“A certain piece of jewelry.”

  “All due respect, how could you possibly know that?”

  “Do me a favor, Parks. Can you push those crowds back a bit more? I want to take a look in relative peace and quiet.”

  “Of course.”

  “And, oh—the missing piece of jewelry? It’s a Super Bowl ring.”

  Five

  FOR DECADES, the City of Philadelphia had been promising its hardworking police officers two things: sparkly new headquarters and a state-of-the-art computer system.

  Neither had appeared yet. Mickey Bernstein was sitting in the same building, the concrete Roundhouse on Race Street, that his father had worked in years ago. Dad had used an electric typewriter to hunt-and-peck his murder reports, but Mickey didn’t have it much better. He was forced to use a nearly comatose PC with an operating system twenty years out of date.

  Eh, screw the things you can’t change, Mickey thought. That was one of many twisted pieces of wisdom from Dad. Mickey cracked his knuckles and got to work.

  Philadelphia Police Department / Homicide Division

  Case No. 22-9-3275

  Investigating Detective: Michael Bernstein

  2445 Captain called with a report of a Black male found dead inside sports car in front of art museum.

  2450 Notified my partner, Detective T. Mason, #4977, of the murder. She was at least thirty minutes out so I headed to the scene alone. I was already in Center City, just a few minutes away.

  0100 Arrived at scene. Briefed by Officer Parks, #6332, who was first at scene. Partner: Officer Sheplavy, #8841. Parks reported a man in a gray hoodie in area at the time of her arrival. Witness took photos with a phone and fled scene. Parks did not pursue. See statement, attached.

  0130 Coroner investigator V. Waters arrived at scene. Rolled prints of victim identified as Archie Hughes, DOB 12/27/89. Crime lab tech Wolfinger completed photographs. Victim suffered GSW. No shell casings found at scene.

  0200 Requested all surveillance video in immediate vicinity.

  0241 Coroner took possession of body. Cleared scene.

  0437 Made death notification to Hughes’s wife, Francine Hughes, 10XXX Country Club Drive, Radnor, PA.

  Which brought Bernstein up to the present, 5:00 in the morning. This was going to be a crazy day, with zero chance of sleep in the foreseeable future. He hit the PRINT key and prayed it worked; Bernstein didn’t want to have to wait for some guy in IT to show up so he could begin the murder book that would define his career.

  Small miracle—the pages printed without a hitch.

  Bernstein saved the file and got up to find a gallon of coffee. Then he stopped. Sat back down. Cracked his knuckles again.

  Better to pave the road now and save himself some grief later.

  Six

  HIGHLY CONFIDENTAL

  EYES OF THE POLICE COMMISSIONER ONLY

  Madam Commissioner:

  The Archie Hughes case is a guaranteed clusterfuck, even if everything goes right. However, I have some thoughts on how we might minimize the damage.

  The Eagles quarterback is arguably the most talented pair of hands ever to touch the pigskin. If he’s not the greatest of all time, he’s a serious contender for the title. Archie Hughes’s family, friends, and fans all over the world will demand swift justice. We must give it to them.

  I was next up on the wheel for this case, as the captain will confirm. But I understand that this may not sit well with the rank and file, who might assume it was handed to me on a silver platter. Also, full disclosure: I am on friendly terms with Eagles ownership, though I did not know Mr. Hughes personally. Nonetheless, I know I am the best detective for this case, despite the optics.

  My suggestion, Madam Commissioner, is that we create a task force. Let the city know we have all hands on deck.

  Not only will we have the eyes of the entire city on us, but there will be massive national and international media attention. It’s vital that we have a unified voice giving simple, direct updates on the status of the investigation. I volunteer my services for this role.

  As you know, I have excellent relations with the local news outlets and have appeared on national news multiple times over the past ten years.

  The truth is, this case will most likely be solved with surveillance cameras, which is how we solve ninety percent of homicides. I’ll be working closely with my colleagues in the Special Investigations Unit to review the footage and we will have answers soon. As my dad liked to say, “We don’t sleep until the killer is tucked neatly into bed.”

  Thank you in advance, Madam Commissioner. I hope we can bring this case to a rapid and satisfactory conclusion.

  Yours,

  Det. Michael Bernstein

  Seven

  11:50 a.m.

  WINTER LANDSCAPING on Philadelphia’s Main Line was mostly about preventive care. Which was why Mauricio Lopez, fifty-three, had winterized the sprinkler system way back in October and wrapped the young trees to protect them from frost. He’d also fertilized in advance of the first hard freeze. And he made sure to replenish the mulch as needed.

  Mauricio insisted on using the leaves he raked up in the fall as mulch in the dead of winter, despite his employer’s wife telling him not to bother, that they could afford to buy a fresh supply. Mauricio told her it was not about the money; it was about the health of the roots beneath the freezing soil. The mulch acted as an insulating blanket. Nature supplied it for free. Why not use it?

  Much of that work had been done, so Mauricio had little to do aside from occasionally pruning dead branches and brushing road salt away from the front-facing bushes. Otherwise, daily maintenance of the vast grounds was simply a matter of looking around for anything out of place.

  And Mauricio saw something very out of place late Sunday morning.

  Any foreign object on the ground almost always turned out to be an errant golf ball from the nearby country club. Sometimes the children in the neighborhood left a baseball or toy. Once Mauricio even found a hobbyist’s drone that had crash-landed near a birdbath. And occasionally, there were dead animals—birds, mostly. When Mauricio found them, he quickly disposed of the corpses. If the kids were around, they’d want to hold a funeral. Which was sweet, but it ate up a lot of his workday.

  This morning, he noticed a foreign object that was mostly buried in a flower bed. The only reason Mauricio saw it was that the low winter sun glimmered off its surface.

  A car, Mauricio thought. The older child had had an obsession with Matchbox sports cars last summer; this had to be one of them.

  Mauricio knelt down, hearing his knee joints pop, and brushed away some of the frost and mulch covering the toy. But it wasn’t a little sports car buried in the flower bed.

  Mauricio Lopez lived his life largely unplugged. He had a landline so Mrs. Hughes could reach him as needed, but he avoided “smart” devices. He did not own a computer, TV, or radio. He enjoyed reading books about ancient history. He liked to garden.

  So when Mauricio arrived for work that morning, he had not heard the news about his employer. For all Mauricio knew, Mr. Hughes was preparing for this evening’s game. In fact, despite his closeness to the family, Mauricio Lopez might very well have been the only person in the tristate area who didn’t know Archie Hughes had been shot and killed in front of the art museum the night before.

  But still, the sight of a gun caused him to tremble violently.

  Monday, January 24

  Chapter 1

  7:32 a.m.

  AFTER EXECUTING the most perfect display of parallel parking ever seen in the city of Philadelphia, Cooper Lamb realized not a single soul had witnessed it.

  Not his ex. Not his children. Not a random passerby. Not even a meter maid, who normally would be on him like a heat-seeking missile. If no one saw this private eye’s incredible display of automotive prowess, did it actually happen? It was another bummer in a long string of them.

  Lamb fished his phone out of his jacket pocket, hit the memo app his assistant, Victor, had loaded for him, and began to speak. He always felt better when he was talking out loud.

  COOPER LAMB / VOICE MEMO #0124-735

  Victor, I regret to inform you this is the end of the world.

  Maybe not your world. But my world, for sure. I am currently sitting in my car trying to process it all. Trying to figure out what I’m going to tell my kids. Damn…what am I going to tell my kids?

  Don’t transcribe that last part, Victor. Yes, I know you’re not personally transcribing these words, that the computer program you designed is doing all of this automatically. But humor me. I can’t stand the idea of talking to a machine.

  So let’s review the facts at hand while I await the arrival of my lovely and brilliant offspring, whom I adore completely.

  Fact number one: Eagles starting quarterback and national treasure Archie Hughes was shot to death last night. The entire city is in a state of shock and mourning. We woke up to a different world today, Victor.

  Fact number two: The NFC championship game has been postponed for some unknown amount of time. Which means nobody will know what to do with themselves until it’s rescheduled.

  Fact number three: I was not in possession of tickets to the game, but maybe this is an opportunity. Victor, can you see if there are tickets available? Possibly something in a box? Maybe some fans won’t be able to make it, they’ll be so heartbroken over the loss of the amazing Mr. Hughes. A guy can dream, right?

  Fact number four: On Saturday I placed a fairly sizable bet—on the Eagles, of course—with my army buddy Red Doyle down in Atlantic City. I was already sick to my stomach knowing I’d have to wait twenty-four hours to see how it turned out, and, more important, if I’d be ducking my landlord for the next two months or not. Now I get to enjoy a full week of anguish and torment. Victor, next time I mention making a bet, talk me out of it.

  Fact number five: Speaking of disappointed, at this very moment my kids are running out of their mother’s house and…oh, it doesn’t look good. Seems as if the awful news has reached my children’s impressionable ears. To be continued.

  Chapter 2

  THE REAR passenger doors of Cooper Lamb’s car were wrenched open and his children climbed into the back of his vehicle with the force of a small hurricane.

  “Dad!” his son exclaimed. “Did you hear what happened to Archie Hughes?”

  His daughter was already annoyed. “Of course Dad heard. But what I want to know is, who would do something like this the night before the game?”

  “Are you going to find Archie’s killer?”

  “Are they going to cancel the Super Bowl?”

  “Do you already know who killed Archie, Dad?”

  Lamb clutched the steering wheel tight to avoid being sucked under and drowning in all that raw emotion.

  His wonderful, amazing, and, at times, exasperating children—Ariel, ten, and Cooper Jr., eight—lived with their mother in a three-bedroom townhome in trendy Queen Village. Funny how you blink and things become “trendy.” This used to be a solid immigrant neighborhood; Lamb’s own ancestors had toiled at the factory that received sugarcane from the Caribbean and processed it to satisfy America’s never-ending sweet tooth. For years Lamb’s great-grandfather wouldn’t even look at sugar, let alone eat dessert. Happily, that particular family trait went to the grave with the old man. Lamb was starving, and he was sure his kids were too.

  “How about a quick before-school breakfast at the Down Home Diner? I could practically inhale a stack of buckwheat pancakes right now.”

  “Dad!” Ariel cried. “Are you even listening to us?”

  “Just don’t let me drink from the maple syrup container again. Last time I did that, I was up all night.”

  “Dad!”

  “I was up all night peeing. Very, very slowly…”

  “Ewww!” Cooper Jr. said.

  “Jesus, Dad.”

  Lame dad humor? Guilty as charged. But had Cooper also managed to change the conversation and stanch the flow of tears from his children’s weary eyeballs? Yes, Your Honor. No further questions.

  “I will explain all that I know over breakfast at Reading Terminal Market. I don’t care to discuss homicide while driving through Center City. It makes me…twitchy. Until then, strap in and start contemplating the menu. I know you two have it memorized by now.”

  “Father,” Ariel said solemnly. “You’re trying to distract us with food, but we’re serious. We want to know what’s going on.”

  “Daughter, I hear your question, but right now your mother is approaching and she doesn’t look entirely pleased.”

  Sure enough, Lamb’s ex, the former—and possibly future?—love of his life, was approaching the passenger side. Ariel helpfully pushed the button to lower the window.

  She had never been Lori Lamb; Lori Avallone thought she wouldn’t be taken seriously at the museum with an alliterative name. Lamb had considered offering to take her name, but Cooper Avallone sounded like a country-and-western lounge singer, so that was out.

  “Don’t worry, I’m taking the kids to breakfast,” Lamb said.

  “They already ate,” Lori replied. “It’s almost eight, and they have to be at Friends Select in twenty minutes. For future reference, the school frowns on the kids cutting first period to eat waffles.”

  “We do it all the time!” Cooper Jr. said.

  “When we’re with Daddy, we do,” Ariel confirmed.

  “You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” Lori said.

  “I was…wrapping up a case.”

  “Does this ‘case’ have a name?”

  “The People versus Cooper Lamb. Because people are always getting on my case.”

  Cooper Jr. knew he shouldn’t laugh at that, but a giggle escaped his lips anyway.

  “Thank you, son,” his father said, turning and lifting his hand for a high five. The look on his ex’s face, however, revealed exactly zero amusement. Both Cooper Sr. and Cooper Jr. put their hands down.

  “I’m sorry, Lori. I’ll do better.” Lamb searched her eyes for a reaction but failed to find the one he’d hoped for. “I mean it.”

  Thing was, Lamb actually did mean it. If this was the end of the world, and it was sure looking that way, he’d better start getting his act together.

  But first, pancakes thick and fluffy enough to choke a horse. Book learning could wait.

  Chapter 3

  11:02 a.m.

  “JUST SIT back and relax.”

  “I am perfectly relaxed.”

  “Oh, and you can take your sunglasses off.”

  “I know I can. I prefer not to.”

  “Um, is it too early for a nice glass of wine? We have red and white.”

  “Red and white, huh. Tempting, but I don’t like to drink while I’m working.”

  The girl in the disposable face mask and nitrile gloves smiled. Or at least, her eyes smiled. “But are you working right now?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  Veena Lion knew that was probably too much, but the young nail tech had lost all credibility with the wine thing. Red or white? Then again, maybe she was expecting too much from a random Korean nail joint on this end of Chestnut Street.

  Veena liked to change things up, rarely visiting the same salon twice in a season. Mostly because she resisted the idea of having a regular place where people could easily find her. That ruined the indulgence of having her nails done in the middle of the morning.

  Said indulgence lasted for another seventy-five seconds before Veena Lion’s phone alerted her to an incoming call. She lifted a hand from the manicurist’s table and tapped the bud in her ear twice.

  A haughty voice spoke. “This is the district attorney’s office. Is this Veena Lion?”

  “What is this concerning?”

  “You’ll have to speak with the district attorney about that.”

  Veena sighed. “Why don’t you spare me the suspense.”

  “As I said,” the voice continued, barely containing the speaker’s annoyance, “you’ll have to talk to the dis—”

  Veena tapped the earbud, ending the call. She exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave her body. The girl in the mask raised her eyebrows. Veena held up her index finger: Wait for it. Her phone buzzed again.

  “Apologies, Ms. Lion—please don’t hang up!”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s the district attorney’s office! This is about Archie Hughes. Might you have a moment or two to speak with Mr. Mostel?”

  “Let Mr. Mostel know that I’ll stop by his office at my earliest convenience.”

  “Couldn’t you spare a moment now?”

  “Right now,” Veena said, “is not convenient.”

  Veena ended the call. Waited. The phone did not buzz a third time. The girl in the mask raised her eyebrows again. Veena shrugged. The girl in the mask resumed her work. “You know what? I believe I will have some wine.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Consider what you know about me, then follow your instincts.”

  The nail girl’s mask twisted up, barely hiding the wry smile beneath. “I thought you didn’t drink while you were working.”

  “Sometimes it’s absolutely necessary. And sometimes happens to be right now.”

  While Veena waited for her beverage, she tapped her earbud three times.

  Chapter 4

  Transcript of encrypted message exchange between private investigator Veena Lion and her executive assistant, Janie Hall

  VEENA LION: Looks like we’re getting the Archie Hughes case from that dirtbag Mostel. I hate the creep, but how can we resist something like this?

  JANIE HALL: Hang on. You sure about this, boss? Do you remember the document you signed swearing you’d never, ever work for the DA again?