So into the tunnel he went, pumping his legs as fast as he could.

  The terrain was dark and treacherous. He had to avoid the rails and trash and vermin (yeah, he could hear them complain and squeak) while still matching the speed of the shooter, who was barely visible at the far end of the tunnel. Why did he have to be so fast? Why couldn’t they have dispatched a weight-challenged hit man, some dude named Mel or Irv who could be caught easily?

  Cooper couldn’t help thinking about what Victor had told him about the Atlantic City hit man, aka Tesla or the Quiet One. The assassin notorious for speed (check) and stealth (check). Is that who Cooper was chasing through this damn tunnel?

  On top of all that, Cooper idly wondered (as he ran, ran, ran) how wide the Schuylkill River was, how long this tunnel went on. Did the Quiet One have an end point in mind? Or did he think there was no way Cooper would be stupid enough to pursue him down here?

  Sorry, Tesla, Cooper thought. I am that stupid.

  The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Cooper wouldn’t have been surprised to see signs for Pittsburgh. But he turned a bend, and the dim glow of the next station appeared in the distance. Thirty-Third Street, right in the heart of the University of Pennsylvania’s campus. Maybe the Quiet One was returning to his dorm in the quad.

  The sharp crack of a push bar on a metal gate told Cooper that his quarry was headed to the surface.

  Ignore your pounding heart. Ignore your burning lungs. Get up there, Cooper. Go bag yourself a hit man.

  When he reached the street, he saw a surprising number of students around. Probably coming home after a long night of post-Eagles-win revelry. Cooper scanned the slowly moving bodies for the one body who looked out of place. Come on, Quiet One, show yourself…

  “It’s a cop!” someone cried.

  Cooper spun around to find the tipsy student was talking about him.

  “You don’t belong here!” the doughy-faced kid in John Lennon glasses shouted. “Get off our campus, pig!”

  “Did you see a slender man with a gun run through here?” Cooper asked him and his friends. But they either didn’t hear him or didn’t care to answer. They closed ranks around Cooper, feeling emboldened by the lager or cider or shots in their systems.

  “Defund the police!”

  “‘I can’t breathe!’”

  “Blue lives suck!”

  Cooper tried to ignore them as he looked around for any trace of the Quiet One. If the shooter was smart—and clearly he was—he would have slowed down and blended into the crowd. But Cooper would recognize him. Not that he had a description, but he’d spent the past twenty minutes watching the shooter move. He was pretty sure he could identify him by body language.

  The students, however, were determined to give him as much grief as possible. They blocked his attempts to look around them and continued shouting slogans at him.

  “All cops are bastards!”

  “Defund the po-po!”

  “I don’t believe this,” Cooper said. “You’ve got a problem with me, but you guys are cool with a professional killer roaming the campus?”

  The Quiet One—if indeed that’s who Cooper had been chasing—was nowhere in sight. Cooper had lost him. He holstered his Browning and willed himself to take slow, steady breaths.

  A young woman with blue hair practically spat in his face. “When’s the last time you murdered someone, pig?”

  “Ask me again in a couple of days,” Cooper replied.

  Chapter 96

  COOPER LAMB took the long way home.

  Not because he wanted to. He would have loved nothing more than to crash for a few hours and allow his stressed body to recharge. But that might be a fatal mistake. The shooter had known exactly where to find Cooper tonight, so he most certainly knew where Cooper lived. Cooper could be stumbling right into an ambush.

  Okay, part of him didn’t care—an early death would let him catch up on his sleep. But Cooper needed to see this case through to the end. And, if nothing else, get a little payback after that guy had tried to remodel Cooper’s face with a bullet.

  The long way home meant a meandering route up Thirty-Fourth Street to the Philadelphia Zoo (Hello, lions, I’ll say hi to Veena for you), then across the Girard Avenue Bridge and past Girard College, the nearly two-hundred-year-old boarding school originally opened for fatherless boys. This reminded him of Archie Hughes Jr. Strange to think that in another era, he might have ended up here.

  From there, he took Corinthian Street down to his own neighborhood, skirting along the east side of the Eastern State Penitentiary. Its guests had included Al Capone and Willie Sutton; today, the former prison catered to history buffs and haunted-building freaks. Cooper liked the place because the Dead Milkmen shot the video for “Punk Rock Girl” inside its walls.

  On Green Street, he saw no obvious signs that anyone was watching his brownstone. Still, Cooper hopped a fence and made his way to his backyard—what Veena had dismissed as a glorified alley. Okay, maybe this was an alley. The place felt extra-claustrophobic now that he was steeling himself for a possible attack.

  Cooper checked all possible entry points in the back of his brownstone, looking for anything out of place. Everything seemed fine except for one detail.

  No excited Lupe noises.

  Lupe always greeted him eagerly when he arrived home. In fact, whenever Cooper entered through the back, he always saw Lupe’s excited face looking down at him from the bedroom windows.

  He wasn’t there now.

  Cooper doubled back and made his way around to the front of his building. He slid his key into the lock with surgical-level care and precision to avoid making any noise. He kept his front door well oiled with WD-40 specifically for moments like these. Stealth was everything; some old army habits died hard.

  The front door opened into a foyer and long hallway. His Browning was empty, but his possible attackers didn’t know that. If it came to it, he could use it as a distraction while planning his next move.

  But if they’d hurt Lupe, there would be no planning needed. Cooper would punish them. Punish them permanently.

  Cooper moved down the length of his hallway, taking care not to step on the floorboards that creaked.

  Gun in hand, he slowly opened his bedroom door to find…

  Lupe staring back at him from the bed. Oh, you’re home.

  Next to him was a slender form wrapped up in his comforter. The form stirred, then rolled over into a new position.

  Cooper felt all the tension in his body dissolve at once. He undressed and slipped into bed next to Veena. The world was a dangerous, screwed-up place, but somehow this made it okay. For tonight, anyway. Veena stirred, pushing her body back into Cooper’s.

  “Love you,” she whispered, then went back to sleep.

  Monday, January 31

  Chapter 97

  7:13 a.m.

  ON A few occasions, Cooper Lamb had felt the need to shower with a gun close by. But walking his dog with a gun? This was a first.

  One hand he kept on the leash, the other in his jacket pocket, fingers wrapped around the grip of his fully loaded Browning. His would-be killer was still out there, and Cooper would be foolish to venture outside without protection.

  Lupe knew something was up. Cooper was sure the pup could feel the tension because he kept an extra-vigilant eye on Green Street, scanning for possible threats. Of course, to Lupe, a threat usually meant a squirrel. With the energy Cooper was radiating, the poor dog must have thought a fifty-foot squirrel was rampaging up the Ben Franklin Parkway.

  No squirrels attacked. No gunmen either.

  When Cooper returned home, Veena was already in the shower. Cooper unhooked Lupe’s leash and walked into the kitchen to start breakfast. This Monday demanded something huge and greasy to soak up all that anxiety. Lupe kept a close eye on Cooper’s movements in case a spare treat might be thrown his way.

  In one oversize pan, a pile of sliced potatoes and bell peppers for Cooper’s world-famous epic hash browns. In another pan, four thick slabs of scrapple, a Philly favorite. It was misunderstood by the world at large but incredibly delicious when grilled to perfection. Who cared that scrapple was essentially a gray block of all the parts of the pig that couldn’t be sold separately and that most people put it in the same category as haggis? With the right amount of Pennsylvania Dutch seasoning (which Cooper suspected was largely pepper), it became a delicacy right up there with caviar.

  “Oooh, scrapple,” Veena said with honest delight as she sat down at the table. She was freshly scrubbed, and you would never know her clothes had been draped over Cooper’s desk chair all night. Cooper, however, looked as if he’d rolled down a hill and slept in a gully. A shower was definitely in order.

  “So what’s next?” Veena asked as they were finishing breakfast.

  “What, this artery-clogging feast wasn’t enough for you? Should I put some baby backs on the grill?”

  “With the Archie Hughes case,” Veena clarified.

  “Oh, what’s next with that,” Cooper said, then added with a note of solemnity, “Well, considering I was almost killed last night in pursuit of the truth—”

  “Whatever,” Veena replied. “What’s next?”

  “I’m actually being serious here, V. Someone took a few shots at me outside Maya Rain’s building. I trailed him all the way to Penn, but I lost him in the crowd.”

  “Maya Rain’s place. Huh.”

  “Yeah. She said something that’s been knocking around in my skull all morning.”

  “I’m sure she did.”

  “No, not like that. About Archie having more enemies than just the ones on the field.”

  “You’re thinking Archie himself was in some kind of trouble. This is interesting. Maybe our focus is too narrow. Let’s think outside the NFL.”

  “Sure, but the NFL was Archie’s entire life. To the point that the Sables were jealous when Archie spent time with his family.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” Veena said. “Janie found some financial breakdowns that…well, never mind that for now. But Archie’s credit cards say that he spent a lot of lazy afternoons at the Merion Golf Club.”

  “You think his golfing buddies got mad and ordered a hit? What, did he play multiple balls on the same hole?”

  “I doubt that’s punishable by death.” Veena polished off the last of her hash browns, then walked her plate into the kitchenette. “I’m just saying it’s something we should look into.”

  Cooper pondered this. “Fair enough. I’ll do it.”

  “But you made this lovely breakfast.”

  “And almost took a bullet to the brain! I don’t know why you’re not making a bigger deal out of that.”

  “Well, he missed, right? I’m going to bring the leftovers to Janie.” Veena was already scooping eggs and hash browns into a plastic container.

  “Anyway, I know the club a little,” Cooper said. “It’ll be easier for me to slip inside and ask some questions.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think she’s much of a scrapple fan. That’s all you and Lupe.”

  “Generous of you! I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Bye, Lupe, sweetheart!” Veena called.

  Bye, sweetheart, Cooper thought. He groaned as he dragged himself to the shower; he hated having to dress up and look semirespectable.

  Chapter 98

  Partial transcript of Cooper Lamb’s conversation with Richard Gard and Loren Feldman, longtime members of the Merion Golf Club

  COOPER LAMB: They really pour these bottomless Bloody Marys stiff here, gentlemen. (Palm slaps a tabletop) Hoo-ah!

  RICHARD GARD: That’s one of the best perks of the club, if you ask me. And thanks for this round, Cooper. Mighty kind of you.

  LOREN FELDMAN: Jeez, stop pushing the kid. If he wants to join, he’ll join.

  LAMB: You know, I think you guys are talking me into it. And that’s not just the rail vodka talking. (Pause) Tell me one thing, though. Archie Hughes was a member, right?

  GARD: Boy, was he.

  FELDMAN: Hey, enough of that. You want to get us kicked out?

  GARD: What? It’s not like it’s a state secret or anything.

  LAMB: What’s a state secret? Ah, come on, guys! I’m, like, the world’s biggest Birds fan. You gotta tell me!

  GARD: Archie liked to gamble. Like, on everything. You could be standing on a street corner flipping a quarter, and he’d show up and want to make a wager.

  FELDMAN: Yeah, but that wasn’t the problem.

  LAMB: What was the problem?

  FELDMAN: The problem was, he was the worst gambler I ever met. He lost all the damn time! Whatever winning Archie Hughes had in him, he saved it for the football field. Which is good, because that’s how he could afford to do all that losing.

  GARD: Aw, Archie wasn’t that bad.

  FELDMAN: Wasn’t that bad? How do you lose half a million bucks during so-called friendly rounds of golf?

  LAMB: Whoa. He lost how much?

  GARD: Look at who’s spilling state secrets now.

  FELDMAN: You started this! But yeah, he lost that much. Easy. I know a guy who pretty much financed his Margate summer home with what he took off Archie Hughes. Guy called his place the Eagles Nest. Which I think is pretty hilarious.

  GARD: If you want some good Archie Hughes stories, you need to talk to Ben E.

  FELDMAN: Oh yeah, Ben E. has all the great stories. Not only from here but down in AC too.

  LAMB: Who’s this Benny?

  GARD: Come on, you’re not that young! I’m sure you’ve seen Ben E. Franco. Legendary seashore comic. For a while there, he had a couple of men’s clothing shops down on South Street. Maybe that was before your time.

  FELDMAN: The old prick did have the best commercials! Remember the one where the models in bikinis came out and whipped him because he was selling his suits for too low a price?

  LAMB: Sounds like my kind of guy. How can I get hold of Benny?

  FELDMAN: No, it’s not Benny. It’s Ben E. E., like a middle initial.

  LAMB: How can I get hold of Ben E.?

  GARD: I don’t know. Can you walk straight?

  LAMB: If it makes you gentlemen feel better, I’ll call a cab before heading over to him.

  GARD: No, no. That’s not why I’m asking.

  LAMB: Then what does it matter if I can walk straight or not?

  GARD: Because he’s sitting right across the room.

  Chapter 99

  Transcript of conversation between Cooper Lamb and Ben E. Franco, semiretired Atlantic City entertainer

  COOPER LAMB: Mr. Franco?

  BEN E. FRANCO: If Mr. Franco owes you money, he said he’ll be right back after he visits the cash machine.

  LAMB: Ha-ha, nothing like that, Mr. Franco.

  FRANCO: So formal! Call me Ben E. As long as we’re so close, why don’t you pull up a chair and buy me another mimosa.

  LAMB: You got it. (To waiter) Excuse me, could you bring Mr. Franco another?

  FRANCO: So what can I do for you, young man? You want an autograph for your sweetheart? Because, you know, she can have the real thing for next to nothing. Hell, at my age, I might even pay her.

  LAMB: Heh. Your friends Rich and Loren over there said you had some good Archie Hughes stories.

  FRANCO: Rich and who? Oh, the alte kaker over there with the lady’s first name? Ah, they ain’t my friends. They’re hangers-on. Rich made a lot of money gouging people one billable hour at a time. I should know. He was my entertainment lawyer for years! And as for Loren Bacall, Christ on a cracker. The man can’t handle his liquor. One time he was hauled in front of a judge. The judge says, “You’ve been brought here for drinking.” Loren says, “Okay, let’s get started.”

  LAMB: Ha-ha-ha, that’s good, Ben E. But I’d really love to hear about Archie.

  FRANCO: God rest his soul.

  LAMB: You two were close, I gather.

  FRANCO: You gather? What are you, a migrant field worker? No, we weren’t close. That big bastard owed me a lot of money.

  LAMB: Archie owed you money?

  FRANCO: Are you kidding? Archie Hughes owed everybody money.

  LAMB: How much money are we talking? Loren said it was something like half a million.

  FRANCO: Ha! Don’t listen to that souse, he has no idea what he’s talking about. Archie owed a lot more than that. (Whispering) I’m talking millions.

  LAMB: Come on.

  FRANCO: Kid, you know I’m a kidder, but I ain’t kidding about this. I’ve been around this town for way too many years and never saw anyone throw money away like Archie Hughes. He did it here, and I heard he owes millions out in that desert town too.

  LAMB: Vegas?

  FRANCO: No, the Gobi Desert. Yeah, Vegas! Where else do people go to hand over their hard-earned cash in exchange for the cheap flash of a leg and a piece of rubber chicken at a lousy buffet? Come to think of it, his buddy was in just as deep. And look where it got them.

  LAMB: Which buddy?

  FRANCO: You know, that ass---- chef who got himself killed last week.

  LAMB: So you think their gambling debts had something to do with their deaths?

  FRANCO: (Long pause) We’ve been joking around, kid, but listen to me. And listen to me carefully. This is serious business. Always has been. This is the way of the Mob. They want you to have a good time, drink their wines, feel up their girls, watch their ponies run. Whatever. But when the bill comes, you’d better be ready to open your wallet and pay. The entire organization runs on this principle. If people don’t pay, the Mob goes away. And let me tell you, they’re not going anywhere.

  LAMB: Makes sense. But how do you get someone like Archie Hughes to pay?

  FRANCO: If someone serious decides to welsh on a bet, you send someone serious to speak with him.

  LAMB: What kind of serious are we talking about?

  FRANCO: I think you know exactly the kind of serious I’m talking about. Look how Mr. Greatest of All Time ended up. Nobody’s untouchable, Mr. Lamb.