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Looking at the upside-down coffee cup, Michael Grosse now wondered if he had been too hard on Austin—and feared that the despondent Austin had done something really desperate.

He put down his coffee cup and went to the sliding glass door and through it. He tried to ignore the bitter cold as he quickly crossed the balcony

and finally reached the glass railing.

His heart pounded as he looked over and down.

And saw nothing.

He realized he was holding his breath, then exhaled audibly. He realized he was shivering.

Oh, for chrissakes!

Damn that Johnny. That craziness can really be contagious. You start thinking like them . . .

Had I been thinking clearly I would’ve realized that if he’d actually jumped, there would’ve been police, ambulances, whatever.

Grosse heard his cellular telephone ringing on the kitchen island in the condominium. He walked back to get it. Just as the screen dimmed, he saw it had been Austin.

Well, at least the bastard is alive.

Why I care, I don’t know.

Am I going to have to help him get Camilla Rose’s money back?

A second later, the phone chimed, the screen showing a new voice mail message.

He tapped the glass face, and Austin’s voice, its tone upbeat, came across the speakerphone: “Hey, you called me? I’ve got to take care of some things. All good. I’ll call later.”

Austin shook his head as he put the phone down.

“‘All good’?” Grosse said aloud. “Now he’s all happy, like last night never happened? That bastard really is crazy.”

He turned to the coffee machine and fed it another cartridge of dark-roasted coffee. As it hissed and filled the cup, his eyes went to the small television hanging under the cabinets.

Tuned to a local newscast, it showed video of a half-dozen police officers working behind a yellow tape imprinted POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. Then the same photograph of the two faces Payne had shown them appeared. He heard the well-built blonde anchor saying police needed help identifying them, then said something about the mayor scheduling a press conference at noon to address the city’s record crime rate.

At the bottom of the screen, it flashed BREAKING NEWS! three times. The news ticker began its crawl, announcing POLICE CONFIRM 4 KILLED AND 16 WOUNDED IN OVERNIGHT VIOLENCE . . . SOURCE SAYS 2 FOUND YESTERDAY HANGING DEAD NEAR DELAWARE RIVER IN FISHTOWN HAD THEIR SKIN SHREDDED AND PEELED . . .

That caused him to remember that Payne had given him a business card and asked that he call. Grosse had decided he would pay him the courtesy but never had had the opportunity because of dealing with Austin.

He reached in his pocket and felt the stiff card was still tucked in his money clip.

He pulled it out and looked at it a long time. He picked up his cellular phone, then put it back down with the card.

He reached over and opened the flap of his well-worn brown saddleback briefcase. He removed from it a heavy file folder that was more than two inches thick.

He opened the folder, ran his finger down the printed sheet that had been Scotch-taped to the inside flap, and stopped at the contact information for Mason Morgan. He went over to the couch, picked up the telephone on the coffee table, and punched in Morgan’s number.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” he said after a pause. “This is Michael Grosse—”

He paused and listened.

“Yes, I am calling from her condominium. Please accept my deepest condolences—”

He paused again to listen.

“That’s correct. Please forgive me, as I realize this is very last-minute and it’s been some time since we spoke. But . . . could I perhaps impose on your time at your soonest convenience for a short talk? An informal talk?”