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“You say that like you know there’s an ugly story.” He paused, then added, “There was coke and Ecstasy—MDMA, the synthetic psychoactive—found in her place. The MA’s short for methamphetamine. So speed with a hallucinogenic twist. For all we know, she may have thought she could fly. Toxicology tests will detect what she took, if anything.”

Michael Grosse said, “Johnny was snorting something last night. I assumed it was coke.”

“Well, he’s easily the source. But being in a hospital bed when she died clears him. At least of that.”

“I don’t know of an ugly story,” Aimee said. “As far as I know—and I like to think that I know her very well—there’s not one. And I personally have never seen her with drugs.” She sighed. “Let’s be realistic. I’ve done damage control for families who had loved ones murdered. You and I know that if someone did kill her, the odds against finding that person are high. What’s that saying about the low clearance rate for homicides? Three out of four murderers walk.”

“Unfortunately, true. And it looks like Camilla Rose is likely going to become a cold case.”

“As long as I can keep her name clear. I am not going to let anyone drag her name through the mud. She was an angel, a kind, caring, beautiful creature.”

She turned to Grosse, and said, “Fill Matt in, please.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, as Payne placed the birth certificate for Harold Thomas Morgan II on the conference table, he looked back and forth between Michael Grosse and Aimee Wolter.

“I don’t know what to say. Camilla Rose certainly was one of a kind. And that Austin . . . a hundred million bucks. Jesus.”

“Johnny really went off the deep end when Camilla Rose got married,” Aimee said. “Let’s just say he was not sorry it ended in divorce. And when it did, he spent enormous energy trying to win her over.”

“By exacting revenge on Mason Morgan,” Payne said.

“Yes,” Grosse said, “of which Camilla Rose was innocent. Her only, quote, crime, unquote, was caring too much about helping others. Unfortunately, including Johnny Austin.”

“So,” Payne said, tapping the birth certificate, “she had the child in wedlock, which means she met the provision of her father’s reworked will.”

“That’s right.”

“So the quarterly payments continue.”

The lawyer shook his head.

“No?” Payne said. “Why not? She had issue.”

“Yes. But it’s not the payments the child gets. It’s the entire principle that had created those million-dollar quarterly payments. They’re shares in Morgan International, which are currently worth just over five hundred million dollars.”

“A half-billion dollars,” Payne said. “That’s a fraction of what the company’s worth.”

“True,” Aimee said. “But it’s a lot of money, by anyone’s count.”

“Camilla Rose had trusts set up for her son. Some controlled the bulk of wealth, others her charities. They are structured to fund the camps entirely and to provide for the boy’s reasonable needs, with him gaining access to all the principle at age thirty-five.”

“The age she was when she died,” Payne said. “And having the child . . . Do you think she did that just to spite Mason?”

Aimee said, “No, Matt . . . Well, yes, there was some of that . . . But she really wanted to have a child. She wanted to try to be a better mother than she had had.”

“Tragic,” Payne said, then heard Camilla Rose’s voice in his head: I don’t think I’m cut out to be an everyday mother.

Payne felt his phone vibrate.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling it from his pocket. He glanced at the text message, boxed in red: It’s Ryan . . . FYI . . . Was gonna work valet at Bellevue tonight but heard rumor something bad might go down. Same guy who said he’d heard about that $100K from Morgan woman.

“Well, this isn’t good news,” Payne said.

“What, Matt?” Aimee said.

“There’s a kid I know casually who’s putting himself through La Salle working part-time as a car valet. He says he was going to work tonight’s event but got word something’s going to happen.”