“John Lord got told not once, but twice, the second time not two minutes ago by me, that this office doesn’t know squat about your girlfriend’s whereabouts. Hold on … don’t hang up.” Devlin heard him say to someone else, “Really? They want him too?” McQuaid said to Devlin, “So now you’re wanted in Jersey for assault with a deadly weapon, maybe attempted murder. One guy has a concussion—”

“That guy also has an eyewitness who puts him behind the wheel of the car driven in the killing yesterday in Queens.”

“You left the scene, nitwit. A defense attorney is going to make shit soup of your testimony, especially after what you did today. Are you having a nervous breakdown, or what? What the hell were you doing in Paterson? How did you get DiBennedetti’s name?”

Devlin did McQuaid’s voice. “There’s this punk in the Chief of Detective’s office who’s on this case …”

“I don’t sound like that!”

“Ask the guys working Antonucci’s apartment. Now: Why did you call Eileen? Why do you want her to call you?”

“Confidential police business—”

Devlin hung up. On the television screen, an old hillbilly crooner was displaying his upper plate and nostril hairs while titles of songs Devlin had never heard of slid upward in front of him. Devlin switched to CNN. On the screen was the temporary stage on Governor’s Island. Devlin turned the volume up.

“… thousand Elvis impersonators. Elsewhere in New York, at famous St. Patrick’s Cathedral, family, friends, and political leaders mourned the death of senatorial candidate Jack Brennan …”

The screen showed the tape he had just seen on the other channel. Devlin’s neighborhood of Sunnyside was one of the many, many New York areas that did not receive cable. The only reason most of the city didn’t have cable was that the politicians wanted larger bribes than even cash-fat cable operators were willing to pay. By the look of this, they deserved each other. Maybe America deserved them both. Now the shot of Jim Brennan being wheeled out onto the steps. “… the widow of the slain candidate, followed by his parents.” No mention of Maryellen. None.

Devlin was remembering how Kevin McQuaid had told him that he didn’t know what had happened to Eileen. All cops were good actors. Kevin had to suspect that Eileen knew something of Devlin’s whereabouts and activities. If she were in custody, it was not illegal procedure for him to lie about it to Devlin or anyone who might be loyal to him, like John Lord. Devlin dialed John again.

“I want to ask you something about Kevin McQuaid—”