned the room again until he found Willie Lane. He saw him moving toward a back exit door. Payne’s eyes went to the waiter, who he saw watching Lane. The waiter then put down the tray of water glasses, pulled out the flip phone, and discreetly thumbed its keypad.
“I’ll be right back,” Payne said, and walked over to one of the undercover officers.
“Hey, Marshal, some video, huh? Got me choked up—”
“Yeah. See that kid over there, the waiter with the ponytail . . . ?”
“Sure.”
“Take him aside and hold him till I get back. Don’t let him touch his cell phone.”
“Detain him? You got it.”
Payne moved quickly to the exit.
—
Willie Lane was in the lobby, headed for the revolving front doors. Payne followed.
Outside, Payne stopped at the top of the stairs. He saw Lane down by the valet kiosk next to a heavy stone pillar. He was handing the valet a paper parking stub and pointing past the row of sparkling Highway Patrol Harley-Davidsons to his Mercedes-Benz parked nearby.
The valet grabbed the vehicle’s keys from the kiosk’s lockbox, then trotted to the SUV as Lane waited beside the pillar.
Payne scanned the immediate area, saw nothing unusual—then heard the racing of an engine coming south down Broad. He looked that direction and saw a dark blue Chrysler minivan flying up, the right-side door sliding wide open.
“Get down!” Payne shouted as he ran down the flight of ten steps.
