Nobody seemed to want to say You’re welcome, anymore, as if it were demeaning instead of gracious. Devlin sat back. He wanted to stay in control of himself. Mariani was no George Washington, but Devlin couldn’t proceed on the assumption that he had lied to John. Three other calls to Eileen’s office? John accounted for one of them. There were three candidates for the other two: the FBI, Levine’s office, and the DiBennedetti family. That Devlin has sensed nothing from Gentile and Rizzo about Eileen was irrelevant. How many wise guys had been at that dinner out on Long Island the other night? But could they have learned that Lederer was dead, or that he had gotten the wrong woman, in the time before Devlin’s arrival in Paterson? What had been on the morning news? If the DiBennedettis had somehow learned that Eileen was at John’s apartment, she was already dead.

No. All that had been out of order at John’s apartment had been the breakfast dishes. No signs of forced entry, no resistance on her part. Someone had rung the bell and talked her into opening the door. Because of her experience in Ireland, Eileen was as savvy as anyone. She must have seen N.Y.P.D. shields or federal identifications. Devlin had to stop worrying.

Now the television set showed the tall ships in New York Harbor. In his mind Devlin replayed the scene at St. Patrick’s: no Maryellen—or Maryellen so slow following her parents that she had been edited out. Which? After so much time, what did Devlin know of her behavior? His memory seemed clear enough, but was it accurate? Devlin called Eileen’s number and entered the two-digit code that replayed her messages. Kevin McQuaid identified himself.

“I was one of the detectives who questioned you yesterday, Miss O’Sullivan. Please call the Chief of Detectives’ office at your earliest convenience.” He gave the number, and then the machine signaled no more messages.

Devlin dialed the number. Vito Mariano answered. Devlin asked for Kevin McQuaid.

“Who’s calling?”

“Frank Devlin.”

“Jesus. Hold on.”

Another extension was picked up. “Hello, asshole. Tired of playing Willie Sutton?”

“You’re too young to remember Willie Sutton.”

“I’m too young to remember you, you old turd,” Kevin McQuaid said. “Are you going to turn yourself in like the mayor asked you in a very nice way, or do we have to track you down and shoot you like the fucking dog in the street that you are?”

“Where is Eileen?”