Devlin stepped out and walked up the empty, echoing street to the parking lot. The bomb squad was packing up to leave. The rear seat of the car was still pulled out of its moorings. No point in thinking about the rest of the mess. Sal was going to get a lesson in what happens to a car suspected of sequestering an explosive device.

“Next time, call triple A,” somebody yelled. Devlin flashed his shield. The way the guy said, “Oh!” told Devlin they hadn’t known it was a cop’s car. Would they have gone easier on it? The keys could be seen in the ignition. The contents of the glove box were on the floor in front of the passenger seat. What else had they done? Devlin decided he was going to have to have Sal check the engine mounts.

He hadn’t reached Liz Becker in two tries: Liz was a night owl who much preferred the Italian restaurants on Queens Boulevard around Borough Hall to going home. He had already called the Brennan residence, leaving a message with some temporary factotum. When he’d asked about Maryellen, the young woman didn’t know who he was talking about. Devlin wanted to check his apartment before he did anything else. He had told Eileen to keep her door double-locked. He would let himself in.

With the car rattling like a pickup truck full of skate keys, Devlin took only twenty minutes to get to Sunnyside. He had lost track of the number of trips back and forth he had made today. He double-parked in front of his apartment building and retrieved his mail before going upstairs, trying to settle down inside himself.

Wait a minute! Wake up! Suppose somebody was inside the apartment? Was Devlin supposed to draw his gun now? Suppose the somebody was Sal, having been delayed, or his Bolivian kid, ditto, or even Eileen, checking to see that only his car keys had been taken? Devlin almost cursed aloud, but then remembered that someone might hear him. A wrong someone … Shit! This was not the time or the place for him to prove he was more than a paper-target marksman!

For the first time in years—the first time ever, off-duty—he entered an apartment with his gun drawn.

Nobody. The place was empty. And nothing had been taken, not even the car keys. On the answering machine, almost a dozen messages, most of them from the News, Post, and Channel 11: Please call. Please call. He nearly missed the one real call. “Major here, Devlin. Call me.” Major—how far Devlin was from his real life. The man had called him this morning, and Devlin had forgotten all about it. The clock said the time was just after two. He called Eileen anyway.

And woke her up. “What?”

“It’s me. Are you all right?”

“Waitin’ for you. What is it? What’s wrong?”