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“Before we get into this,” Payne said, “let me add to what I said Camilla Rose told me in the car. About an hour ago, I decided to grab a bite at the Library Bar after an interesting evening with Amanda—”
“You say that like it’s not good,” Harris interrupted.
Payne grimaced.
“And it really is not good,” he said, “but I’ll not burden you with my personal troubles.”
“You know I’ll be your sounding board anytime . . .”
“Yeah, I do. And I appreciate it, Tony. But not right now, thanks. I don’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it. Label me as being in deep denial.”
“Ours is a shitty business for relationships. If it’s any consolation, we’ve all been through it.”
The bartender placed a tall glass of club soda on a napkin in front of Harris and silently slipped away.
“Misery loves company—cheers to that!” Payne said, and touched his glass to Harris’s. “So, anyway, I was walking up to the entrance of the bar full of beautiful people having a grand time when I decided I was really at the wrong place at the wrong time, that I should be having my pity party here, quietly drowning my sorrows . . .”
A couple minutes later, Payne finished, “And that’s how you helped me dodge another bullet.”
“Jesus, you really think she was going to jump your bones?”
“Sure seemed like it. Then, right after I sat down here, she sent a text that said Where are you? I’m out on my terrace. And followed that with this picture of herself by a roaring fireplace.”
Payne tapped the glass screen of his phone, then Harris looked at it.
“Holy shit!” Harris blurted. “You took a pass on hooking up with that? You, my friend, have the strength of legions.”
“Trust me, I’m as weak as the next guy. The thought crossed my mind. But while I went through my first drink here, I knew it was the little head doing the thinking. By the second drink, the big head weighed in and reminded me that party girls are dangerous. So, I called her—wound up getting her voice mail, fortunately—and apologized that work called—which was, literally, true—but that I was waiting to hear what else she said she wanted to share—also true.”
“Coming on to you while her boyfriend is in the hospital—dangerous is right.”
“You know, despite what she told you, I don’t think he’s really her boyfriend. She may just be leading him on. I told you she said she wouldn’t marry him.”
Harris grunted, then said, “Women—who the hell knows?”
Payne nodded, and thought, And maybe that’s what Amanda’s thinking now about marriage.
Taking a sip of his scotch, Payne’s eyes went to the sheet of paper on the bar. He picked it up.
“So, what am I looking at?” he said. “Would appear to be a company’s performance chart.”
“This is the tip of the iceberg of what we found on Benson,” Harris said, pointing to the printout. “The Krow started digging for data points with his scan software and—bingo! He’s still collecting more open-source intel, but this was what he found after only a few hours.”
Detective Danny Krowczyk was a Signals Intellige
nce analyst assigned to the Digital Forensic Sciences Unit. The skinny, six-foot-four thirty-year-old’s office attire never varied—jeans, white polo shirt, black sneakers—and his idea of a seven-course meal consisted of a six-pack of diet cola and a package of yellow Tastykake Dreamies.
Harris went on. “In addition to CEO of NextGenRx, turns out Benson was basically the hands-on head cheerleader of the small start-up. He was aggressive. Had a short temper and was prone to yelling, or firing off rants on social media, at anyone who questioned the company. Actually called them idiots and worse.”
“Sounds like classic small-dick syndrome,” Payne said, studying the chart. “Maybe too aggressive? That’s what caused the share price to tank?”
“Good question. All I can tell you is, don’t ever come to me for financial advice.” He gestured toward the sheet. “While I have never heard of NextGenRx before today, it damn sure is well known among the penny stock traders on the over-the-counter exchange. And especially on the investor websites, on their discussion boards, where you cannot count the number of postings by people frustrated and angry with the company. Judging by the posts, more than a few people would not be unhappy to learn what happened to Benson.”
“Losing money on lousy penny stocks? You think that’s motive to whack the guy? In broad daylight in Center City?”
Harris tapped his index finger on the stack of sheets of paper by the brown folder.
“First, I would’ve made fun of penny stocks, too, before I saw the comments on these discussion boards that referenced a Silicon Valley tech giant quietly snapping up a penny stock company that manufactured smart-home technology. When word got out, the share price shot from two-tenths of a cent to four cents—to the tune of three billion bucks. Then went up from there.”
