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“You know because that cash envelope that Camilla Rose gave you right before the shooting held a helluva lot more than the twenty thousand dollars you said.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I heard it was fifty grand, in hundreds—”

“Did she tell you that?”

Yes, but you can’t ask her if she did, can you? So I’ll let you wonder about the source.

And that text said she’d told you that that was the last hundred grand.

Payne’s eyes went to Grosse, then back to Austin.

“Who are you paying off with the hundred grand?” Payne went on. “And why?”

Austin avoided eye contact, turning to look for his drink as he forced a laugh.

“That’s ridiculous. You’re way out of line, Payne.”

“Look, I’m trying to find who’s responsible for these deaths. I can’t help you if you don’t help me. I really don’t care who you’re giving money. I want the killer.”

“And I’ve got nothing for you. I’ve told you all I know.”

Payne met his eyes, and, after mulling it over, thought, What the hell.

He pulled up the photograph on his phone showing the shredded bodies hanging from the iron beam in the coal tower.

“Suit yourself,” Payne said, holding out the phone. “But here’s something to think about.”

Austin looked, and let out what Payne thought sounded like a deep primal groan.

“Jesus,” Grosse said, again in a low voice.

“Feeling lucky now?”

“Get out, Payne!” Austin barked, his left arm stiff as he pointed toward the front door. “Just get the hell out!”

Payne saw that Austin was visibly shaking, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

Is that more of the mania manifesting itself?

Payne slipped his phone in his pocket and came out with a business card. He handed it to Grosse.

“I’d appreciate it if you called me later,” he said, then glanced at Austin. “I’ll let myself out.”

VIII

[ ONE ]

Office of the First Deputy Police Commissioner

The Roundhouse

Eighth and Race Streets

Philadelphia

Saturday, January 7, 9:05 A.M.