LION: This is different.

  HALL: You had me notarize that document.

  LION: Ha, that’s right. I did, didn’t I?

  HALL: Not only that, but you had me become a notary just so I could notarize that document. There was a course, a written exam, a background check, not to mention the fees—

  LION: Thereby giving you a lucrative side hustle. You’re welcome.

  HALL: My point is, you were pretty sure about never working with DA Mostel again.

  LION: Point taken, but this is the Archie Hughes case. There is no other case right now. This is the Beale and Adderall of murder cases.

  HALL: Are you speaking your texts again? Did you mean the be-all and end-all?

  LION: My fingers are occupied at the moment.

  HALL: Ah, nice. Which color did you pick?

  LION: You’ll see in about twenty minutes when I’m back at the office. In the meantime—

  HALL: In the meantime you would like me to compile every possible scrap of coverage and footage from the past thirty-six hours as well as the usual deep-background dossier on Mr. Hughes and all of his known business associates.

  LION: And everything the police have. Did you get that last part, Janie?

  HALL: Oh, I see Detective Mickey Bernstein is on the case.

  LION: Easy there, lady.

  HALL: Yum.

  LION: Archie Hughes files first, flirt with the handsome detective later.

  HALL: Yes, boss. Anything else?

  LION: A triple draft latte from La Colombe, please.

  HALL: Cold espresso? You know it’s like two degrees outside, right?

  LION: I have to swallow an ingestible recorder capsule and it goes down easier with something cold.

  HALL: Is that a good idea, Veena?

  LION: The latte or the hidden recording device?

  HALL: Either. But especially the device.

  LION: It will dissolve in a few hours, you know that. Just make sure the file has uploaded to the server and have a transcription prepared.

  HALL: What I mean is, if Mostel finds out—

  LION: I’m after the truth, no matter what state privacy laws say. Also, that pompous windbag won’t suspect a thing.

  Chapter 5

  Transcript of conversation between Veena Lion and Philadelphia district attorney Eliott K. Mostel

  ELIOTT K. MOSTEL: So, to be clear, you’re prepared to swear on a Holy Bible that you don’t have a tape recorder on you? Like, anywhere?

  VEENA LION: Do you see a recording device anywhere, Eliott?

  MOSTEL: I’m not falling for that again, Veena. You tape everything. I found out the hard way, if you recall. I’m thinking of the Gillespie case specifically.

  LION: I recall the Gillespie case. Specifically. And I never used the tape in court.

  MOSTEL: I just want to make it clear that if you do have such a device and this conversation is being recorded right now, it’s a felony. Pennsylvania takes privacy law seriously.

  LION: Do you want to send me to jail or do you have a job for me?

  MOSTEL: At times I find you needlessly infuriating, Veena. Do you know that?

  LION: How about we skip the flattery and get down to it.

  MOSTEL: Can you at least take off the sunglasses? I’d like to see your eyes as you insult me.

  LION: No.

  MOSTEL: You drive me [unintelligible].

  LION: That makes two of us, Mr. District Attorney. Please continue.

  MOSTEL: As you know, we’re going to have to eventually prosecute the son of a bitch who killed Archie Hughes. I want an airtight case, and I’d like your help.

  LION: I’ll do it on one condition. Just a simple question, but I want the truth.

  MOSTEL: Ask away.

  LION: Was I your first call or was Cooper Lamb?

  MOSTEL: Veena, how long have we worked together? You know you are my first and only choice when it comes to these kinds of cases.

  LION: Eliott, there’s never been a case like this. And I want to know where your head is at. If Lamb turned you down and I’m merely your backup—

  MOSTEL: I swear to Jesus, you were my first call.

  LION: You’re Jewish.

  MOSTEL: Can we please focus on the murder of one of our most beloved and high-profile citizens?

  LION: Fine. I’ll take the assignment. I’m going to need a direct line to your office, someone on call twenty-four/seven, preferably one of your top ADAs. Real-time updates, with my executive assistant blind-copied on every piece of correspondence.

  MOSTEL: Done, done, and done. And naturally you’ll have access to everything the police know in real time.

  LION: I’m more interested in what the police don’t know.

  MOSTEL: What a coincidence. That’s what interests me the most too.

  LION: Afraid I’m not following you, Eliott.

  MOSTEL: (Pause) I’m going to be frank with you. Mickey Bernstein pushed his way onto this case and I don’t like that. Frankly, I don’t like him.

  LION: Sounds a little personal.

  MOSTEL: No, what I mean is, I don’t trust him. He’s dirty, just like his old man. Everything he touches is tainted. He and his family are symbols of how corrupt this city used to be. We don’t live in that city anymore.

  LION: So prosecute him.

  MOSTEL: Yeah, you try getting past the big blue wall. Especially when it’s led by Her Majesty the commissioner, who is too focused on her path to the mayor’s office to care about the carnage on the streets.

  LION: You don’t think the commissioner is keeping her eye on the ball?

  MOSTEL: Look, forget I said anything—and see, this is why I’m paranoid about you taping every single conversation. Let’s keep this about Archie Hughes.

  LION: Agreed. (Pause) Oh, and Janie, you can stop the transcription here.

  MOSTEL: What? Who are you talking to? You said you weren’t recording this!

  LION: Just a little joke, Eliott. Tell me what you have.

  Chapter 6

  12:05 p.m.

  ELIOTT K. MOSTEL kept an incredibly close eye on the mayor’s office.

  Veena knew this to be quite literal. The district attorney’s office occupied several floors in a high-rise that sat catty-corner from the mammoth pile of Philadelphia City Hall. If you ran a rope from one building to the other, you could zip-line from Mostel’s private office down to the mayor’s reception room.

  If only it were that easy. Mostel desperately wanted that job for himself and considered the police commissioner his fiercest rival.

  None of this political maneuvering mattered to Veena. But whatever came out of Mostel’s mouth had to be viewed through this filter.

  “Archie’s wallet, watch, and Super Bowl ring are missing,” Mostel said. “So it’s theft on top of murder.”

  “Not unexpected.”

  “Well, how about this for unexpected—they’ve already found the murder weapon.”

  Veena adjusted her sunglasses. “Where?”

  “In a flower bed behind the Hughes mansion, out on the Main Line.”

  This was a bombshell. Veena tried hard not to show any reaction. “Ballistics are solid?”

  “I have no reason to doubt the technicians or the report. But wait until you hear whose prints they found on the barrel.”

  “The prints of his wife, Francine Pearl Hughes.”

  “How did you know?”

  “About a third of all homicides are perpetrated by someone close to the victim.”

  Mostel nodded solemnly and let the fact hang in the air for a moment. “This is completely confidential, by the way. Nobody else knows except at the highest levels. And it’s going to stay that way until further notice.”

  “Understandable.” Veena maintained her poker face, but her mind was whirling with possibilities. Either Francine Pearl Hughes—who’d been Philly’s sweetheart since she was just a kid—had murdered her superstar athlete husband in cold blood or she was innocent but certain forces were determined to have the world think otherwise.

  Francine Pearl Hughes was arguably more famous than her husband. She’d rocketed to fame as the lead singer of a preteen R and B trio from West Philly. Multiple Grammy Awards later, she embarked on a solo career, and each album she released broke new ground and shattered sales records. And only last year, her film debut in a wildly popular indie feature (The Guilty, Veena noted with no small amount of irony) resulted in an Academy Award nomination for best supporting actress.

  Now imagine telling the world that this same brilliant woman had pumped a bullet into her superstar husband’s chest the night before one of the biggest games of his career.

  No wonder Mostel was bringing in the big guns (namely, Veena). Screw this up in public and you might as well point a gun at your own career.

  “I want you to put together your own murder book,” Mostel said. “Do your thing, work your magic, but keep it a completely clandestine and independent investigation.”

  “No matter what I find,” Veena said.

  “No matter what you find.”

  “And you’ll give me everything I’ve asked for—I have your word on that?”

  “Yes, you do. And you can record me saying that if you’d like.”

  “No need, Mr. District Attorney,” Veena replied.

  Chapter 7

  12:07 p.m.

  “YOU GUYS must be losing your minds.”

  “We are very concerned for our client.”

  “I’d be concerned too,” Cooper Lamb said, easing his tall, lean body back into the lawyer’s two-thousand-dollar leather sofa. “Because it’s obvious she did it.”

  “I’m sorry…what did you just say?”

  “Can you hold that thought for a sec, Lisa?”

  Cooper fished inside his jacket, retrieved a small fabric pouch, and pulled out a tiny morsel of dried salmon. His associate Lupe, a year-old Rhodesian ridgeback, snapped to full attention. Cooper said, “Gentle,” then held out his hand, treat nestled in his palm. The noble Lupe quickly and carefully made it disappear.

  The defense attorney, Lisa Marchese, was momentarily distracted by this utterly adorable display. Then her brain patiently reminded her of the last thing Cooper had said.

  “Lamb, did you say my client is guilty?”

  “I said she did it,” Cooper repeated, and he hated repeating himself. “No idea how she feels about it.”

  “Let me get this straight. Francine Pearl Hughes, the bereaved wife—you honestly believe she killed her husband?”

  Cooper looked around the spacious office for an imaginary judge. “Your Honor, Counsel is badgering her guest.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lamb. How can you possibly say such a thing about Francine?”

  Cooper rubbed Lupe’s head and murmured something about not paying attention to the mean lawyer lady and her profanities.

  Both private investigator and pooch were sitting in the posh 1818 Market Street offices of Kaplan, DePaulo, and Marchese LLP, the city’s top criminal-defense firm. Senior partner Lisa Marchese had asked to meet with Cooper at nine a.m., but he told her he had other plans. (He did; morning walks with Lupe were sacred.) He ignored calls from the DA’s office—Cooper hated that guy—and finally agreed to a noon meeting with Marchese. “I’m bringing my associate,” Cooper had warned her, not letting her know that the associate happened to be canine. But everybody loved Lupe. He instantly improved the vibe of any room.

  “I’ll tell you exactly how,” Cooper told Lisa. He gave Lupe another dried salmon treat for being a good boy, then continued. “You just told me that her prints were found on the murder weapon, which ballistics has definitively matched to Archie’s murder. The weapon was hastily buried in a frozen flower bed on the Hughes estate. My guess is, sooner or later there will be surveillance footage connecting her to the crime. There are dozens of cameras on the parkway; I’m sure there will be multiple angles of your client pumping a few slugs into her husband’s heavily muscled torso, then hurrying away from the scene of the crime.”

  Lisa Marchese stared at him in horror. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “No, but I’ll bet you’re terrified that a jury might believe it. That or whatever compelling version the DA’s office is putting together as we speak.”

  Marchese exhaled. “You scared me there for a moment. I was afraid the legendary Cooper Lamb, ex–army intelligence and the best PI in the city, had lost his mind.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “We’d like you to clear Francine’s name. And, if possible, find out who really killed Archie.”

  “Of course.”

  “The police will have their own ideas, but we want the truth.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “So, can we count on you to join the team?”

  “Hell no.”

  Chapter 8

  Transcript of private conversation between Cooper Lamb and Lisa Marchese, senior partner at Kaplan, DePaulo, and Marchese, captured using an ambient recording app on Lamb’s smartwatch

  LISA MARCHESE: You’re seriously going to walk away from the biggest murder case in Philadelphia history?

  COOPER LAMB: Why don’t you try Veena Lion? She’s the best. Well, second best, if I may be so immodest.

  MARCHESE: Maybe we already called Veena.

  LAMB: Nah, she’d never work for you guys. She hates big law firms even more than she hates authority figures.

  MARCHESE: You’ve had no problem cashing our checks in the past.

  LAMB: And in the past, the checks have been generous. But when it comes to…what did you say? “The biggest murder case in Philadelphia history”?

  MARCHESE: Ah. I see. You’re negotiating.

  LAMB: Of course I am. I wouldn’t want you to lowball me simply because I’d kill for this job. I loved Archie and I pretty much bleed Eagles green. I bet on them every week, even during their not-so-stellar seasons. And I’ve had a massive crush on Francine Pearl ever since that music video where she’s wearing that…ah, never mind. But yeah. I’m all in. Wait, what are you writing there?

  MARCHESE: How’s this for a retainer?

  LAMB: That is…impressive. Lupe, my faithful friend, I think that will keep you in dried salmon treats for months to come.

  MARCHESE: So we have an agreement?

  LAMB: Just one thing. Two things, actually.

  MARCHESE: Go on.

  LAMB: I’ll need full access to the team. And the owners.

  MARCHESE: You don’t honestly believe one of Archie’s own teammates murdered him, do you? Or the Sables?

  LAMB: Maybe I’m a huge fan and milking this situation for all it’s worth.

  MARCHESE: I’m sorry, what?

  LAMB: Maybe I promised my kids some autographs.

  MARCHESE: But—

  LAMB: Or maybe I’m really good at my job, and you should trust my instincts.

  MARCHESE: (Sighs) Fine. What’s the other thing?

  LAMB: If you hire me, I’m not going to stop until I find the truth.

  MARCHESE: That’s what we want.

  LAMB: Even if the truth is very bad for your client?

  MARCHESE: (Slight hesitation) That’s what we want, Lamb.

  LAMB: You’ve got yourself a private eye, Marchese.

  Chapter 9

  1:12 p.m.

  COOPER LAMB fork-and-knifed his way into a hot pork sandwich at the DiNic’s counter at Reading Terminal. Sitting one stool away was Victor Suarez, his unflappable assistant, nursing a mug of black coffee.

  “So what do you want?” Victor asked.

  Cooper shook his head, then pointed a forkful of broccoli rabe and pork at his assistant. “No, my friend. Question is, what do you want?”

  Victor sighed. Or perhaps it was just him exhaling—the differences were subtle, and even a trained ear like Cooper’s had a difficult time telling them apart.

  “I mean,” Cooper continued, “you can’t just sit at this counter and torture yourself with that sad, lukewarm cup of alleged coffee. The roast pork here is the best in the world.”

  “I assume you’ve got a list for me, boss?” Victor asked.

  “Of course I have a list.” And with that, Cooper began to reel off the items. He was confident Victor could find him the information he wanted because Victor Suarez could find out anything. Seriously. No matter the organization—the local police, the Feds, freakin’ Facebook—Victor knew how to slip through the digital back door. He’d take a discreet look at the most highly protected files and go—no one ever knew he had been there, and it wasn’t as if Victor himself went around bragging about it. Sometimes Cooper wondered if his longtime inside guy had seen so much brain-melting top secret intel that he no longer reacted to any news, no matter how shocking.

  “I need everything on Archie Hughes—”

  “Already compiled and on this flash drive.” Victor slid a slender metal fob across the counter toward his boss.

  “No so fast. I’m also gonna need everything Mickey Bernstein has.”

  “On this same flash drive.”

  “Yeah? Well, how about everything Mickey Bernstein is thinking now and will be thinking soon, including what he’ll order for breakfast tomorrow? And while you’re busy hacking into the detective’s brain, also get me a full background on the lovely Mrs. Hughes—one Francine, née Pearl.”

  “It’s on the same—”

  “Flash drive, got it.” Cooper slid the flash drive off the counter with his finger, palmed it, and made it disappear with a flourish. If Victor was impressed by this semiprofessional demonstration of close-up sleight of hand, he didn’t let on.

  Hiring someone with the hacking prowess of Victor Suarez might have given other investigators pause. But the way Cooper saw it, Victor must have dug deeply into Cooper’s past, and since he’d still agreed to work with him, Cooper couldn’t be in better hands.

  “That it?”

  “No,” Cooper said. “Have some pork, put it on the company tab.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Yes, you are. But this isn’t a cold case. Things are going to evolve very rapidly.”