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He was imposing. Payne figured that he stood six-foot-three and had to be at least two-twenty. He was muscular, with broad shoulders, and a square jaw. He was wearing a faded sweater, blue jeans, and pointed-toe Western boots.

“Mr. Austin?” Payne said.

Austin turned, moving very carefully, clearly in pain. He had a deep purple-black bruise practically covering his left cheek and ear. He favored his right arm, holding it delicately across his torso.

And he looked grief-stricken.

Payne thought, He knows. He saw it on the news.

“Who the hell are you?” Austin demanded, his voice deep, his intense gray eyes looking as if they could bore holes through cold steel.

Payne produced his black leather wallet containing his badge and ID.

“Sergeant Payne, Mr. Austin. Philadelphia Police Department. And this is Detective Harris . . .”

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sp; They stepped inside the room and Harris gently closed the door.

“I am afraid we have bad news—”

“I saw the goddamn news,” Austin snapped.

He gestured toward the television, hanging on a bracket high in the corner, then looked around, found the remote control, and pushed a button. The sound muted.

“So, you’re Payne, huh? What the hell happened to Camilla Rose? The news report said some unnamed source claimed she jumped from her balcony. But that had not been officially confirmed.”

“I’m afraid I can confirm it’s her,” Payne said. “We just came from the scene. I’m very sorry.”

Austin expelled air as if he had been hit in the gut. With his left hand, he reached back to the bed, then eased himself onto its edge. His head dropped.

“You need some help?” Payne said.

Austin, still looking down, silently held up his left hand, palm out, and shook his head.

Payne exchanged glances with Harris.

After a pause, Austin looked up, and said, “My God, why the hell would she do that? Do you know anything?”

“Very little on Camilla Rose, including if she did or did not jump—”

“What the hell does that mean, Payne?” Austin interrupted. “You just said she . . . Oh, I see. Maybe she fell?”

“Or possibly was pushed,” Payne said. “We just don’t know. Nor do we have much more on Mr. Benson. It’s all very early and still being investigated.”

Austin stared at him, his gray eyes turning more intense as he considered that.

Harris said, “Do you know how to get in touch with Mr. Benson’s immediate family? They need to be informed of what’s happened. And we need to ask them some questions.”

Austin shook his head.

“He has no kin. We grew up in Houston, in the same neighborhood—River Oaks. He was an only child like me. Never married.”

“Parents?” Payne said.

“They died in a plane crash two years ago in the Rocky Mountains. The old man flew their King Air into a rock-filled cloud on their way back from Colorado.”

He paused, then added, “I can’t believe it. First Kenny and now Camilla Rose? Since I first saw the news, I’ve been calling Joy but getting no answer.”