He turned up the cross street, out of view of the crowd of cops gathered around the Falcon. When he was past the building line, he quickened his pace. Something made him look back: the old lady was coming out of the luncheonette. She saw him looking at her and started running toward the Falcon. Devlin ran the other way, as hard as he had run in years, his feet hitting the ground heavily. He turned again at the next corner. He had a few seconds, he thought, while the old woman told her story. Where was the subway around here? He was in a short block and would reach the next corner in only another few seconds. His lungs didn’t like this much. Trying to hide was stupid; all he needed was one old busybody or little kid to see him, and cops would be thicker than the roaches on West End Avenue. He wanted to think. What was he going to do if he got out of here? Would Harry Levine be willing to talk to him? There were subway stations nearby, but the transit police were probably looking for him, too. The Brennan-owned buses would be a different story.

Where was a goddamned bus stop?

A taxi turned the corner, its off-duty light on. Devlin pulled out his shield and showed it—and then barely got out of the way as the driver stepped on the gas. “Motherfucker!” Devlin yelled. New York! Another car approached from halfway up the next block. The driver waved to Devlin, who kept his shield where the driver could see it.

The guy came to a stop beside Devlin and opened the passenger door for him. “I saw that. Do you want to go after him?”

Devlin got in and reached for the seat belt. “Nah, you don’t want to spend two weeks in front of the Taxi Commission. Besides, I’ve got bigger problems than that guy.”

The guy’s eyes widened. “Can you talk about them?”

“What the fuck, it’s probably going to be on the six o’clock news. Some son of a bitch stole my car.”

The driver stifled a giggle. He believed it completely.

7:28 P.M. …

7:28 P.M. …