At least, Devlin thought, he was getting a dumb-cop, by-the-numbers satisfaction in gathering evidence. And it wasn’t even good evidence, only arguable, supportive of his case. After the conversation with Anita Brennan, he didn’t enjoy the idea of putting Jack’s letter in the spotlight, introducing it as an exhibit in a trial, but Devlin wasn’t holding on to it not to turn it over to his lawyer. Showing that the victims weren’t nice people was part of any defense attorney’s game plan. Devlin could see just how much he did not want to be a victim himself. If he kept moving, working, he would continue to convert his rising anger into energy. The one thing he did not want to do was brood. Stew, his mother used to say.

A good defense lawyer would find a graphologist to confirm that the telephone number had been written by Major. But then what? Only Devlin’s word about two wise guys paying Major a call—hearsay. More likely, the prosecution might argue, Major had been part of the larger conspiracy that involved double crossing and murder, and that Devlin had led Major’s killers to him.

What about telephone company records of Antonucci’s bills, a record of all calls outside the immediate area? If the wise guys had told Major to call them there, for what other purposes had people used that telephone? Wasn’t this the same telephone called from Devlin’s apartment when he wasn’t there? Telephone records showed the times of calls, too. More than just providing new leads, the records themselves would illuminate the chain of events.

As he rolled slowly across Coney Island Avenue, Devlin took long looks in both directions and saw a patrol car parked in front of a four-story sandstone structure. If his colleagues were waiting for him to turn up here, parking a blue-and-white out front was not the way to do it. No, the Antonucci apartment was under study, perhaps made more intense because of the break-in at Milburn’s place. Devlin almost allowed himself a smile.

This once comfortable part of Brooklyn was as run-down and dirty as the rest of the city. Devlin pulled over and heard his stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten since morning; he’d forgotten about it. Was that a good sign or bad? Devlin caught himself: Bill Ward, his A.A. sponsor, would have skewered him. “You’re not taking care of yourself, giving you an excuse to feel sorry for yourself. That’s the beginning of stinking thinking, and let me be the first to tell you.”