Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

“A gala is what she said she’s here for,” Harris interrupted. “Her Camilla’s Kids fund-raiser is Saturday night. Something about special camps for children dealing with terminal diseases.”

“Yeah, mostly cancer patients. They’re probably holding it in the hotel ballroom at The Rittenhouse,” Payne said. “She’s one of those supersized personalities who is always happy and who everyone likes. The ultimate party girl.”

“She sure as hell didn’t look like that when I saw her just now.”

Payne nodded, then went on. “And that partying has led to a long history of rehab visits. Not that that’s been a big secret. She always called it ‘going to the spa to get a cleanse.’ And she readily pointed out all the Hollywood celebrities and rock stars who did the same.”

“She mentioned that more than a few celebrities—her ‘special friends,’ she said—are attending the event,” Harris said, then chuckled. “You know, with any luck, you can get temporarily assigned again to Dignitary Protection.”

“Not no—hell no. Been there, got the T-shirt. That did not work out well last time. I have no patience with the special types. Rather rip out my stitches with a dull knife first.”

Harris snorted.

The protecting of VIPs visiting the City of Brotherly Love fell to the Dignitary Protection Unit. Sometimes there were a few VIPs in town requiring protection, sometimes dozens, and sometimes none at all—which caused staffing of the unit, dependent on demand, to fluctuate wildly.

The solution to supplying the surges was the temporarily reassignment of detectives from their divisions.

Usually these detectives—who wore coats and ties, not uniforms—came from the Special Operations Division, as did the uniformed officers of Highway Patrol, which fell under Special Operations. Having citywide authority, members of Special Operations were more familiar with policing Philadelphia as a whole than, for example, an officer or detective assigned to patrol just a single district.

It didn’t hurt that Highway Patrol officers were the elite of the department. And that they put on quite a showing with their elaborate 1920s-style uniforms—gleaming black leather double-breasted jackets, Sam Browne belts, black knee-high cavalry boots with breeches tucked in and bloused—while riding massive Harley-Davidson motorcycles with lights flashing and sirens screaming.

Thus, a dignitary being escorted around town could have as many as a dozen of the city’s best-equipped, best-trained street-savvy uniforms protecting him or her.

Payne went on. “But no surprise about the celebs. People flock to her like moths to a flame. Of course, doesn’t hurt that the Morgan fortune is in the billions of . . .”

Payne didn’t finish his sentence as he looked beyond Harris.

Down the hallway, a door had opened partially, and the tall blonde Camilla Rose Morgan was stepping through it. Payne saw that she had a weary face, one deep in thought, and she moved with slow, deliberate steps. There was dried blood on her clothing.

As Payne began walking toward her, she lifted her head and her eyes went to him.

“Matthew,” Camilla Rose Morgan said, her voice strained. “How are you?” She made a faint smile. “You’re not going to yell at me again, are you?”

“Ms. Morgan,” he said, holding out his right hand. “I understand Mr. Benson was a friend. My condolences.”

She stepped toward him and shook his hand.

“Thank you. And, please, it’s Camilla Rose.”

He nodded, then said, “Forgive me, but I don’t recall our having met. And when I yelled at the valet stand, I did not know it was you. I’m afraid I didn’t immediately recognize you. My focus was on the shooter.”

“No apology necessary,” she said. “And we haven’t met formally, but I feel like we have. We have a number of mutual acquaintances. Daffy Nesbitt, for one. And your father’s firm represents a number of my projects.”

“I think I knew that Daphne was,” Payne said, nodding. “Her husband, Chad, and I have been close since we were kids. I was not aware of the connection with my father’s firm.”

“Brewster always speaks so very highly of you,” she added. “I suppose that getting shot did not change your mind about continuing with the police department. But, then, I do understand how it is sometimes not to see eye to eye with one’s father.”

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“You graduated top of your class at the University of Pennsylvania. Isn’t it fair to say that everyone expected that you would be working at your father’s firm by now? Or at least practicing law somewhere?” She paused, then added, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why that came out. It’s not my place to say.”

“But you’re right. It’s what they expected,” Payne said, and changed the subject. He gestured at Tony Harris. “I understand you have met Detective Harris?”

“I have had the pleasure,” she said. “I asked him if he could contact you for me. No offense to Detective Harris, but I thought I would feel more comfortable discussing this with you.”

“Let me assure you that anything you want to tell me you can tell Detective Harris,” Payne said. “When will we be able to speak with Mr. Austin?”

“The doctors said they’re going to keep Johnny overnight for observation,” Camilla Rose said. “In addition to some cuts and heavy bruising, he has a hairline fracture in his right forearm and a possible concussion. They’ve given him some mild medication for the pain. Before he drifted off to sleep, he asked that he not be bothered. With what Johnny’s gone through, especially losing his friend, I’m sure you understand.”