Another blue-and-white came along while he was standing on Queens Boulevard, waiting for the light to change, and he saw two more cars turn into Forty-fourth Street from the other direction. At least Liz was in official hands now. What was going to happen to her diabetic mother? And just as quickly as he’d asked himself the question, Devlin decided that it was his business to find out what happened to Liz’s mother.

An empty metered taxi was coming—and behind it, still another blue-and-white, its boiling lights starting the instant he saw it. Had they spotted him? Had he already started to flag the taxi? He had to raise his hand again, he saw that, and that the blue-and-white was close enough for one of the cops inside to pick up a false gesture. The taxi began to brake. Devlin had to keep his eyes off the blue-and-white, off the two men sitting in the front seat, another in the back. Stop looking! At the last second, the blue-and-white swerved around the taxi, barely missing it. Now Devlin stared. The police car had come within inches of an accident that would have nailed him—because the driver wasn’t paying attention. Devlin got into the taxi.

“Where to?” the driver asked. He was a young black guy, and he had a folded copy of the Post on the front seat beside him. Devlin’s picture was face down.

“The airport.”

“Which one?”

“Kennedy.”

After he lowered the flag on the meter, the driver punched the steering wheel once, hard, and cursed through his teeth. Devlin sat back. At a traffic light the driver could idly turn the paper over and match the picture on the front page to the man sitting behind him. Being trapped with a driver who didn’t want to go to the airport was bad enough under normal conditions; if he matched Devlin to the newspaper photograph, he might come after him with a tire iron.

They were in Elmhurst when the driver said, “Look, man, I don’t really want to go to the airport.”

“Take me to Forest Hills, where I can catch a bus.”

“How about Woodhaven Boulevard? There you can catch the train to Forest Hills.”

Devlin didn’t answer; if he gave in too quickly, the driver could become suspicious. As the driver looked in the mirror, Devlin turned his eyes to the sidewalk outside. He put his hand up to block the driver’s view of his face. “Split the difference,” Devlin said. “Rego Park.”

The driver laughed. “Ah, fuck, I’ll take you to Forest Hills. ‘Split the difference.’ That’s hot!”

Devlin had to discourage the guy’s attention. He moved away from the lights from the passing stores and kept his face turned to the shadow. The driver looked in the mirror another time, turned to the road in front of him, then suddenly back again, locking eyes with Devlin.

“Hey, I know you.”