The halls were empty. The mailbox contained nothing but bills and junk. Upstairs, Devlin eased the door open slowly. Liz’s note was on the foyer floor. The interior of the apartment was dark. With Levine covering him, Devlin stepped in and turned on a light. What he saw on the wall, from the ceiling to the floor, gave him a moment of mortal terror. Blood, still sticky. He did not want to see the rest of the place. “It looks like a massacre happened here,” Levine said, going ahead. “I guess they had a special at the slaughterhouse.” He picked up the note. “‘Call me.’ That’s all it says. Why didn’t she call you? You have an answering machine.”

“She’s afraid I’m being bugged. Liz doesn’t take any career risks.”

The place was wrecked, blood spattered everywhere, some of it wet, the couch and love seat slashed, books spilled from their shelves, drapes pulled down from the windows, linings ripped out. In the bedroom, the answering machine light glowed steadily—five messages or more. The second bedroom that Devlin used as an office had been rifled. Levine called him from the bathroom.

“Just in case the idea eluded you.”

In the bloody sink was a heart the size of a football. On the mirror, in blood, were two words: LAY OFF!

Devlin told Levine he had called Vittorio DiBennedetti less than two hours ago. “Some of the blood is still wet. I have to assume that they’re acting that fast. I can’t take the chance of looking at it any other way.”

“You were tripped in the subway and your tire was flattened. Love taps. Your bookmaker was murdered today because he was talking to you—oh, I know all about it. Now you’ve been told to keep away. Loud and clear. The next message is going to be louder still, but you may not hear it, because it will be the shot that kills you.”

“They wanted me alive,” Devlin said.

“And framed.”

“Alive and framed,” Devlin repeated. “I don’t see how it makes sense. What’s the point of it? Let’s get out of here.”

Levine started out. Devlin stopped in the bedroom and took the message tape out of the recorder and put it in his pocket. Levine watched him from the hall. “Finish what you were telling me about Brennan.”

Devlin stayed silent until they were in the elevator. “We’re not going to Manhattan. I want to find out what Liz Weinstein has to say.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Levine said. “If she doesn’t take any career risks, she doesn’t want to see me.”