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Monday morning found her in the main office building at the Stars Complex Headquarters in DuPage County. The team logo of three interlocking gold stars in a sky-blue circle was etched into the glass wall of the PR office—the wall that overlooked the building’s main lobby where lighted niches protected by bulletproof glass displayed the team’s major trophies and where visitors signed in at an impressive, crescent-shaped ivory granite reception desk.
With the football season in full swing, the PR office was humming with activity—phones ringing, computer screens glowing, people hurrying in and out. Coop had finally cleared the way for her to go through the mail that had accumulated for him, and a young publicist with cat’s-eye makeup and an earnest manner showed her to the room’s only empty desk and explained the procedure.
“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.
