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“She’s meeting with one of my detectives,” Payne said.
“And, Mr. Austin,” Harris put in, “we need to hear about what happened with the shooting, from your perspective. As well as what you can tell us about who Ms. Morgan could have been with prior to her death.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Do you know if she was using?” Harris said. “Or if anyone she was around was using?”
“Using what, exactly?”
“Any illicit drugs.”
Austin met Harris’s eyes. He shook his head.
“Far as I know,” Austin said, “she was only doing booze. No recreational stuff. I’m guessing you know something different?”
Austin watched as Harris glanced at Payne, who nodded once.
Permission was not required. Payne knew Harris knew he would go along with whatever Harris decided was prudent. But both also knew it established a hierarchy in the eyes of others.
Harris said, “Security went up to her condo after finding her body at approximately four this morning and found the door had been left wide open. Evidence of alcohol and drugs was everywhere. There had been a party and everyone was gone.”
Austin looked back and forth between them. He then sighed heavily.
“I was afraid that something like this would happen.”
“Like this?” Payne parroted.
“That she’d get around the wrong people and relapse.”
“And why would she?”
“Pressure, Payne. She’s been under a lot, even more than usual. And then this shooting . . . It had to push her over the edge. She left here yesterday a mess.”
Matt Payne nodded, and said, “I drove her back to The Rittenhouse. She admitted to being, as you say, a mess. But she did not strike me as being in a bad way. And when I saw her last night coming out of the Library Bar, she seemed pretty upbeat. Certainly not suicidal.”
“She was probably entertaining her friends,” Austin said. “That always makes her happy.”
Payne considered that, then said, “You have the names of those ‘wrong’ people? And of her friends?”
“Yeah, sure. I can get you names. I’ll need my computer. My phone disappeared in the crash. I imagine it melted in that damn inferno.”
“Speaking of the incident yesterday,” Harris said, taking out his notepad and pen from his coat pocket, “how about we go over what happened?”
Austin looked at the side table. It held a box of tissues, a small, insulated chromed carafe, and a short stack of white foam cups. With some effort, he used his left hand to take a cup from the stack, place it upright, and then, still using his left hand, pour water in it from the carafe.
“You guys thirsty? I called down the hall and tried to get some coffee, but that fat-ass nurse said it’d be at least another hour. Told her I’d pay her to get me some—I’d kill for La Colombe—but she said there’s no coffee shop open this early.” He sighed. “I don’t even want to be here. Not in a goddamn teaching hospital. I want to be where the doctors already know what the fuck they’re doing. You know, they even named this place after that Kraut quack doctor who believed in homeopathy? It’s true. And that’s ridiculous pseudoscience. I mean, come on . . . The guy declared coffee caused diseases.”
Austin raised his eyebrows in question.
“We’re fine,” Payne said.
Austin nodded, then drank maybe half the water, put the cup back on the table, then looked between Payne and Harris.
“All right. Before we get into yesterday”—he groaned as he pushed himself off the bed with his left hand—“I need to drain the ol’ lizard.”
He turned and, in obvious pain, began moving toward the restroom.
[ THREE ]
