Harry Levine had been the toughest kid in Brownsville. In uniform, he had averaged two good collars a day for two years, leaving his Irish superiors no choice but to put him in plain-clothes. Later, as a homicide detective, he had been relentless, and sometimes a sleuth. Today his son was a show business lawyer in California, his daughter a doctor, he had five grandchildren, and his eighty-six-year-old mother still lived with his wife and him, as she had since the day of their marriage. Levine liked Devlin, but, because of the bad old days, didn’t exactly trust him. Possibly. Devlin wasn’t sure. With Levine, nobody, not even the commissioner, was ever sure.

Devlin rode up in the elevator alone, grabbing a few last drags on a cigarette before tamping it out on the heel of his shoe and pocketing the butt. Now he was nervous. Driving down on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, he had kept himself diverted by remembering the locations of potholes, weaving from lane to lane on the dark, usually heavily trafficked road. At one point, the speedometer needle of his ten-year-old Cadillac Seville had touched seventy-five. He hadn’t tried to clear his head and imagine what Harry Levine could have on his mind. Sometimes, usually the worst possible times, Devlin knew, people reverted to childish processes, defensiveness, disappearing into themselves.…

The elevator door opened. Mariano, three feet from Devlin, rocked on the balls of his feet and heaved an enormous sigh. His lips formed the words “Follow me,” but Devlin heard nothing and didn’t see Mariano’s larynx move. Mariano had blue eyes, neatly cut hair, and a uniform that looked custom-tailored. He was a good-looking guy, one of those Italians who knew he was attractive to women, moving with the kind of swagger that said he was used to having his way. Devlin had been there—had believed essentially the same lies about himself. Nothing could touch Mariano, or so Mariano thought. There was a joke about Christ being Irish because He was in the building trades, out of work, and His mother thought He was God. Italians were different only in style. If Mariano really wanted to grow up, maybe he would have the luck to have his nose rubbed in himself before much more time passed. Sour, Devlin mentally labeled his own attitude. Maybe he should have listened to Eileen’s message after all, he thought as Mariano opened the door to Levine’s office.