“This is the mayor’s assistant, Arnie Greene,” Devlin said. “I want you to put Eileen O’Sullivan on the telephone immediately!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Greene, we have orders not to discuss the situation with anybody over the telephone.”

“What’s your name and shield number?”

“The department can give you that.”

Devlin had to be careful. For his piece of mind, all he needed to hear was her voice. He didn’t know these characters; they could be crazier with ambition than Kevin. Trying to keep his voice from showing his anxiety, Devlin said, “All right, we’re going to play it your way. In the next few minutes, however, you want to think things through again, because you don’t want your fellow officers to get the idea that you’re going into business for yourselves.” Devlin waited. Silence. “And of course if anything happens to that girl …”

“We’re only following orders, sir.” The guy hung up.

Devlin put the telephone away and walked to the glass door. Brennan had known how Kevin’s men would respond. Nothing was beyond him. The Seadancer was under a canopy of bursting rockets. The explosions came from every direction, silhouetting a strange, jagged horizon. Devlin slid the door open just as a monstrous white flash filled the sky. The concussion that followed made his nose hurt.

“We gave a good account of ourselves,” Brennan was saying to Charlotte. “The dream didn’t exactly come true for us, but they’ll remember that we were here. The mark we made turned out to be only our own effort. That’s what we’ll be known for, that we tried. That’s our mark. We made something out of nothing, kid, and don’t you forget it.” He leaned over and kissed her. The glass on the table was almost empty. Maybe Charlotte had changed. She certainly had a lot to forget. Brennan pointed Devlin inside. Devlin could smell Charlotte’s Scotch on Brennan’s breath as he passed.

“Close the door,” Brennan said.

Devlin pointed to the telephone. “Was that your idea of a joke? It isn’t going to change anything.”

“You don’t hold all the cards,” Brennan said, with a satisfied smile.

Devlin had to take control. Given a chance, Brennan could blow smoke up Devlin’s ass for hours—days. “I want to talk to you about Vittorio DiBennedetti,” Devlin said.

“Who?” The explosions were muffled now, but they could be disruptive, if Brennan wanted them to be.

“I’m not going to go over—”

“No, say the name,” Brennan snapped irritably. “I didn’t get it.” He pulled his ear. “Vittorio Di—what?”

Maybe he didn’t know it, but this was a suspect’s worst trick. “DiBennedetti,” Devlin said.

Brennan repeated it. “No. Sorry.”