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“What about her fund-raiser gala?” Payne said. “Will it go on?”

“I suppose. Maybe, out of respect, it shouldn’t. But I don’t see why not. Everything’s in place. People are coming, if not already here. Joy can run it. She’s been there every step. And I can help her in some capacity.”

“You might want to be behind the scenes,” Payne said, “as opposed to some high-profile role.”

“Well, I think that’s a given, considering how I now look like the walking dead.”

“I wasn’t referencing that,” Payne said. “Have you considered getting protection? Maybe a private security service? At least until we get a better idea of what all’s happened?”

“Private security—as in, a bodyguard? I really haven’t thought about that. I can take care of myself. I don’t need some rent-a-cop looking over my shoulder for me.”

Payne nodded, then handed him his business card.

/> “Here’re my numbers. Call if you think of anything,” he said, and led Harris out the door.

—

Halfway down the corridor, Tony Harris said, “You believe him?”

Payne, who was scrolling through the messages on his cellular telephone, said, “About what?”

“Any of it . . . All of it . . .”

“Some of it, yes. Saying the SUV was hers, for example, when I gave him the opportunity to say otherwise, tells me—granted, in a very small way—that he’s capable of telling the truth. But other parts of his story, like the vendor cash and their relationship, make me think, no, I don’t buy it.”

“What the hell was that about? Asking if they had sex?”

Payne looked up from the phone, and said, “When I went to the front desk at the hotel and asked if there was a guest by the name of Joy Abrams, I also asked if the register showed Austin and Benson were guests.”

“And?”

“No rooms registered under Benson, but two under Austin.”

Harris’s eyes lit up.

“Could mean anything,” he said.

“Including,” Payne added, “that Austin shares neither Camilla Rose’s condo nor her bed.”

“‘Extremely complicated,’ he called their relationship.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Payne said, his tone more bitter than he expected. “Ain’t they all?”

He looked back down at his phone, and added, “McCrory texted that the Abrams woman had a meltdown when he informed her of what happened.”

“Jesus . . . But I’m not surprised.”

“He also said—and said Abrams confirmed—that Camilla Rose’s emergency contact is her lawyer in Florida.”

“I would have bet money that it was her mother,” Harris said. “Or maybe her brother.”

“Mother, sure, but a lawyer makes sense. Especially if you believe what they say about, to use Austin’s phrase, ‘that fucking prick of a brother.’”

Payne tapped the screen, then groaned.

“I really hate these calls with blocked IDs,” he said. “Especially multiple ones, in a row, to my personal number. Just say who you are if you really want me to answer your call.”

As he began listening to the voice mail message, he said, “I’ll be damned . . .”