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Carlucci was quick to say that though he had left the job of top cop for the office of mayor, he still remained responsible for every aspect of the police department—perhaps more so now than ever.
Coughlin saw that Carlucci had gestured toward the large flat-screen television that was mounted in a wooden frame on the wall. With rare exception, Carlucci kept it tuned to the KeyCom cable system’s Philly News Now channel that had round-the-clock coverage. The muted TV now showed video footage—the image shook, suggesting it had been made using a cellular telephone’s camera—taken the previous afternoon at Rittenhouse Square of the Cadillac SUV upside down and erupting in flame, then picked up the black Porsche speeding past.
“One of the anonymous tips we got turned out to be solid,” Denny Coughlin said.
“How so?”
“I’m not privy to all the details—it’s still a fluid situation as we speak—but around noon a caller told the nine-one-one dispatcher where we could find the two doers responsible for the shooting. When I checked with Homicide just before walking in here, I was told that there were two bodies where the caller said they would be.”
“Where?”
“At the old power plant in Fishtown. Apparently it’s a pretty gruesome scene.”
“How do we know they actually are the shooters?”
“We don’t. Yet. As I said, it’s fluid. We don’t know a helluva lot more than what we released to the media”—he gestured at the TV—“that the driver, Ken Benson, was killed, and John Austin, the passenger, survived.”
“And they’re somehow connected to Camilla Rose Morgan?”
“Yeah, she and Austin were certainly close, and possibly romantically involved. The two men grew up together in Houston.”
“And Matt Payne is the lead on this Benson’s case?” Carlucci said.
“Matty owns it and the Morgan woman’s.”
“Then we know she didn’t jump? It wasn’t suicide?”
Coughlin shrugged.
“Too early to tell. Still awaiting autopsy results. Toxicology, too.”
“I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead,” Carlucci said, “but her brother said she was certifiable crazy.”
Coughlin’s bushy gray eyebrows rose.
“Mason Morgan also said she was smart as hell,” Carlucci added.
“I’m guessing he called you, Jerry.”
Carlucci nodded.
“Morgan said he simply wanted the courtesy of being told if there were any surprises he should know about concerning her death. So that he could deal with them, as he’d done in years past. I believe he was alluding to her trips to rehab.”
“You know that she ran the family philanthropic arm,” Coughlin said, “and that it recently donated thirty new Harley-Davidsons to Highway Patrol to replace their aging bikes.”
Carlucci nodded. “Electra Glides. At over twenty grand each, that saved the city more than a half million. Old Man Morgan was a big supporter.”
Coughlin nodded. He knew it went unsaid that friends like that received preferential treatment.
“The only possible thing that comes to mind that might be a surprise,” Coughlin said, “was evidence of cocaine and Ecstasy was found at her condo. As opposed to just the usual fair amount of alcohol such parties have.”
“In other words, nothing,” Carlucci said. “Personal consumption.”
Coughlin nodded. “Unless we want to start locking up a large number of Center City denizens for the same offense. In her defense, we don’t know that she used the narcotics. No telling what was in her system, if anything. The toxicology results could come back clean.”
Carlucci, nodding, looked out a window. Coughlin thought he had a somewhat pained expression.
After a minute, Coughlin said, “So, what is the meat of this meeting?”
