John pointed toward the siren and pulled on his earlobe. He was going to wait before he spoke again. John would argue that if you wanted to play cops and robbers, you became one or the other. Sonny had played into the insanity of the police. Devlin looked at his watch: 8:30. Three and a half hours to midnight. The fireworks were scheduled to start at 9:30, but already, so far uptown, people with folding chairs and coolers were trooping riverward. Devlin realized he was on the wrong side of the window; he felt he was on the outside looking in. He needed a little more strength. They turned into Seventy-second and the driver killed the siren. Firecrackers were going off everywhere.

“Eileen—”

“She’s still with Kevin’s people, and fine, according to them.” He leaned forward. “Did anybody clock all that back there?”

“Four point two seconds,” the driver said. “They played the tape over the radio twice already.”

John unwrapped a stick of gum. What the hell did he care about the time the shooting had taken? What did he know about Eileen that he wasn’t telling? They rocked from side to side as the driver wove across the Broadway intersection, using the siren to shoo pedestrians. “We’ve got problems,” John said quietly. “Kevin got back to town this afternoon. He wants to hurt you for what you did to him, and Eileen is the only way he can do it. I want to wait until we’re out of the car before discussing it. Try to take it easy, Frank, please.”

8:34 P.M. …

8:34 P.M. …