“We take care of most of Coop’s fan mail. We mail out autograph cards, his FAQ, and we have a special package for kids who write him. We work with his agent on appearance requests. Even though he’s retired, he still gets a lot of mail.”

“Any of it hostile?”

“Not much. He got some his first season with the Stars after a couple of bad games. ‘Go back to Miami.’ That kind of thing. The fans didn’t know he was playing with a broken finger.”

“What about women?”

“Thongs, nude photos. We’ve pretty much seen it all. And I do mean all.” She gestured toward the desk. “Go ahead. Take your time and let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.”

Piper settled behind the pile of paper—both snail mail and e-mail printouts. The majority were requests for autographs and photos. Some of it was really sweet. Kids who idolized him. Fans who’d followed his career from the very beginning. One was from a man who’d lost his son in a car accident and found relief from his grief in remembering how his son had idolized Coop. Piper pulled that one out as something she thought Coop should personally respond to. There were also a number of notes from parents of athletically talented offspring looking for advice.

And the women. Photos accompanied letters that listed the sender’s credentials to be Coop’s next girlfriend: an athletic nature, a modeling career, a college degree in sports management, a super-special expertise in fellatio.

As Piper pondered that, she became aware of a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room. She looked up.

In the doorway stood Phoebe Somerville Calebow, the owner of the Chicago Stars, the wife of the former head coach and current Stars president Dan Calebow, the mother of four, and the single most powerful woman in the NFL, if not the universe.

Piper jumped to her feet as the Stars owner approached the very desk where Piper was sitting. “Mrs. . . . uh . . . Mrs. Calebow.”

Phoebe Somerville Calebow took her in. “So you’re Coop’s detective.”

The fact that Phoebe Calebow knew of her existence was so dumbfoundingly dumbfounding that Piper couldn’t muster anything more than a shaky nod.

“My quarterbacks do tend to get involved with unusual women,” she said.

Those involvements had been well publicized, and like everyone else in Chicago, Piper knew the history. Cal Bonner had married a world-renowned physicist. Kevin Tucker was married to a prize-winning children’s book author. An eccentric artist had made an unlikely match with Dean Robillard. And it wasn’t only the quarterbacks. The team’s legendary wide receiver, Bobby Tom Denton, was married to the current mayor of Telarosa, Texas.

Mrs. Calebow gestured Piper back into her chair, then perched on the side of the desk. Middle age hadn’t diminished her curvy, blond beauty, and not even her tortoiseshell smart-girl glasses could dilute her aura of ripe sexuality. “So what are your intentions toward my guy?”

Piper wasn’t used to anyone intimidating her, but being in the presence of Phoebe Calebow was being in the presence of greatness. She swallowed. “I don’t think I have any intentions.”

Mrs. Calebow arched one beautifully shaped and very skeptical eyebrow.

“We’re . . . That part is over,” Piper said. “It’s all professional now. I have a job to do. And . . . How did you know about me?”

“I keep track of my men,” Mrs. Calebow said with a wry smile. “Do you read?”

“Read?”

“Books.”

“Of course. Thrillers. Mysteries. Police procedurals. At least I did until the past month, when I started working so late.” She babbled on. “I like biographies and autobiographies, too. But only about women. Which, I know, is sexist, but those are the stories that resonate with me. Oh, and cookbooks. I hate cooking but I like reading about it. And technology.” She forced herself to shut up.

“Interesting.” Mrs. Calebow uncoiled her legs from the desk corner, legs that could still have found a place in the Rockettes chorus line. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Dove.”

She swept from the office, leaving Piper to wonder what had just happened.

***

Piper didn’t leave the Stars headquarters until midafternoon, by which time she’d dug through all Coop’s PR records. On her way to her car, she experienced her familiar frustration. Nothing she’d read had raised a red flag. As she eased onto the two-lane road marked stars drive, she once again tried to figure out what she was missing and once again came up empty.

Instead of heading east toward the city, she took the Reagan Tollway west. She hadn’t seen Coop since their sleepover three nights ago, but she’d called him yesterday morning to make sure he wasn’t planning to throw himself into any big crowds or take off on a solitary hike. “I’m going over to Heath and Annabelle’s to watch the Stars game,” he’d said.

She’d asked Coop why he didn’t go to see the games in person. He’d pointed out how unfair it would be to the Stars’ new quarterback having TV cameras track Coop’s reaction to every play.

“Deidre’s invited us both to an overnight house party at her farm on Monday night,” he’d announced.

“That should make you happy.”

“What will make me happy is getting a financial commitment from her.”

“You’re going ahead with it, then?” she’d said. “Building your empire.”

“Of course I am. Why would you even ask?”

Because running a chain of nightclubs didn’t seem right for Coop, but she’d held her tongue. She also hadn’t mentioned that he could easily get a more personal commitment from Deidre. But he probably already knew that.

“I like Deidre,” she’d said carefully. “Even though she fired me.”

“I like her, too. A lot.”

And why wouldn’t he?

Piper got off at the Farnsworth exit and headed north. She didn’t want to go to Deidre’s overnight house party, but she also didn’t want Coop out of her sight for two days, so she’d agreed to meet him there.

St. Charles was a pretty town on the Fox River about forty miles west of the Loop. The Joss family farm lay to the northwest, its entrance marked by stone pillars and a white rail fence. Burnished leaves from the trees lining the drive drifted over the hood of her car as she made her way to the large, two-story white house. She parked her car between Coop’s Tesla and a red Lexus. This looked like a working farm, with a stable, barn, and paddock. The fields had been cleared for next year’s planting.