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I wonder, beyond what I have real reason to believe is an itch she anxiously wanted scratched, if she also really had something to tell me.
That telling me she did wasn’t just a way of luring me into her lair.
He glanced beyond the fireplace, through the large windows, and saw Tony Harris peeling off his blue latex gloves while talking with a crime scene investigator who was balancing a digital video camera on his shoulder. The interior was brightly lit, and it looked as if every bulb in the three-bedroom condominium had been switched on.
The lighting made for an impressive sight—it was a remarkably beautiful unit, despite the detritus—and he could hear the realtor’s nasal voice droning in his head.
“Mr. Payne, these truly luxurious condominiums were built with the finest of materials and superb craftsmanship. Of the one hundred and fifty units in the building, typical is the two-bedroom, two-bath, with eighteen hundred square feet. Then, at the upper end, we have the penthouse—a forty-two-hundred-square-foot property, with fourteen-foot-high ceilings, and a six-hundred-square-foot tiled terrace, featuring a natural gas fireplace.
“And the hotel itself is of five-star quality—indeed, it’s world-class. Should you have guests, we have an arrangement for quite nice discounts on rooms. And, of course, our residents enjoy significant discounts in its restaurants and with the all-hours room service, and also use of concierge and housekeeping services.”
Matt turned and went out on the terrace. In addition to overlooking Rittenhouse Square, the view he scanned took in both big rivers, as well as such instantly recognizable landmarks as, to the east, the Mall, with Independence Hall, and, next to it, the Liberty Bell, and, to the north, the massive Museum of Art, and, just past that, on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill, the docks and buildings of Boathouse Row.
Amanda would love this, he thought. We sure wouldn’t need a place quite so big, but it would be every bit as nice.
Matt could also see, just beyond the Museum of Art, on the far side of Fairmont Park, the 2601 Parkway condominiums, where his sister, Amy, lived.
That reminds me . . . wonder if she’s home? Or maybe nearby?
He checked the time, then sent her a text message and slipped the phone in his pocket.
Payne then surveyed the terrace and tried once again to visualize what could have been Camilla Rose Morgan’s last moments.
He looked—for what he figured had to be the twentieth time—from the slate wall down to the tent and then back up. He thought it was possible that she could have positioned herself in such a way—Stupidly standing on the ledge to take another photograph with the city lights in the background—that she then could have lost her footing and balance.
And her life.
But in listing the order of probability, Payne’s gut had put “fallen by accident” last, behind “jumped” and “pushed.”
And then, considering her mind-set—She said she found her calling with helping sick kids, which included hosting the fund-raiser, and going after her brother to get her money—and considering how damn terrifying the ground looked from this perspective, he simply could not come up with a logical reason that justified her ending her life by jumping.
Which leaves “pushed.”
But by who? And, for the love of God, why?
And then he mentally went over what he and Harris had heard from John Tyler Austin and Mason Morgan.
After some time, he heard behind him, “Matt?”
Payne turned and saw Harris approaching.
“Crime scene guys are packing up,” Harris said. “What’re you thinking? I could smell the gears smoking from all the way inside.”
Payne started pulling off his blue latex gloves, and said, “I’m thinking that I don’t have a damn clue. But at least one thing bothers me for certain.”
“About?”
“Camilla Rose clearly had her issues,” Payne began, and shared what he felt in his gut.
Harris then nodded, and said, “Well, that’s about as good as we have to go on at this point. We sure as hell haven’t found a smoking gun here.”
“And the one thing that bothers me for certain is the fact that she was (a) striving to build a facility to provide a better life for kids who are
dealing with some seriously tragic situations, and (b) naming it for their father, who wished to be remembered for being altruistic.”
“Why does that bother you?”
“It flies in the face of Mason Morgan’s already stinking-rich kids winding up with the money. It’s not like she hadn’t proven herself capable. From all those billions, her brother couldn’t, short of giving her everything that she wanted, make more money available for the charities? Something he knew his father would have approved? No. Instead, the sonofabitch squeezed her out.”
