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A second later, the window came down.
“Can I ask a question?” Ryan said.
Payne saw that the teenager’s expression had turned serious.
“Sure,” he said, his tone no longer light. “What’s on your mind?”
“If someone may have overheard something about what happened today, what’s the procedure to—?”
“What did you hear?” Payne interrupted.
“Not me.”
“Then who? The shooting is an active homicide case. We really need information and now.”
“I only said if someone . . .”
Payne quickly pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to him.
“My phone numbers are on there. And the tip line’s. Give it to anyone.”
“You can keep anonymous, right? And there’s a cash reward?
“Yeah. Up to twenty grand. It’s that important, Ryan.”
“Right. Thanks.”
As Payne watched the Porsche slowly rumble away, he thought, That service industry is a huge network. Valets, bartenders, maids—they see and hear everything.
He sure as hell knows something.
Just wonder if it’s something useful?
—
The Library Bar was an open, airy venue that created the feel of being in a very expensive, very modern mansion. It featured crisp backlighting and highly polished dark wood trim. There were deep couches and leather-upholstered armchairs arranged facing one another over low tables. The white marble bar itself was an intimate affair, lined with only a half dozen tall chairs. The bookshelves on either side of the stone fireplace, containing rare volumes on Philadelphia history, projected the impression of an exclusive private library.
Payne could hear the elevated murmur from the bar well before he reached its ornate, double-door entrance. And he started having second thoughts about going inside at all.
“What the hell am I doing?” he muttered. “I’m not up for this.”
When he glanced in, he saw that the room was nearly full, with a nicely dressed, animated crowd.
I’m not thinking clearly. I shouldn’t be here now.
He turned on his heels and headed for the door, wondering if the bar at the Union League would be quiet at this hour and he could drown his misery in peace there.
“Matthew!” a woman’s voice called behind him. “I thought that was you. Please wait.”
As he turned, Camilla
Rose Morgan, looking stunning in a black satin cocktail dress and extravagant high heels, came toward him. She was balancing a full martini glass in her right hand.
“What a wonderful surprise,” she said, grasping his arm and giving him an exaggerated head-to-toe glance. “And, my, how you do clean up quite nicely.” She motioned with her glass. “Please come and join me . . . join us. I owe you that drink.”
Payne looked closely at her. She had a flushed face and somewhat glassy, dilated eyes. He could tell that while she more or less was holding her own, she was far from sober.
Which is not surprising. She started drinking in the car—what?—some six hours ago.
