She was still saying that—the television commercial had stopped running almost fifteen years ago. Devlin’s realization about his mother’s speech mannerisms had come when his mother had been the same age as Liz was now. Rubbing his eyes, he said, “For what it’s worth, I’ve had nothing to do with the Brennans for fifteen years. You put the note under my door because you thought my phone was tapped?”

“Was that too self-serving for you?”

She still wanted to fight. Once she’d started fighting with him in ’80 and ’81, nothing had stopped her, telephones slammed down, doorbells not answered. The torment had dragged on for months. Now, as if the years had not passed, he reminded himself to go slow. “I’m grateful for all this information. All I’m doing is absorbing it aloud. After the FBI and Monday’s conversation with your colleague, in your professional opinion, you thought a tap was likely.”

“Not unlikely.” She laughed.

“Spoken like a real lawyer.”

“So? All this notwithstanding, how are you?”

“I’m well. Tired right now. I have to go. Thanks for opening the door. And the decaf.”

“You’re very defensive. Is it because of what’s happening? Or because of me?”

“Right the first time. I don’t know anything about Jack Brennan’s murder. I found it waiting for me when I came home last night.” On the answering machine. FBI tap or not, somebody had broken into his apartment this morning and stolen the message tape. He had to start worrying about whether these people were going to let him live. He swallowed. “Maybe we ought to catch up with each other. How are you, for Christ’s sake? How are you doing?”

“I’m all right. My mother has diabetes. I just hope she doesn’t have too many complications before she runs out of gas completely. There’s nobody really special in my life—you know, a couple of things that didn’t last long. I’m beyond mellow, Devlin. I just don’t give a shit anymore. New people bore me. I went to a shrink for a while, but he didn’t help. I don’t really want to change my life, anyway. I’ve got a couple of old regulars, good friends …”

She trailed off, perhaps because she remembered using the same language to describe her life back in 1979—and again in ’81, at the start of their last reconciliation. He put his cup on the table. “Walk me to the door. Call the FBI and tell them I called you and said that I want you to know I’m not involved.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you call me?”

“Tell them that’s what you asked me, and I said that I remembered how interested you were in the Brennans and that I knew—”

“Oh, that makes you look guilty as hell, Devlin. Out of the clear blue?”