Being careful added another twenty minutes to getting to Levine’s house. No one around, no van, no guys sitting in cars. But now it was after ten o’clock. The lights lit on Levine’s ground floor might be only a chief of detectives’ idea of a crime deterrent while his family slept upstairs. Devlin had wanted old DiBennedetti pissed off—pissed off enough to give himself away, as he had done—but a pissed-off Harry Levine might just slap handcuffs on Frank Devlin.

Devlin went up the short concrete walk and pressed the bell. Chimes sounded within, and then Harry Levine asked, “Who is it?”

“Frank Devlin.”

The lock was turned quickly. When the door opened, a cloud of cigar smoke blew out. Harry Levine was grinning. “Schmuck, you got my message.”

“‘I’m going home to Forest Hills,’” Devlin said.

“Come in, come in.” He gave Devlin room in the small foyer. In the living room, two women were watching television. “I figured I could count on Kevin quoting me verbatim even when I can’t count on him for anything else.” Levine shook his head. “Can you believe it? You don’t know anything about a guy until you wave an opportunity under his nose. What Kevin is doing only tells you what the department is really turning into, a dumping ground for yuppie wannabees. He’s still picking up food with his fingers. But apparently Kevin thinks he’s smarter than I am. I’d like to see his face right now. Let’s go into the kitchen. Do you know my wife? Frank Devlin, Naomi, the detective you saw on the news this evening.”

Mrs. Levine was petite, black-haired, with pale skin and eyes, a very pretty woman. “You’ve changed since those pictures were taken. You call me Norma, Mr. Devlin.”

“Nobody calls her Naomi but me,” Levine said proudly. “Say hello to my mother.” A wisp of an old woman in an armchair nodded. Devlin nodded back. “They’re watching Dynasty. Reruns. They saw this stuff last fall—”

“Be quiet, Harry,” his wife said pleasantly.

He beamed. “Have you eaten? We have some nice chicken, cheesecake, you name it. Wonderful cheesecake. Tell me what you’ve been doing. Where’ve you been today?”

Passing into the tiny, knickknack-filled kitchen, Devlin said mildly, “You’re a different man at home.”

“I should be, don’t you think? Relax, you’re safe. You’re sure you weren’t followed?”

Devlin nodded.

“They tried to push me too far today. The mayor and that guy. The commissioner.” Levine imitated the mayor. “‘We’re not asking you to do this, Chief! We’re telling you!’ They wanted me to wreck a man’s life for political expediency. They want things tidy by the weekend. A collar. They want to show America that they’re on the job. Never mind you. Fuck you. Let me get you some coffee. Decaf.”