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[ THREE ]
Harris and Payne walked toward the Crown Vic after leaving the coal tower.
Harris had just punched in a number on his cellular telephone and now said into it, “Please connect me with Mr. John Austin’s room.”
He looked at Payne, who said, “Better try both rooms he has in his name.”
“There’s only one now. After the crime scene guys packed up the room Benson had used, Austin gave it up.” Harris paused, then said, “Damn it. Got voice mail.”
He broke off the call.
“Hank should still be there doing interviews,” Payne said. “Have him get security and go check the room.”
“You’re reading my mind,” Harris said, nodding.
Payne’s phone vibrated, and when he looked at it, he muttered, “What the hell?”
“What?” Harris said.
Payne’s head jerked up. He began a quick scan of the immediate area, looking from Penn Treaty Park to the left, then up at the main power plant building, then along the riverbank to the right.
“Is it just coincidence with the timing or is someone watching?” he said, handing the phone to Harris for him to read. “All I can make out is that pair of joggers on the trail.”
Harris looked, saw that the two were in the middle of doing stretching exercises at one of the park benches, then glanced at the phone.
He read the text message aloud: “‘We gave those jagoffs to you. The dumbasses went rogue. The triggerman is the big bastard, if that makes any difference. There could be others, but we’ll handle it.’”
He handed the phone back, and said, “They found blood in the back of their abandoned van. Maybe they can match it to this guy.”
“If he’s got any left,” Payne said as he wrote a reply message: Tell me more . . .
Immediately after he sent it, another message box popped up: NOT A VALID NUMBER.
“Damn it,” Payne said. “Invalid.”
“They sent that text to the same number you gave out at The Rittenhouse, right?” Harris said, meeting Payne’s eyes. “The caller ID box is red.”
“Yeah. And I handed out a bunch of cards, said to share the numbers with anyone.”
They approached the Crown Vic and got in.
“What the hell could be The Rittenhouse connection to the killers?” Harris said as he started the engine.
Payne looked out at the tower, then said, “And what I’m wondering is why, instead of calling nine-one-one, they didn’t also text me that we could find these guys here?”
“Maybe two different people? Or, if the same person, they were just given your number?”
“Or maybe they didn’t want to establish a pattern,” Payne said. “Hell if I know. But we need to find Austin now or find someone who can get a message to him.” He read the text again, and said, “It makes my blood boil. The bastards abuse two human beings, then string them up like trophies. It’s barbaric. Who knows what else they are capable of?”
“Apparently,” Harris said, with a nod toward Payne’s phone, “at least more of the same.”
Payne looked out the windshield, then turned to Harris.
“You have Camilla Rose’s assistant’s number?”
Harris shook his head. “We can get it from McCrory.”
“Wait,” Payne said, and dialed Camilla Rose Morgan’s cellular phone number. “This might be quicker.”
