The radio grabbed Devlin’s attention like a baling hook: “—the gangland-style shooting death of a longtime bookmaker on Queens Boulevard, in Sunnyside, this afternoon. Eyewitnesses say two men in a late-model white Lincoln sedan fired several shots in the crowded intersection before speeding off. Police are also questioning a witness who reported a man who identified himself as a federal agent before fleeing the scene. Also in Queens, attorneys for alleged bagman for Donald Manes—”

Federal agent. If the report had said FBI, the station’s telephone would be ringing right now. Any negative reference to the FBI was the same as blasphemy to the Bureau, and if it detected a pattern to the station’s negativity, life would become difficult, doing business impossible. The CIA was no better, and just as effective. Unveiling a refurbished Statue of Liberty was an emptier gesture than Devlin wanted to contemplate. He turned off the radio, then the ignition. He wanted to know more about the guys in the white Lincoln, who may or may not have been the same guys who had questioned Major about Devlin last winter. Those guys may have been truthful with Major when they’d said they had no way of knowing why people were interested in Devlin. It could be that they had heard the story Liz Becker had passed on, the fragment of gossip heard by Eileen’s boss, that Devlin had been working for Jack Brennan.…

Devlin had to talk to Eileen. He looked in both directions for a telephone; it didn’t matter which way he walked. He didn’t need to go near Antonucci’s apartment for what he wanted to do there.

Outdoor booths a block south had been vandalized. When he reached a luncheonette a block and a half farther on, his clothes were heavy with rain. His stomach growled again. The old woman behind the counter looked Vietnamese. She squinted at him before he spoke, as if bracing to grapple with the English language.

“I’d like a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, please.”

“Oh, BLT.”

“Yeah. And change for the telephone. I have to make some calls.”

“You want me bring sandwich to you?”

He was thinking of his idea for getting more information from the cops in Antonucci’s apartment. Who knew where ideas came from? This one, fully formed, had arrived before his eyes as suddenly as a hummingbird. At home, John Lord picked up on the first ring.

“It’s me, John. What’s happening?”

“Things are under control. I talked with Eileen in her office twenty minutes ago, and she told me she was going to pick up some things before coming up here. That’s as good as it can be. I asked her if she wanted to wait for me to pick her up, but she said no. I guess she wanted to do her shopping in private.”