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Payne considered that, and said, “If there had been someone, they could’ve left her place and taken a stairwell. And to any floor, including a ground-floor exit.”

“Yeah,” McCrory said, “but there’s cameras outside that are fixed on the exit doors and they didn’t show anyone leaving. But another floor is possible—and the reason, I’m thinking, that the security camera video can’t be expected to show our doer.”

Payne thought for a bit, finally saying, “Then there’s also the service elevator to consider.”

“Speaking of which,” Harris said, “that brings us to our other witness: a guy from room service. Camilla Rose ordered from the hotel kitchen a slew of appetizers, which got delivered around oh-two-thirty.”

“What did he see?”

“The guy confirmed seeing the two women drinking with Camilla Rose. He didn’t

think the place was trashed, and saw no evidence of the drugs. Marx denied that there was any drug use—”

“Go figure,” Payne interrupted. “If he got caught—Poof!—there would go his license to fill cavities.”

“And he said that when they left her, just before oh-four-hundred, Camilla Rose was alive and well and living her usual large. Everything was hunky-dory.”

“Of course it was,” Payne said. “Okay, so all these people went up and then came down. But it still doesn’t rule out the possibility of there being someone else.”

“Yeah,” McCrory said, “and it doesn’t mean she didn’t just take the high-rise equivalent of a long walk on a short wharf. That MDMA is powerful stuff—maybe it made her think she could fly.”

Payne grunted. MDMA, street-named Molly and Ecstasy, was a synthetic psychoactive, what he referred to as “methamphetamine with a hallucinogenic twist.”

Harris said, “There is one thing—Marx said he’s lawyering up.”

“I don’t think that means anything these days,” Payne said. “Seems everyone’s got counsel on retainer. Hell, I would be, too, if I’d been in her condo.”

That triggered a mental image of the photograph of Camilla Rose she had sent to his cellular phone, which in turn caused Payne again to think that if he’d gone up, she might still be alive.

“Has the forensic lab cracked her phone?” Payne said. “Could be photos of their little party on it.”

“Along with that one she sent you earlier,” McCrory said, was sorry he did, and expected Payne to snap at him. When Payne didn’t, he added, “But no news that they did anything on her phone yet.”

Payne nodded in thought, and said, “Aimee Wolter said she didn’t have any insight. What did the interviews with Willie Lane, John Broadhead, Sue Thomas, and Tony Holmes turn up?”

“They all, with the exception of Lane, pretty much matched with what we saw in Hank’s interview of that bartender,” Harris said. “Which is to say, not much. They drank, avoided the subject of Benson’s death, then went home at closing time. They said they had no interaction with Marx and the two women, who mostly stayed at the bar. None were seen on the condo cameras coming or going.”

“Except Lane, you said?”

“We’ve got calls in to him. He’s not gotten back in touch. But since he wasn’t on the condo cameras either, odds are his will be more of the same.” He paused, and added, “At the risk of repeating what you said, without a solid stone, there ain’t no stones under the stone.”

Payne nodded.

“Well, we may be looking for something that’s just not there. Okay, shifting gears, did we get any more background on Benson? And who is running the company now? That article said that the scientist that committed suicide was the number three officer.”

“Han was three out of three,” McCrory said. “You have Benson and a chief financial officer by the name of Ronald Johnson at the top. And then Han. That was the extent of their executive office. I called the office in West Palm and got a message center. They don’t even have a receptionist or secretary answering the phone.”

“Jesus.”

“I did get a response when I tried reaching the widow,” Harris said. “Listen to this.”

Harris held out his cellular phone and played a voice mail message over the speakerphone.

“Detective Harris,” the soft voice of a male said, “my name is Samuel Nguyen. I’m down here in Riviera Beach, Florida, and returning the call that you left for Mrs. Ann Han. Your message said that you had questions for her about her husband and his death. I’m afraid that Mrs. Han will not be available. I’m sure you’ll understand that she has suffered enough with the loss of Dr. Han. She considers the case closed and has nothing further to say. We appreciate you respecting that and her need for privacy. Thank you.”

There was a clicking sound, and the line went dead.

“No stone again,” Payne said.