Brennan hesitated uncomprehendingly. He looked like he wanted to look around behind him. Now he nodded. “I see what you mean. I believe in the good life, all the bells and whistles. ‘Living well is the best revenge.’”

“Against whom?”

“Ha! Now I get it! You’re a changed man.” He spoke the words slowly, savoring them. “You shithead!” He poured a Johnnie Walker Black Label for Charlotte. Devlin remembered: Johnnie Walker Black was the only Scotch that didn’t give her a headache. It was also one of the most expensive blends. Her Catholic piety did not preclude drinking the good stuff. “I told you what would happen to you if you saw my daughter again.”

“That’s stupid. It was always stupid, but it sounds ten times worse coming from a man your age.”

Brennan eyed him, shook his head as if in disbelief, then turned to take the drink outside. Charlotte had never had more than two drinks in an evening, not enough to give a canary a hangover. She just wanted to be known for drinking the best. Brennan leaned over the chair again to talk to her. Devlin heard murmuring.

You were primed for her, whoever you were. Devlin thought he understood Ann Elizabeth’s remark better now. Maryellen had come wrapped in money, power, and the good life. The son of a mediocre, beer-swilling street cop had known too well that he had missed the brass ring only because of an accident of birth. But why not him? Devlin could remember his rage over being one of America’s millions of born losers.…

Along with a certain eagerness to be an asshole about women.

The door closed again. “Sit down, sit down,” Brennan said. “I didn’t tell her you were here. I don’t think she’d recognize you anyway—definitely not with that thing over your nose. You’re a little thicker, fuller in the face. Your hair is graying. At least you’ve kept it.” Brennan stood at the bar. Again, he seemed studied, self-conscious. His hand shook as he reached for his drink. “A bit of moving around is good for me. You’re not one of those reformed drunks, are you? There’s nothing worse than a man who lies to himself about his vices.”

He wanted to give speeches? Devlin had to ignore him. “Who let you know I was coming?”

Brennan laughed. “Aside from my spy at my daughter’s residence? Torres—the police commissioner. Who did you think I’d deal with? He’s kept me informed right along. So has the mayor.”

Devlin was watching him carefully. “As of Tuesday morning, the mayor thought you were a drooling moron locked in that wheelchair.”