Broken Trust (Badge of Honor 13)

“Austin was four, maybe five years ago?” Morgan said. “Then he was out of the picture—I just assumed whatever relationship he and Camilla Rose may have had had run its course—but then recently she dropped his name during our discussions. So, I assumed they were back together . . . unfortunately. And now this happened . . .”

He was quiet as he looked across the room, then said, “To answer your question, the last I saw Camilla Rose was a couple months ago. Our corporate counsel had some papers for her to sign concerning one of the philanthropies.”

He paused, then added, “To be clear, I only saw her; I didn’t speak with her in person. As I said, we communicated by e-mail only, which was her decision.”

“And she brought up Austin’s name?” Harris said. “What did you think about that?”

“Like Camilla Rose, Detective, Austin is intelligent. You are aware that he now is in wealth management . . .”

Payne and Harris nodded.

“. . . But he’s not the good kind. And that, of course, concerned me.”

“I’m guessing the bad kind is one who loses your money,” Payne said, his tone wry.

“Indeed, that is an absolute truth. But the difference between good and bad is also about how they are compensated.” He paused, and added, “You must know this, yes?”

“Kindly educate me. As Detective Harris can attest, I’m not very bright and can always learn something new.”

Mason Morgan looked back and forth between them, not sure if he was being mocked or not, then decided to go on. “The good kind of wealth managers charge a very small percentage of your portfolio as their management fee. Ergo, the more money your investments make, the more they earn, too.”

“Got it,” Payne said.

“The other kind, the bad kind, is essentially a stockbroker—which my grandfather told me was ‘really little more than a used-car salesman with shiny, expensive shoes.’ They make their money from commissions on the buying and selling of stocks and bonds and various other financial instruments. If a stock’s price starts to slide, for example, the broker may suggest getting out and investing in another stock that he declares, with great conviction, is undervalued and destined to rise in price. Which may or may not be true, especially if the brokerage firm is pushing certain financial products it has an interest in . . . But that’s a whole other subject.”

Payne said, “And this used-car salesman with shiny, expensive shoes gets a commission, and maybe a company bonus, from both the dumped shares and the newly acquired ones.”

Morgan nodded.

“I knew you knew, Matthew. Thus, it is in the broker’s best interest, not the client’s, to do so. And, let me tell you, Austin is one remarkable salesman. Big, bright smile, a backslapper, your instant new best friend. Always with the next con going on. I would suggest always having your hand on your wallet when in his presence.”

The multiline telephone on the desk began making a trilling sound. Morgan’s eyes darted to its caller ID display, then he glanced at his wristwatch. He made a face of annoyance as he grabbed the receiver.

“Let me call you right back,” he snapped, then more or less slammed the receiver back in its cradle.

Mason Morgan quickly pushed himself out of his high-backed leather chair.

“Gentlemen, I do have a meeting I must make. We can continue this later. Meantime, I’ll get the file my security people compiled on Austin to you.”

IV

[ ONE ]

The Rittenhouse Condominiums

Residence 2150

Center City

Philadelphia

Friday, January 6, 11:01 A.M.

Homicide Sergeant Matt Payne, standing on the terrace of Camilla Rose Morgan’s leased unit, peered over the glass-topped, slate-tiled wall and saw, twenty-one floors below, the roof of the Crime Scene Unit’s canopy tent. A panel van with MEDICAL EXAMINER’S OFFICE markings honked twice as it backed up and then parked just outside the yellow tape.

When he turned back, he had a clear view of the gas-fueled fireplace. Laying on the slate—next to a large crystal snifter and, on its side, an empty bottle of Rémy Martin VSOP cognac—were the extravagant high heel shoes she had worn the previous night, one of which she used to hold open the elevator door for Matt.

Now he could see in his mind’s eye Camilla Rose at the fireplace, taking photographs of herself, while she waited for him.