Devlin disconnected with a fingertip, continuing to hold the handset to his ear. Bobby Antonucci. Octavio Lopez’s vividly dressed killer didn’t fit Major’s description of either of the men who had interviewed him last winter. Devlin focused again on the dynamic duo at the take-out counter. The woman was talking now. All that connected Major’s interviewers and Bobby Antonucci at this point was Devlin’s own say-so. In fact, if Devlin were picked up now, with Antonucci’s telephone number in Major’s handwriting and Antonucci’s address in his own, as well as a letter to Jane Milburn from Jack Brennan, half the potential jurors in the city would want to put him under Sing Sing.

Outside, a black Plymouth rolled by, slow because of the rain. Devlin couldn’t bet that it wasn’t an unmarked car. The female cop turned his way. Anything he did might seem reactive and call her attention to him. He moved his lips and fished in his pocket for another quarter. She looked away. The bathrooms were in the front, not near the kitchen, which was to his left. Almost all restaurant kitchens had rear doors. But Devlin would have to cross the line of sight of the counterman, who would want to know what Devlin was up to.

Devlin called Eileen’s office. Busy. It had never been busy before. How many lines did that office have? Loncaric could hear something in his voice? Devlin could feel it crawling up his spine. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to do something to get himself collared right here and now by these kiddie cops and their playmates. Devlin had to keep his back turned to the take-out counter, not be curious about what was happening behind him.

Devlin dialed Eileen’s office again. Still busy. He hung up, waited for his quarter, put it back in the slot, and dialed the weather forecast. Something to listen to.

After another five minutes, Devlin’s peripheral vision picked up the reflection of blue uniforms moving toward the door. Had the cops paid? Devlin almost wanted to identify himself to the counterman and ask.

He wanted to try Eileen again, but now he couldn’t remember what he had wanted to say.

The rain was letting up, but not enough to allow him to turn off the old Falcon’s wipers. They had two speeds, loud and louder. The radio still had nothing on Major’s killing. Devlin was heading down Ocean Parkway, trying to guess where to turn left so he could get a glimpse of Antonucci’s apartment. For all anybody knew, Antonucci himself had never set foot in the place.