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.