Piper awoke at dawn the next morning, her mind still reeling from what had happened. After downing two cups of black coffee, she settled on wearing her khaki skirt, a short-sleeved army-green T-shirt printed with a red scorpion, and her scuffed brown ankle-high booties. Semiprofessional without looking as if she was trying to impress him.

She was ready too early, so she killed time by detouring to Lincoln Square and stopping in at the few places that were open. Not surprisingly, nobody recognized the photo of Howard that Berni had given her. Because he was dead.

As Jen had forecast, it was unseasonably warm for late September, and Piper kept the windows down on her way to Lakeview. At exactly two minutes before ten, she parked in one of the three allotted visitor spaces in the alley behind his residence.

Once part of a Catholic seminary, the brick building had sat empty for years before it was converted into three luxury condos. Graham owned the two-story penthouse, while a local real estate titan and a Hollywood actor with Chicago roots owned the other two units.

She walked along a fern-bordered brick pathway to the front entrance and into a small lobby with a high-tech video security system she’d like to know more about. A computer-generated voice directed her to a private elevator that rose automatically to the penthouse. The door opened, and she stepped out into an expansive living space with brick walls and big industrial windows. The two-story-high ceiling had exposed ductwork painted a flat charcoal. The bamboo floors lay in an oversize chevron pattern, giving the space a sleek edge, and the long bookshelves on one wall held a collection of books she’d bet anything he’d never opened.

Two men with their backs to her sat on a curved oyster-colored couch the size of three normal couches. One of the men—the one she’d come to see—wore a white terry cloth bathrobe, the other, a blue dress shirt and dark pants. He was the man who rose and walked around the end of the couch to shake her hand. “Heath Champion,” he said.

Heath Champion, aka “the Python,” was a Chicago legend and one of the most powerful sports agents in the country. He represented two of the Stars’ great former quarterbacks, Kevin Tucker and Dean Robillard, as well as her own brand-new client. Despite his all-American good looks and courteous manner, she knew a snake when she saw one, and she didn’t intend to drop her guard for a second.

“You must be the incorruptible Ms.Dove,” Champion said.

“Piper.”

Graham didn’t bother to get up, merely jerked his head. “Coffee in the kitchen.”

“I’m good,” she said.

“You’d better be,” he retorted.

Champion gestured toward the couch. “Have a seat.”