5:02 a.m.
THE TROLLEY Car, out on the fringes of Northeast Philly, was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, cash only. Cooper Lamb had always thought this was the perfect setup for armed robbery. Hit ’em right after Sunday brunch and walk away with a mint. Well, maybe not a mint. The prices were so reasonable, that stolen dough would get you as far as Allentown. Maybe.
Cooper chose the place and extended the invitation; Mickey Bernstein accepted it.
Yeah, Cooper was still stunned by that. He’d assumed he’d have to go knocking on the homicide cop’s front door once again, and it was very likely such an encounter would end with a fistfight and handcuffs. A diner was a neutral spot and a clue that maybe Bernstein was willing to share some information.
Either that or Bernstein wanted to lure Cooper to an isolated parking lot at crazy o’clock in the morning so he could finish what he’d started a few nights ago outside Maya’s apartment building.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Mickey Bernstein showed up early to a homicide.
Cooper was pretending to study the menu when Bernstein arrived a few minutes before the appointed time. He slid into the booth across from Cooper, who had arrived even earlier to choose this table: right in the middle of the dining room, in full view of pretty much everybody, next to the battered upright piano and microphone.
Yes, the Trolley Car featured live entertainment, although Cooper had never witnessed it himself.
“Need a minute to look over the menu?” Cooper asked.
“Pretty sure I have it memorized by now,” Bernstein said, then gestured to a waitress, who changed course immediately to take care of the celebrity cop’s order. “Black coffee, sweetie, and a toasted bagel with cream cheese. Thanks.”
Cooper hadn’t been planning on ordering anything, since he wasn’t hungry, and this meeting would most likely not be a pleasant one. But he mirrored Bernstein’s order, substituting a Diet Coke for the coffee.
“I’ll level with you,” the homicide cop said. “On everything.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Just one rule,” Bernstein said. “No tapes.”
“I promise, I’m not taping anything.”
“Yeah, I hear you saying the words, but I’m dead serious about this. I know all the tricks. Don’t make me dunk your watch in your Diet Coke.”
“Bernstein, I’m not even wearing a watch. I could give a crap about recording you. I just want to know the truth.”
“Fine. And I’ll give you the truth. But I don’t think you’re going to be very happy when you hear it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re going to realize what a freakin’ idiot you’ve been.”