ical make and model.”
“Of course they did. All of which suggests these particular bad guys aren’t exactly newbies to the trade.”
Payne’s phone vibrated on the wooden bar, its glass screen illuminated. Both their heads turned toward it.
Payne saw there was a red box with a text message from 215-555-2398, a local number. It read A guy on staff heard that Morgan lady tell the blond guy, “That’s the last $100K he gets. Not another payment till the bastard produces.” Maybe that’s connected to the shooting?
Payne showed it to Harris.
“A hundred grand?” Payne said. “If it’s the same envelope, she said it held only fifty-large.”
“Who’s that message from?” Harris said.
“Not sure. Maybe Ryan, the valet. When I dropped off my car to go to the bar, he asked about how someone would submit an anonymous tip on the shooting. I think he knows something. But he denied it. I said we need information now, gave him my number, and told him to share it.”
“The number for your department-issued cell phone, right? You’re not giving out your mobile number to anyone.”
“My department phone keeps crapping out, so I leave it plugged in at my desk and forward its calls to one of the throwaway lines on my smartphone. I can add and delete the throwaways all day long with the app. That way, I’ve got everything in one device and my personal number stays private. Don’t need anyone trying to track me down with it.”
“How do you tell them apart? Who’s calling which of the numbers?”
“Caller ID usually tells me the name. But if it’s just a number or blocked, the background colors for the ID box are all different.” He pointed. “This throwaway line is red. See? My personal line’s blue.”
Harris nodded, looked across the bar, then rubbed his chin.
“You know,” he said, “when we asked her about the cash, she dodged the question. Wouldn’t say which vendors. But we didn’t push her on that, either.”
“That can be one of the first things I ask her tomorrow,” Payne said, then thumbed a text reply asking when and where the staffer had overheard the conversation about the money.
He hit SEND, and, a moment later, an error message box popped up: NUMBER NOT VALID.
He sent another text, and the same message appeared.
“Maybe a burner?” Harris said.
Payne drained his drink.
“That,” Payne said, waving for the check, “or maybe sent through one of those anonymous messaging websites that mask the sender’s Internet address.”
“Like the one that Temple University party girl who got dumped used to taunt the guy’s wife—‘Hey, your loving hubby’s having a wild affair.’”
“And attached a photo of her Sugar Daddy in an extremely compromising act,” Payne said. “That’s it, the one Kerry cracked. I’ll get him to see if he can run down this one after he’s gotten the cell tower dump. Right now, there’s nothing we can do until our early-morning meeting with Austin and then Camilla Rose . . .”
“Yeah.”
“So I’m going home and feel sorry for myself.”
III
[ ONE ]
Rittenhouse Square
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 4:35 A.M.
When the ringing of Matt Payne’s cellular phone on the bedside table woke him from a deep sleep at four-thirty, he immediately worried it was something to do with Amanda.