Devlin grabbed some items from the bathroom, then took fresh clothing up to the roof and changed there. He would be able to hear police coming to the building—and the roof wouldn’t be their first destination, giving him the chance to go down the back fire escape. The bloody clothing would be found no matter where he stashed it, so he had to take it with him. That meant going back into the apartment for a bag. He couldn’t help believing that the police were just minutes behind him. Certainly they would be tapping his partner’s telephone now. At this hour Devlin had only one move anyway, and after that, he was going to get a lawyer. In the orange Pontiac when the Quinns had been found had been the airline ticket folder. Devlin remembered that. TWA’s colors: Devlin remembered that, too. Devlin was thinking that if he were Lederer, he was deciding he’d seen enough of Devlin. And he’d activate the open ticket he’d been carrying around for days, maybe weeks. It was such a long shot it should be taken off the board, but it was the only shot Devlin had at this hour. All he had to do was pick the right airport.

He was in and out of the apartment again in less than a minute. He headed down Forty-eighth Avenue to Fortieth Street, the next street that would let him walk against the traffic. No one was going to roll up behind him. Less than two blocks ahead, on Queens Boulevard, was the Flushing elevated line, with connections to both airports, but what Devlin was hoping for was a metered taxi. He figured he’d have to call for a gypsy and wait for him. A blue-and-white charged up the boulevard, lights boiling. No siren. That would be for Liz, the first of many. All the officers in those cars had just eyeballed Devlin’s picture, and Liz’s identity, when it was learned, would have some of them wondering about a connection to him, and maybe wondering about a connection to that bookmaker killed up on Queens Boulevard, too. The arresting officer would get a commendation for sure. The farther away from Devlin a fellow officer was, the easier it would be for him to capitalize on the luck of spotting a cop supposedly gone sour—or nuts.

Liz’s face was in front of Devlin’s eyes. He sensed that it would be easy for him to lapse into shock even now. Lederer had thought he was doing Devlin’s girlfriend. It could have been Eileen. Devlin wanted to focus on that: strangely, it was the easiest escape from the fact that the actual victim had been just as innocent. Dead is dead, he thought. No one ever really hates the dead.