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Harris grunted. “They say life ain’t fair.”

“Understatement of the day.” He paused, then added, “When I was at UP, there was no end to the cutthroats who were going on to business school. To them, everything’s blood sport. And it’s not just about making money—it’s about winning and not losing. Those bastards devoutly believe in the Golden Rule.”

“What? ‘Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you’? That doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s because it’s the other one: ‘He who has the gold rules. They see no top end to what they can amass.’”

Harris nodded a couple times, then said, “Some kids who have jerks for parents turn out okay in spite of them. Maybe the Morgan kids will see the light and use the money for what she intended.”

Payne looked skeptical, and said, “Yeah, sure—when pigs fly out their overprivileged asses.”

Looking past Harris, Payne saw McCrory stepping out onto the terrace.

“Here comes Dick,” he said.

“Hey, Matt,” McCrory said as he approached. “We got from hotel management the names and info on the bartenders and servers working last night. Nasuti is running them down. And I’m supposed to meet with Joy Abrams in an hour. Looks like she’s finally calmed down.”

Payne’s brow went up.

“You said she had a real meltdown when you broke the news?” Payne said.

“Oh, yeah. What did sailors call those things? Banshee wails?” McCrory said, looking almost embarrassed. “I mean, she made the effing bottles behind the bar rattle. It was difficult trying to console her, she was shaking and crying so bad.”

“Jesus,” Harris said. “Drama queen.”

“You get anything out of her?” Payne said.

McCrory shook his head.

“About all she could get out between wails was that she hadn’t been in the bar the night before because she’d been feeling under the weather. Then she popped to her feet, said she had to go to her room for some privacy, and bolted from the bar, crying and covering her face with her hands. When she called a little while ago, she said she was trying to contact Ms. Morgan’s mother and lawyer and could meet with me at noon.”

“What about what Tony just said?” Payne said. “Do you think that was genuine grief? Or just a dramatic display?”

McCrory made a face. “Painfully real. It’s obvious she was really fond of the Morgan woman. Said she wasn’t just a boss but a good friend, too.”

Payne nodded.

“Anyway,” McCrory went on, “when she called, she said she’s got the master list of attendees for the gala and that she’d called around and came up with a short list of who was in the bar. I’ll get Kennedy to go through it with me.”

Thirty-six-year-old Detective Harold W. Kennedy, Sr., was an enormous—at six-one, two-eighty—African-American who had grown up in West Philly.

Payne said, “Split up the names of those in the bar with him and interview them first. And see if they’re any of the same names Hank gets from the bartenders, et cetera . . .”

“Right.”

“I got a glance at a couple through the doorway last night. They looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t tell you who the hell they were.”

Harris looked at his watch, and said, “I figured that by now I would’ve heard back from Gerry McGuire about Dignitary Protection’s list. I’ll try him again in a minute.”

“Hey, I heard some rumor that Sandy Colt is coming,” McCrory said, sounding somewhat star-struck.

“Oh boy,” Payne said, dripping with sarcasm. “Stanley Coleman. My favorite pedophile.”

Then he thought, I wonder if Terry will be in tow?

Long-legged, blonde, and beautiful, Terry Davis was vice president of the West Coast division of Global Artists Management, which had Colt as a client. Matt had met her while working with Dignitary Protection. She also happened to be an old friend from school of Daphne Nesbitt, who, playing matchmaker, had invited Terry and Matt to the Nesbitts’ house for dinner. Their relationship turned out to be very short-lived.

I doubt she shows up. Not after being with me when those robbers shot up my car.