5:57 p.m.
THE FIELD was buzzing with nervous energy. Practice squads were running through passes and rushes with the active players, trying their best to imitate the Giants and impress the higher-ups. Everybody’s gotta serve somebody.
Cooper Lamb found Jimmy Tua hydrating along with a handful of his teammates. His skin was slick with sweat, even in this bitter afternoon cold.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Cooper said.
“Hey, it’s the private eye with the cute dog,” Jimmy said. “What’s up?”
“Can we take this conversation to the sidelines?”
“That’s where we happen to be standing, my man. Besides, I have no secrets from my teammates.”
“This might be an exception. It’s about Francine.”
There was an instant electric-shock jolt from the burly players gathered around Jimmy Tua. It was as if Cooper had set off a firecracker at their cleats. But Jimmy himself didn’t flinch. He gave Cooper a murder stare, as if daring him to go on. Naturally, Cooper dared to go on.
“More specifically, about the two of you,” he said. “Being together.”
Yep, check, please—that was the unspoken attitude of the surrounding players, who began to drift away from Jimmy, Cooper, and Lupe. They didn’t stray too far. They didn’t want to be directly involved in the ugly conversation that was about to happen, but they stayed within earshot just in case Jimmy Tua tried to rip the private eye’s head off. The last thing they needed before the NFC championship game was another murder.
“What are you saying?” Jimmy said quietly.
“Do I have to spell it out for you? I thought you were a smart Bird.”
“Yeah, you’d better spell it out, big man.”
“Fine. I’m saying you’ve been having an affair with your best friend’s wife. The same woman who was just arrested for the murder of your best friend. But I guess that’s not as important as the big game this Sunday—”
By the time Cooper spoke the words this Sunday, Jimmy was already charging forward. But Cooper was fully aware the attack was coming. He’d watched the tension and anger building in the huge man’s body from the beginning. It was as if Jimmy had been braced for this line of questioning, but Cooper was the only guy who’d been stupid enough to ask.
To the untrained eye, it probably looked as if the players were running a small drill by the sidelines. There was Jimmy Tua rushing forward like a missile and six other players scrambling toward him as if to intercept that missile.
And standing directly between Jimmy and the players: Cooper Lamb.
Cooper knew that only one thing would prevent Jimmy Tua from plowing him into the freshly cut Bermuda grass at their feet. And that one thing was Jimmy’s IQ.
Jimmy Tua was a powerhouse full of rage, but he was also a thinking man. And a thinking man wouldn’t throw away his career over an insult from a PI.
(Would he? Cooper prayed he wouldn’t.)
Right up to the last second, Cooper thought he might have made a grave miscalculation. This is how his life would end. And in front of his beloved pooch, no less.
Jimmy Tua’s nose came to a sudden halt a few millimeters away from Cooper’s. Only then did Cooper understand that he’d been spared. Fortunately, he’d held his ground the entire time. If he was about to be snapped in half over a tight end’s knee, he’d do it on his terms—no flinching.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Jimmy said.
“Didn’t know you were a big fan of Belgian beer,” Cooper said. “Especially right before a championship game.”
There was the instant spark of recognition. Jimmy knew that Cooper knew. How Cooper knew didn’t matter.
Cooper had saved this piece of information for this specific moment—it was meant to push Tua completely over the edge and get him to say something stupid. Victor had talked to the brewpub’s owner as well as the bartender who’d been on duty that night.
Oh yeah, Francine Pearl Hughes and Jimmy Tua were there. Oh yeah, they were making out. But a huge cash tip was incentive enough for the bartender to keep his mouth shut.
That is, until Victor made it sound like he was affiliated with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. No cash tip can cover that kind of tab.
The rage inside Tua built to the point where Cooper thought the tight end might actually pummel him. Cooper could smell the fury on the man’s breath before three linemen grabbed Tua and pulled him away. It was a struggle.
“I know exactly who you are, asshole! Where you live and what you do.”
“Hey, I know who you are too,” Cooper said, bright smile on his face. “You’re Jimmy Tua! All-Pro, right?”
Phone call between Cooper Lamb and his children
COOPER LAMB: Kids! You’re never going to believe this!
ARIEL LAMB: What’s that, Dad?
LAMB: Guess who I just met—Jimmy Tua! What a great guy.