He looked back out at the street, and the mottled gray seemed to dampen and stretch his skin. When he spoke again, his voice was tremulous.

“I figure there’s a lot worse things to be than a musician, though. You know, Patrick?”

I nodded.

Phil had taken my Crown Victoria to the hospital, so Devin drove me over to the garage where I store my Porsche as the morning lightened around us.

Outside the garage, he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes as the heat sputtering from his cracked exhaust pipe enveloped the car.

“Arujo and his partner rigged a phone to a computer modem in an abandoned house in Nahant,” he said. “Rigged it so they could call from a pay phone down the street and the call would be traced back to the computer phone. Pretty smart.”

I waited as he rubbed his face with his hands and closed his eyes tighter, as if warding off a fresh wave of hurt.

“I’m a cop,” he said. “It’s everything I am. I have to do my job. Professionally.”

“I know.”

“Find this guy, Patrick.”

“I will.”

“By any means necessary.”

“Bolton—”

He held up a hand. “Bolton wants this to end, too. Don’t call attention to yourself. Don’t be seen. From me and Bolton’s end, we offer you privacy. You won’t be watched.” He opened his eyes, turned on the seat, looked at me for a long time. “Don’t let this guy write books from prison or give interviews to Geraldo.”

I nodded.

“They’ll want to study his brain.” He picked at a loose piece of vinyl peeling from his cracked dashboard. “They can’t do that if there’s no brain left to study.”

I patted his arm once and got out of the car.

Angie was still in surgery when I called the hospital. I asked them to page Phil, and when he got on the phone he sounded washed out.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“She’s still in there. They won’t tell me anything.”

“Stay calm, Phil. She’s strong.”

“You coming here?”

“Soon,” I said. “I have to see someone first.”

“Hey, Patrick,” he said carefully, “you stay calm, too.”

I found Eric at his apartment in the Back Bay.

He answered the door in a tattered bathrobe and gray sweatpants, and his face was drawn, three days’ worth of gray stubble along his jawline. His hair wasn’t tied back into a ponytail and it made him look ancient as it flowed around his ears and over his shoulders.

“Talk to me, Eric.”

He glanced at the gun in my waistband. “Leave me alone, Patrick. I’m tired.”

Behind him I could see discarded newspapers on the floor, a pile of plates and cups in the sink.

“Fuck you, Eric. We have to talk.”

“I’ve already talked.”

“With the FBI, I know. You failed your polygraph, Eric.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

He scratched his leg, yawned, and looked at a point over my shoulder. “Polygraphs aren’t admissable in court.”