“New people in charge of the investigation. All right, Levine again. Then the commissioner called this afternoon to say that your criminal assault of his man Kevin McQuaid, ah, queered the deal of which your exoneration was a part. I’m going to sit down again. This shit makes me tired. You make me tired.” Brennan lowered himself into the chair slowly. “Did you know wheelchairs are a racket? This thing cost over two grand.” He rattled the arm angrily. “Flimsy piece of sht. There’s nothing to it. This McQuaid wanted to press criminal charges and sue you. The little prick wants to be paid off. You deserve him.”

“You and I have other business to settle.”

“Well, when you decide to face reality, I’ll give you the telephone number of your girlfriend’s hotel room.”

Devlin’s heart jumped. “You slick son of a bitch.”

Brennan’s eyes and mouth were open wide in a wild grin. “Goddamned right! I got that turdlet to cough up the telephone number when nobody else could get him off the dime about criminal charges! I know how good I am!”

Outside, the sky flashed, followed by a deep, thudding boom. The Seadancer shuddered. Brennan was on his feet with real quickness. Devlin looked away, in case Brennan wanted to see if Devlin had noticed his sudden remission of symptoms. What was he so nervous about? What else did he have on his mind? Devlin knew him; even more important, his cop alarms were going off, the way they had this afternoon—before Maryellen had thrown her right cross. Another flash, another boom. “That’s it,” Brennan said. “I have to go outside now.” He reached into his breast pocket. “Here’s the goddamned telephone number anyway. The telephone is in that suitcase. Extend the antenna.”

The explosions and bursts of color and light tumbled over one another. Devlin opened the suitcase in the expectation of finding more buttons and switches than on the dashboard of a fighter plane. No: only about thirty. In the darkness, he found Ant. easily enough, but then discovered that On probably meant Off and Talk meant a dial tone so he could push buttons. He pushed, carefully reading the hotel room telephone number digit by digit. A guy answered.

“This is the mayor’s office,” Devlin said. He waited a moment, his eyes on the dim image of Brennan standing next to Charlotte’s chair. It looked like he was holding her hand. Devlin had considered doing the voice of Mayor Hamilton himself, but realized it would be a mistake. “I want to confirm what Kevin McQuaid has been telling us about the condition of the O’Sullivan woman. Put her on the telephone.”

“Uh—”

“Put her on the telephone now!”

The mouthpiece was covered; Devlin heard a muffled voice. Outside, a series of flashes, then a cannonade of explosions.

“Hello?” It was another guy.