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“How do we know that?” McCrory said.
“She told me.”
McCrory looked at him, then glanced at Harris.
“Take his word for it, Dick.”
“Short story is,” Payne offered, “I ran into her as she came out of the Library Bar just after nine. She was drinking with some group there and feeling her oats. Minutes later, I watched her go up an elevator to the condos. And then I was on my way to meet with Detective Harris. She sent me, at the aforementioned time of nine twenty-five, a picture of herself on her terrace.”
“Mary, Joseph, and all the fookin’ saints,” McCrory said. “Maybe someone else was there with her? The party maybe just getting going?”
Payne shook his head.
“She was alone then,” he said.
“Ohh-kay,” McCrory said after a while, looking clearly impressed with Payne’s story. “I’d heard a rumor that you were quite the swordsman back in the day. That’s some catch.”
“Absolutely nothing happened between us,” Payne snapped, his tone matter-of-fact. “She had something to tell me, she said, and whatever the hell it was, now she’s dead.”
They locked eyes.
McCrory then shrugged.
“Yeah, Matt,” he said, looking genuinely embarrassed. “I let my mouth run. Sorry. Anyway, so we need to grab video from her floor—”
“That’s going to be a challenge,” Payne interrupted, “as there are no surveillance cameras up there. People who pay a million or more for a condominium guard their privacy rather fiercely, which is one of the reasons why they tend to be tight-lipped, too. Different story here in the hotel, with a far more transient crowd. Its floors are all covered, stairwells, everything.”
When Payne saw the questioning look on McC
rory’s face, he added, “I’ve been doing some research on the building. Long story.”
McCrory nodded, and said, “Then we’ll get the footage of her path between the elevators and the bar and start by building a time line after, say, nine, nine-fifteen. Maybe she came back down to the bar or people from the bar went up.” He paused, then added, “Bartender, waitresses—they should know who was there and when.”
“And/or they’ll know someone else on staff who does,” Payne said. “The condo residents have access to the same amenities as the hotel, from room service at any hour to housekeeping, the gym, the spa. Lots of eyes and ears.”
“Yeah, and the service industry is pretty tight.”
“Matt,” Harris said, “Camilla Rose said her assistant came to the hospital for that envelope of cash. She—or maybe it’s a he or maybe there’s more than one—should know who, at least, some of them are. But we didn’t get her name or number.”
“We can reach her through the foundation,” Payne said, then glanced at his wristwatch. “In maybe three, four hours?”
Payne carefully sipped his coffee, then his expression changed. He scrolled through his list of recent calls on his cell phone, then dialed one of them.
“I got this when I called her last night,” Payne said, holding out the phone for them to hear. “Wait for the end.”
“Hi!” Camilla Rose Morgan’s voice came over the speakerphone.
Payne felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Hearing her voice brought back mental images of her—in his car, drinking from the miniature bottle of vodka; in the tight black satin dress; in the picture on the terrace; and finally on the collapsed roof of the Jaguar—and then made him wonder if she would still be alive had he not fled the elevator . . . and her advances.
“So sorry I missed you,” she said, her voice with its usual chipper tone. “Please leave a message. If it’s foundation-related and urgent, my assistant, Joy, is happy to help you at 212-555-5643.”
“New York City number,” McCrory said, taking his cell phone out and quickly punching in the number.
Payne broke off his call as a pleasant young woman’s voice, also chipper in tone, came over McCrory’s speakerphone. There had not been a single ring; the call had rolled right into the voice mail function.
“Hello! This is Joy Abrams with Camilla’s Kids. Your call is extremely important to us, so please leave a message and we will get back to you right away. Thank you for your support!”
McCrory left a message, identifying himself as a police detective and saying he was calling about an emergency concerning Ms. Morgan. Next, he sent a text message repeating the same message.
