He would be reaching Madison Avenue north of the diocesan offices. Traffic ran northbound, he would be walking south. He hated living like this, aware of all his weaknesses, jumping from every shadow, fighting to keep his head clear. Anyone who wanted to live this way was an asshole, a serious mental problem who deserved a swift, sure criminal justice system, hard time, and maybe even the kinds of punishments that were meted out in the Arab world.

At this hour he had to ring the bell and wait for the buzzer to unlock the door. He had been doing it for years before meeting Steve Loncaric, who had been an ugly, belligerent drunk like so many of his predecessors here and colleagues all over. Behind closed doors and drunk, the clergy sometimes tended to forget unconditional love in favor of throwing their fists.

The buzzer sounded and Devlin entered and climbed the stairs. Originally this four-story mansion had been the private residence of a single family; now it projected fully the solidity of the church that claimed to be built on a rock.

Steve was at the top of the polished wooden stairs alone, looking pale and grim. He turned and went into his office. Devlin followed, expecting to see Eileen rising from the green leather club chair. Instead, the door was slammed shut behind him. Steve moved behind his desk, his lower lip trembling. A pistol hammer clicked behind Devlin’s ear, and Kevin McQuaid, sucking on a toothpick, stepped out of the corner. He grinned.

“Gotcha, dickhead. Don’t move. Raise your hands slowly.”

Devlin sighed. “Why did you do this, Steve?”

He wasn’t looking at Devlin. “I agreed to it because you’re not doing anybody any good, especially yourself. Eileen is in terrible trouble because of this.”

McQuaid took Devlin’s service revolver. “Offered the choice between voluntary departure and prosecution,” he said, “she chose the next available flight to London, at midnight tomorrow.”

“Prosecution? For what?”

“Aiding and abetting. Conspiracy.” He grinned. “Want to see what’s behind door number three?”

Devlin looked again at Loncaric. “You knew about this?”

“No. No, I didn’t.”

He was lying, Devlin sensed at once. Kevin rattled his handcuffs. “Turn around, old-timer.”

“I’ve got bursitis, give me a break.”

“What the hell,” he said, and locked Devlin’s wrists together in front of him. “Anything else? Want me to light a cigarette for you? How about a blindfold?”

“You have it all wrong, kid.”

“Maybe I do, but I still have my career—and my girl. When you get out of the can, you’re going to find Ireland very geographically undesirable for dating.”

“Shut up,” Loncaric said.

“You’ve got your career, too,” Kevin answered. “And your girl.” He pumped his fist. “So stop the bullshit and let me get him out of here.”

“The cardinal wanted this, Frank …”