8:17 a.m.
“WE’RE TOO late,” Lisa Marchese said.
“No such thing as too late,” Cooper Lamb replied.
“What are you talking about? This is the textbook definition of too late!”
To be fair, this did seem to be the case. The Hughes home was crawling with law enforcement as well as local news teams hoping to capture the perp walk of the century. News vans up and down the street, two—no, now three helicopters circling, live feeds picked up internationally. At this moment, there was no other breaking story in the world.
Word had spread with lightning speed: Francine Pearl Hughes was about to be arrested for the murder of her legendary husband.
Thanks to Victor—who was alerted the minute a Mickey Bernstein–friendly judge signed off on the arrest warrant—Cooper had had a half-hour head start, time enough to pick up Francine’s attorney and start racing to the Main Line.
But reporters still beat them to the house, most likely tipped off by their secret sources inside the Philly or Radnor PD. They were not going to miss this shot.
“Why didn’t she call you the moment Bernstein showed up?” Cooper asked Lisa Marchese as they climbed out of his car.
“I don’t know, Lamb. My client said she had her kids to worry about.”
“Well, you find her and make sure she doesn’t say a word to anybody,” Cooper said. “I know she’s Philly’s sweetheart, and she’s going to want to reassure her fans, but—”
“Come on,” Lisa interrupted. “This isn’t my first murder case.”
“Yeah, but this is your first Francine Pearl Hughes case. Besides, that’s not the point. I want you to stall until I can figure out a way to keep your client from being paraded in front of the cameras. Once that happens, she’s as good as guilty.”
“Hold on,” Lisa said. “You work for us, remember? I need you to chase something down.”
“Whatever you’re about to tell me,” Cooper said, gently leading Lisa by the arm toward the house, “I can guarantee it’s not as important as the next five minutes.”
“Just let me say this! The rumors about the chef are true.”
Cooper Lamb stopped dead in his tracks. “Tell me quick.”
“Roy Nguyen was up to his puffy white chef’s hat in debt. The man was a serious gambler.”
“We’ve all had bad nights at the poker table,” Cooper said, pretending like he was hearing this for the first time.
“You don’t understand. I’m talking epic losses in Atlantic City. To the point that he started stealing from the Hughes household.”
“Damn,” Cooper said, wondering how long he should feign shock before urging the lawyer inside the house.
The tendons in Lisa’s neck were standing out; she was clearly exasperated. “Don’t you get it? This is the whole case right here. It was an inside job, engineered by Roy Nguyen. What’s more valuable than a Super Bowl ring? Forget that—what’s more valuable than Archie Hughes’s Super Bowl ring?”
“You really think Chef Roy would kill a legend for a hunk of gold?”
“No. I think it was a heist that went horribly wrong, and for some reason, the Philly cops are super-eager to pin it on my client.”
“Speaking of…”
Letting the lawyer delay things had obviously been a mistake, because here was Francine, perfectly coiffed and handcuffed, being led by Detective Mickey Bernstein down her own neatly manicured garden path, lush even in January.