In the middle of the block was an opening in the trees, and a shallow lot that was in fact a manicured lawn dotted with garden sculptures and a pair of concrete birdbaths. In the rear was a bright, freshly painted trellis heavy with tiny, pearlescent grapes. The house next door seemed to wear its aluminum siding more as a disguise than weather protection or insulation. DiBennedetti wanted anonymity? The three-story house was too big for that, too well-maintained. It took this style of life to the tenth power.

The driveway was on the far side, and as the rental car’s forward motion revealed it to him, Devlin froze. The white Lincoln was backing toward the street. On impulse, suddenly feeling the most intense rage, thinking of Major, Liz, and the Quinns, and the plainclothesman, Devlin stepped on the gas and cut the wheel hard, holding on to it tightly. The impact lifted the rental’s rear end clear into the air, but the seat belt held. Devlin saw the two heads in the front seat of the Lincoln snap like balloons on strings. Devlin struggled to get Lederer’s gun out of his belt. The other two guys were still stunned, only beginning to move. Devlin was out of the car, gun drawn. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t bring them in without getting busted himself. He couldn’t bring them in at all from New Jersey—he wasn’t a cop here. The driver was climbing out.

“Hands up! Up where I can see them!” As the other guy opened the far door, Devlin slammed the driver against the side of the car. “Tell him! Tell him I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

“It’s him, for Christ’s sake!” the driver shouted. “Don’t do anything! He’s crazy!”

Wide-eyed, the other guy raised his hands. The driver was the same one who had been behind the wheel yesterday. Devlin patted him down quickly, watching the other as he did it. No gun, but not a good search, either. Devlin glanced back at the house. Nothing. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears.

“You can’t do this,” the driver growled.