Devlin had visited the house ten years ago, working the One-twelve when Levine had been second-in-command in Narcotics downtown. A weekend meeting, three or four guys. Devlin couldn’t remember the case, just the house itself, second from the corner in one of the last tree-shaded neighborhoods in the city. A nice house that was now probably sixty years old, old-fashioned, with smallish rooms furnished comfortably in an old-fashioned way. By now Levine probably had the place paid for; he was all set to roll the capital gain into a retirement condo. Safe and sane. Slow and steady. Only a coronary—or cancer—could pull the rug out from under him.

Up on Queens Boulevard again, Devlin found a candy store with an old-style, folding-door telephone booth in the back. Paterson was in the 201 area code. Information had a listing for a V. DiBennedetti on East Twenty-fifth Street. Devlin lit a cigarette before dialing, and then he let the telephone ring. Mafia don or otherwise, an old man was slow getting to the telephone.

“Yeah?”

It was him, DiBennedetti himself. “This is Frank Devlin calling, and I want to know why you and your people are fucking with me.”

“What? Who is this?”

Devlin said his name again. “Detective, N.Y.P.D. I’m being framed for the Brennan and Octavio Lopez murders, and the evidence points to you and your friends.”

“What are you talking about? Are you crazy?”

“I’m talking about a call from Bobby Antonucci’s apartment in Brooklyn to a telephone in your neighborhood one Sunday morning last February. You were there to take that call. It’s enough to subpoena your wrinkled old ass into court, which I will do if this thing gets that far.”

“Who are you threatening, you crazy son of a bitch? Don’t call here. Don’t ask for more trouble than you already got, you punk—”

That was enough of an admission—and the old man was beginning to blow. Lovely. Terrific. “You got my name right? Devlin? Frank Devlin?”

“Yeah, I got your name—”

“Good. Now fuck yourself, fuck your mother the school yard cocksucker, and if you still have any relatives in Palermo, Sicily, fuck them, too. If you know their address.” Grinning, Devlin hung up. On his way out of the store, he folded his Post carefully. With a newspaper under his arm, Devlin would look like he belonged in the neighborhood, another working stiff on his way home after staying late at the office.