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“She did not have issue!” Morgan blurted. “This is a sham!”

Grosse nodded thoughtfully.

“Camilla Rose thought it highly possible you might react that way. Great care was taken in securing irrefutable proof, beginning with all the proper documentation and ending with DNA samples. She even made sure that the marriage and divorce both took place here in Philly to ensure no out-of-state legal issues.”

Grosse put his hand on the folder, and said, “In here are all the agreements and trusts for Camilla Rose’s son. In a nutshell, they provide the boy with reasonable expenses until age thirty-five and then he gets the entire five hundred million—”

“What?”

“Plus whatever has not been released from the interest over the years to support Camilla Rose’s charities,” Grosse finished.

“I will have to have my legal team review any such purported papers before—”

“What you will have,” Grosse interrupted, “with all due respect, is what I give you, Mason. I will petition the court to admit the Last Will and Testament of Harold Thomas Morgan for probate.”

Mason Morgan, red-faced and breaking out in a cold sweat, looked off in the distance. His body began quivering again. He half closed his eyes and rubbed his neck. He groaned—and fell forward, his face striking the coffee cup, spilling it across the desk.

Grosse jumped to his feet. He rushed around the desk.

“Mason?” he said, feeling for a pulse.

Grosse grabbed the receiver of the desktop telephone and dialed 911.

IX

[ ONE ]

The Roundhouse

Eighth and Race Streets

Philadelphia

Saturday, January 7, 12:05 P.M.

“Newscast’s about to come back from the commercial break,” Matt Payne called from the doorway of Lieutenant Jason Washington’s glass-walled office in the Homicide Unit. Harold Kennedy and Hank Nasuti stood behind him talking next to the flat-screen television in the corner.

Dick McCrory and Tony Harris, at a desk across the room, got to their feet, Harris hanging up the desk phone while McCrory folded closed his notebook computer and tucked it under his arm.

They made it to the crowded office just as an attractive brunette talking head on the TV announced, “We’re about to go live to City Hall, where Mayor Jerome Carlucci is scheduled to address the continuing soaring rate of vicious crimes in the City of Brotherly Love.”

“Hey, that reminds me, Sarge, congrats on winning the over-under,” Harold Kennedy, glancing at Hank Nasuti, said. “Who would’ve thought sixteen?”

“I thought you got banned from the pool,” Nasuti said. “You’ve won, what, twice?”

“Why would I be banned?” Payne said.

“I just heard someone saying, ‘Stop taking that Wyatt Earp of the Main Line’s money.’”

“Because?” Kennedy said.

“‘The marshal always bets high,’ the guy said.”

“How is that bad? Anyone can bet high.”

“But with his reputation as a quick draw,” Nasuti said, “he can influence the over-under by shooting someone.”

Kennedy chuckled. “You’re not saying he’d kill to win the bet?”