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Hahnemann University Hospital

Broad and Vine Streets

Center City

Philadelphia

Thursday, January 5, 4:30 P.M.

Matt Payne took Sixteenth Street a dozen blocks up from Rittenhouse Square, then turned right onto Vine Street. He braked for the red signal light at Seventeenth Street. The emergency room entrance at Hahnemann’s was a half block ahead on the right, and he could see a few marked police sedans and fire department ambulances parked along the curb out front.

He glanced left and then right, and his eye went to the enormous banner attached to the tall chain-link fence that had been erected around an old parking lot that was being turned into a construction zone.

The white vinyl banner read HAROLD MORGAN CANCER RESEARCH CENTER—COMING SOON!

In the middle of the banner was an architectural rendering of a new twenty-story tower that would have a skybridge over Seventeenth Street connecting it to the existing hospital complex.

The banner also had multiple listings of those involved in the project.

Under the largest heading, PLATINUM DONORS, he saw the names of at least forty companies and individuals, many prominent ones he immediately recognized. Payne was not surprised to see at the top was Morgan International, which Camilla Rose Morgan’s father had built from a small pharmaceutical manufacturer in Philly. Directly beneath that was Richard Saunders Holdings, which he knew to be the parent company of Francis Franklin Fuller V’s multibillion-dollar empire that included major media and real estate companies, among other ventures.

Along the bottom of the banner, in smaller lettering, under the heading FOR THE CITY OF PHILADELPHIA, was listed every politician from the mayor’s office and the city council to the local state house representatives.

Camilla Rose spearheaded the fund-raising for that building to honor the old man and his losing battle with that aggressive cancer, Payne thought.

And I know this because Amanda had me write a nice check.

Damn sure not platinum level, but more than I wanted.

Payne heard honking behind him. He looked out the windshield; the traffic signal had cycled to green. He drove through the intersection, and after passing three of the red-and-white ambulances that were idling short of the ER drop-off, he turned in to the covered bay.

He parked the Porsche in a spot next to an unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. He could see the driver of the gray Police Interceptor, Detective Anthony Harris, standing inside the sliding glass do

ors of the emergency room entrance and talking on his cellular phone.

After entering the ER doors, Payne moved toward Tony Harris, who he now saw held a brown folder.

Harris, who was thirty-six and slight and wiry and beginning to bald, had fifteen years at the police department. Having worked cases with Payne—in Special Operations and now in Homicide—he counted himself among those who did not buy into what some had said, both behind Payne’s back and to his face, after Payne had joined the department. To wit: that he was “just a rich kid with connections playing cop.”

Tony not only liked and respected Matt, he enjoyed working with him. Harris had been around the block enough times to know that some cops would never be satisfied that Payne, who was both tough and smart as hell, genuinely had earned his stripes. Including his recent promotion to sergeant, after scoring number one on the examination.

Harris’s eyebrows went up as he looked at Payne’s midsection. He ended his call and slipped the phone in his pocket.

“Jesus, you here to be treated or what?” Harris said, motioning toward the dried bloodstain on Payne’s shirt.

“Damn,” he said, zipping up his fleece jacket enough to cover it. “I forgot.”

“Is it okay?”

“Yeah. I apparently aggravated the wound ducking for cover when I saw the shotgun.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Long or short story?”

“Make it a short one, or longish short.”

“Okay,” Payne began. “So, I ditched a doctor’s appointment in order to meet with a realtor at The Rittenhouse—”