LAMB: How could Roz hurt Francine?

  RAIN: Cooper, my friend, I think you know exactly how.

  LAMB: None of this makes sense. You know that, right? Help me out here.

  RAIN: That’s what I’ve been doing, whether you believe me or not. Kids’ messes aren’t the only messes I clean up.

  LAMB: Who’s looking out for you?

  RAIN: That’s sweet. And I truly mean it. So few people look out for each other these days. Especially in this city.

  LAMB: So let me protect you.

  RAIN: Go listen to the rest of the game with your kids. I think the Birds are going to give people a big surprise.

  LAMB: Says the non–sports fan.

  RAIN: Call me an optimist.

  Chapter 89

  “WOW, DAD, game of the century and we’re sitting in your car,” Ariel said. “Can’t wait to tell my grandkids someday about the epic championship game I almost saw.”

  “Ingrate. Up until an hour ago, you were feasting on sugary sweets in one of the owners’ boxes! Tell your grandkids about that.”

  “This is so lame.”

  “Shhh, quiet for a second.”

  Cooper didn’t want to care about the Eagles or the game or anything else that wasn’t related to the three murders he was investigating. But he couldn’t help it; the game was one for the record books. It was a nail-biter right up to the very end, when the new quarterback managed some kind of insane Hail Mary pass (and oh, did Cooper regret not being able to see it) and, with just seconds to go…clinched the Eagles’ victory.

  “Dad.”

  “Wow, wow, wow,” Cooper said, stunned.

  “Dad,” Ariel said. “I can’t believe we missed that!”

  His daughter was right. He should have waited to squeeze Glenn Sable until after the game was over. Maybe that would have revealed another piece of the puzzle, because one thing was clear: Glenn Sable had not been happy about the prospect of an Eagles victory.

  Did he have Archie murdered to ensure the team’s loss? And if so, why? A winning team was far more profitable than a runner-up. None of this made sense.

  “Well,” Cooper said, “at least there’s the Super Bowl to look forward to.”

  “Where are we going to watch that?” Cooper Jr. asked. “In a dumpster behind the stadium?”

  “Keep joking, kid,” Cooper replied. “Wiseasses don’t go to Chickie’s and Pete’s for a celebratory dinner.”

  “We’ll never get a table there. Not on a day like this.”

  “You’re lucky to have a father who knows a guy who knows a guy. There’s a table waiting for us.”

  “Don’t drink too much beer when we’re there,” Ariel said. “Mom doesn’t like it when you drink too much beer, then drive us home.”

  “I promise I will drink an entirely appropriate amount of beer,” Cooper assured his daughter. “Now, let’s beat the crowd and feast on some Crabfries.”

  Chapter 90

  REPORT TO C. LAMB BY V. SUAREZ

  Sunday, January 30

  (Sent with encryption and red-flagged, with delivery confirmation)

  Here’s what I’ve been able to learn about this hired killer.

  He has no real name (or aliases) that I can pin to a driver’s license or passport. But he has two nicknames: “the Quiet One” and “Tesla.” The names are a nod to this hit man’s silence and speed. If you want a hit done fast and clean with zero traces, you pay extra for the Quiet One.

  No law enforcement agency, domestic or foreign, has been able to gather more than scraps about the Quiet One. (I know; I looked.) The FBI won’t even acknowledge he exists, attributing his work to various other people. As if it would be bad form to admit total defeat.

  But for the Archie Hughes and Roz Cline killings, the Quiet One seems to fit. There was zero forensic evidence left behind; no cameras caught the murder; and the killer eluded the authorities despite police officers being on the scene almost immediately.

  The missing Super Bowl ring is the only part of this that feels off. The Quiet One would not bother with such a souvenir—unless his client had insisted on it. That said, it still feels out of character.

  Under my own alias, I tried to reach out to arrange some kind of meeting with the Quiet One or one of his associates. I was pretty much laughed out of the dark web. The kind of people who can afford to hire the Quiet One are way above my pay grade…or even one that I can reasonably fake. Every overture I made was quickly shut down.

  And I’ll be honest: I’m worried about trying again, because I’d rather not catch the Quiet One’s attention. You treat me fair, boss, but I don’t want to die for this job.

  This should tell you a lot about who might have hired the Quiet One to kill Archie Hughes. These are not ordinary wealthy people. They look down on new-money types like the Sables. We’re talking about the highest echelon of the wealthy, individuals who reshape the world as they like. You have to ask yourself, why would these people want Archie dead?

  Hope you and the kids had fun at the game. I’ll admit to being incredibly jealous that you were able to witness firsthand the Hail Mary pass they’ll be talking about for decades to come.

  I’ll send more as I learn it.

  Oh, one more thing—this just came in. It’s about Maya Rain. See the document attached to this message.

  Chapter 91

  9:48 p.m.

  COOPER DRANK more than an appropriate amount of beer.

  Not with the children, of course. He had his two standard bottles of Yuengling Lager and enough crab fries to soak up every last ounce of that beer. The mood at Chickie’s and Pete’s was festive, and of course Cooper loved celebrating with his kids. But he was very distracted.

  One distraction was Victor’s most recent report, which was even more alarming than the first. The Quiet One, huh? Why were they working so hard to find a killer who could disappear without a trace, eluding the FBI, Interpol, you name it? How could two private eyes from Philly possibly hope to find him?

  But that was academic for now. The second, and bigger, distraction was Maya Rain. Cooper couldn’t help but think he’d missed an opportunity back at the Linc. Maybe there was something he could have said to unlock her mental vault. Cooper liked her a lot but didn’t trust her; maybe she felt the same way about him. Behind the flirtation, they were both cautious, professional people.

  Maybe he should try again, convince her that he was worth her trust.

  While settling the tab at Chickie’s, Cooper bought a six-pack of Yuengling and stashed it in the trunk of his car. After dropping off his children—and once again hearing the story of how Dad had ruined the championship game for them—Cooper drove across Center City to Eighteenth Street. As it was Sunday, there were parking spots available. He parked in essentially the same spot he had a few days ago and nursed his beer while waiting for Maya to return home. Although maybe she had plans with Mickey Bernstein.

  At the tail end of Cooper’s fourth lager, Bernstein dropped Maya off. They kissed goodbye. Maya went upstairs.

  Cooper was nowhere numb enough. It still hurt.

  He thought about drinking the fifth and sixth beers. Instead, he went into Maya’s building. The two lagers were enough of a bribe for Curt the doorman—hell, the entire city was in a celebratory mood. Besides, Curt recognized Cooper. “Go on up. I’ll let her know you’re on the way.”

  While consuming beers one through four in the driver’s seat of his car, Cooper had planned his speech—this was how he’d earn her trust and work his way into her heart. But when Maya opened the door, his brain refused to cooperate, so he said the first thing that came to mind, an item he’d just come across in Vincent’s latest file: “You own a Glock forty-four.”

  “Good to see you again too, Cooper. Do you want to come in?”

  So much for trust. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. “That’s the same model that killed Archie Hughes.”

  Maya closed the door behind him. “You think I killed my own employer?”

  “No,” Cooper said. “I’m just following the evidence. Did anyone have access to your gun besides you?”

  “Before I start talking about my personal firearms—which, by the way, are perfectly normal in West Virginia—can I offer you something to drink?”

  “I’ve had enough to drink,” Cooper said. “Schuylkill punch will be fine.”

  “I don’t know how to make that cocktail.”

  “Just turn on the tap.”

  Where was he going with this? Cooper didn’t know, but the document that Victor had sent while Cooper and the kids were at Chickie’s and Pete’s clearly showed a Glock .44 registered to Maya Rain at this address. Recent permit too; Victor said it had been pushed through the system in record time. Why would a nanny suddenly need to pack heat?

  When Maya returned from the kitchen, she was holding a gun.

  Chapter 92

  “I’M NO expert,” Cooper said, “but I’m fairly sure that’s not a glass of water.”

  “I’ll get that in a minute,” Maya said.

  “Would that be after you kill me?”

  There was one of those horrible, elongated moments—a second or two in actual time that feels like an eternity when you experience it. Both of their lives could hinge on what happened next.

  “You really do think the worst of me,” she replied, breaking the tension. “No, I brought this out to show you my high-school graduation present from my father. Very ladylike, isn’t it?”

  Maya snapped open the wheel of the small pearl-handled revolver and showed him the empty chambers. She moved with the grace of a person who had grown up with guns. Cooper was simply relieved he wouldn’t be forced to pull his own piece and engage in a gun battle with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met.

  “Adorable,” Cooper said. “But that’s not the gun I was talking about.”

  “But this is my point,” Maya said. “I don’t know how you learned about the Glock, but that was a gift from Detective Bernstein. I guess he thinks I’m just some rube from West Virginia, so I need to have some personal protection.”

  “Where is the Glock?”

  “That’s the weird thing—I don’t know. Maybe he took it back when he realized I had my own gun and a permit to carry? I honestly hadn’t thought about it until you mentioned it.”

  Cooper’s mind spun with possible explanations, all of them sinister. Among the worst was the idea that Bernstein was trying to frame Maya, taking advantage of her kindness and her proximity to the murder victim. Could be that he wasn’t dating Maya; he was merely getting close enough to tighten the noose around her slender neck.

  “I know where the gun is,” Cooper said. “It’s booked into evidence.”

  Maya’s face twisted with revulsion. “Are you saying that gun was used to kill Archie?”

  “Possibly,” Cooper said. “If we knew for sure, we’d be that much closer to finding his killer.”

  “I’ll get that water now. And a drink for myself.”

  Cooper followed her into the kitchenette. She opened the tap to fill a tumbler, then turned around to find Cooper very close.

  “There’s no one else here,” Cooper said. “It’s just the two of us now. If you tell me what you know, I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”

  “I’m not the one who needs protecting.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Maya sighed. “Archie had enemies on and off the field. You don’t want to provoke them.”

  “What, you don’t think I can handle myself?”

  “Clearly that’s what you think about me.”

  Cooper had to admit she had a point.

  “Listen,” he said. “All I’m saying is, if you let people like Bernstein and the Sables into your life, they’re going to want something in return. They always do. Maybe it’s something as simple as sex. But sometimes it’s more. A lot more. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Maya smiled. “Look, I have my eyes open. Mickey is just…we’re having fun. We both know what this is. And the Sables, yeah, they’re sleazebags, but they’re mostly full of bluster. They’re harmless. I’ve had to deal with guys like them all my life. I know how to handle them.”

  “The same words have been spoken by every victim,” Cooper said, “right before she realizes she can’t handle them.”

  “Do I look like a victim to you?”

  Maya Rain filled the tumbler with water and gave it to him. And in that instant, Cooper saw her mask slip a little. He saw a fierceness in her eyes, and it caught him by surprise. Maybe it was anger, maybe it was lust, maybe it was something else. Cooper could have responded with another question. Or a kiss…

  But his instincts told him to go in the opposite direction. So he dumped the water into the sink, walked out of the apartment, took the elevator down, and left the building.

  Chapter 93

  THE WALL exploded just to the left of Cooper Lamb’s face. Hot fragments stung his cheeks as he dived to the sidewalk. Without even thinking, he pulled his Browning from his underarm holster and returned fire.

  The shots came from the service driveway next to Maya’s building. The same driveway where Bernstein had picked her up the other day.

  That you, Mickey? You jealous bastard.

  Cooper kept firing at the shadows as he ran, hoping his would-be killer would seek cover and allow Cooper to reach his car on Eighteenth Street. And Cooper almost did. But the assassin was quick and clearly unafraid. Return fire chewed up the asphalt under Cooper’s feet. He was already moving fast, but he dug deep and found the fuel to move faster. Cooper’s wartime responses kicked in—he made it to the other side of his car without being hit. Bullets shattered the window over his head. Beads of glass rained down into his hair. This assassin meant it.

  Yeah, but so did Cooper.

  He reloaded quickly and returned fire over the hood of his car. Six shots, all aimed at the killer’s center of gravity—based on his best guess of where that was, of course. The killer was still hidden in the shadows. But Cooper had had plenty of experience in the army firing into the shadows at people who wanted him to die.

  Cooper crouched down and listened closely. Total silence except for the far-off wail of a siren. Gunfire in this part of Philadelphia was rare; someone had called it in.

  Either he’d hit the gunman or the gunman had fled the scene.

  That meant that with every second, the shooter—and potential witness—was either slipping farther into the afterlife or putting more distance between himself and Cooper.

  Do you think you hit him, Cooper? There was a third possibility: the shooter was waiting for him to stick his head up so he could blow it away.

  Nobody lives forever, Cooper told himself. He darted out from behind the car and ran toward the service driveway. At the other end, he spied a vague form running away, pumping his arms and legs and moving with preternatural speed.

  Damn it.

  Chapter 94

  COOPER REMEMBERED exactly where the service driveway led: to a side street that took you to either Sansom Street or Walnut Street, depending on which way you turned. As he approached the driveway’s end, he flipped a mental coin, then hung a right toward Sansom.

  It was the correct move. Cooper caught sight of the shooter as he raced to the left, headed west down Sansom.

  Whoever this guy was, he had the speed of an Olympic sprinter. Cooper was surprisingly fast too, especially given his height. But he had to ignore the pounding of his heart and the screaming of his muscles to keep pace with the shooter.

  Cooper hoped this guy would hop into a car at some point so he’d have a legitimate reason to give up the pursuit. But no. The shooter continued to run. So, what, had he taken public transportation to the hit?

  By the time the shooter reached Twenty-Second and Market, Cooper realized that he might have done just that. The guy was headed down a set of concrete stairs to the underground trolley line.

  Cooper skidded to a halt just before the stairs. Could be a trap. Shooter could be waiting at the bottom for Cooper’s silhouette to appear, and then blam-blam-blam—slaughtered Lamb.

  He waited. The seconds piled up again. Cooper hated this. The shooter was probably catching a trolley right now.

  Except…wasn’t it too late for that? These lines ground to a halt around eleven p.m. Most likely, the shooter was down there waiting for him.

  Screw it.

  Cooper crouched and peered down the stairs, Browning in his hands. Fluorescent lights flickered on the grime and litter. There was no shooter.

  He bounded down the stairs, ready for an ambush. Where are you? He listened carefully.

  The tiled walls of the station echoed with a peculiar sound. Something slapping. It was faint, but it was fast and consistent in its rhythm. Cooper turned the corner and saw that he was right, the station was closed. But there was enough room above a security gate for someone very determined to scale it and jump down to the other side.

  Down to the tracks. And that’s when Cooper understood the slapping sound. They were footsteps.

  The shooter was escaping through the trolley tunnel.

  Chapter 95

  THIS WAS probably one of the worst ideas in the long, troubled history of bad ideas. Cooper knew this. But he scaled the gate anyway.

  The army had prepared him for these kinds of insane activities. Climbing tall barriers. Hunting prey in the dark. Running until you thought your heart and lungs would burst in your rib cage.

  But none of those activities usually took place in a cold urban environment like this one: a freezing, grimy commuter tunnel that plowed under the Schuylkill River.

  Yep. A seriously bad idea, for sure.

  But Cooper knew he couldn’t turn around and make the loser’s march back to his car on Eighteenth Street. When someone tries to blow your brains out, you don’t just turn the other cheek so he can take another shot. Cooper needed to find this bastard and make him explain.