9:48 p.m.
COOPER DRANK more than an appropriate amount of beer.
Not with the children, of course. He had his two standard bottles of Yuengling Lager and enough crab fries to soak up every last ounce of that beer. The mood at Chickie’s and Pete’s was festive, and of course Cooper loved celebrating with his kids. But he was very distracted.
One distraction was Victor’s most recent report, which was even more alarming than the first. The Quiet One, huh? Why were they working so hard to find a killer who could disappear without a trace, eluding the FBI, Interpol, you name it? How could two private eyes from Philly possibly hope to find him?
But that was academic for now. The second, and bigger, distraction was Maya Rain. Cooper couldn’t help but think he’d missed an opportunity back at the Linc. Maybe there was something he could have said to unlock her mental vault. Cooper liked her a lot but didn’t trust her; maybe she felt the same way about him. Behind the flirtation, they were both cautious, professional people.
Maybe he should try again, convince her that he was worth her trust.
While settling the tab at Chickie’s, Cooper bought a six-pack of Yuengling and stashed it in the trunk of his car. After dropping off his children—and once again hearing the story of how Dad had ruined the championship game for them—Cooper drove across Center City to Eighteenth Street. As it was Sunday, there were parking spots available. He parked in essentially the same spot he had a few days ago and nursed his beer while waiting for Maya to return home. Although maybe she had plans with Mickey Bernstein.
At the tail end of Cooper’s fourth lager, Bernstein dropped Maya off. They kissed goodbye. Maya went upstairs.
Cooper was nowhere numb enough. It still hurt.
He thought about drinking the fifth and sixth beers. Instead, he went into Maya’s building. The two lagers were enough of a bribe for Curt the doorman—hell, the entire city was in a celebratory mood. Besides, Curt recognized Cooper. “Go on up. I’ll let her know you’re on the way.”
While consuming beers one through four in the driver’s seat of his car, Cooper had planned his speech—this was how he’d earn her trust and work his way into her heart. But when Maya opened the door, his brain refused to cooperate, so he said the first thing that came to mind, an item he’d just come across in Vincent’s latest file: “You own a Glock forty-four.”
“Good to see you again too, Cooper. Do you want to come in?”
So much for trust. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. “That’s the same model that killed Archie Hughes.”
Maya closed the door behind him. “You think I killed my own employer?”
“No,” Cooper said. “I’m just following the evidence. Did anyone have access to your gun besides you?”
“Before I start talking about my personal firearms—which, by the way, are perfectly normal in West Virginia—can I offer you something to drink?”
“I’ve had enough to drink,” Cooper said. “Schuylkill punch will be fine.”
“I don’t know how to make that cocktail.”
“Just turn on the tap.”
Where was he going with this? Cooper didn’t know, but the document that Victor had sent while Cooper and the kids were at Chickie’s and Pete’s clearly showed a Glock .44 registered to Maya Rain at this address. Recent permit too; Victor said it had been pushed through the system in record time. Why would a nanny suddenly need to pack heat?
When Maya returned from the kitchen, she was holding a gun.