“Frank,” John said, “this woman is dead.”

“Suicide,” Brennan said. “She talked about it this afternoon. I didn’t think for a minute—”

Devlin stared at Brennan. “Suicide?” The old man had no trouble meeting his gaze. “Suicide?” Devlin repeated. “Who do you think you’re kidding?”

Brennan didn’t answer.

“You didn’t miss a beat! You were waiting to say it!”

Brennan looked away.

“You set this up! Everything that happened here was a show to convince us she was alive! Talking to her, bringing her drinks … ‘Go see if my wife wants another drink,’ he mimicked. “She was dead when we got here, wasn’t she? No wonder you were so damned frightened!”

Brennan turned to him, eyes narrowed. “Do you mind? Junior, here, just told me my wife died.”

At the last moment his eyes betrayed him, because Devlin saw them dart toward the transmitter. He wanted to be on the record. Something turned over in Devlin’s mind. “You were afraid DiBennedetti’s story about you, her father, and the Ippolitos would come out, and not because there would be evidence after all these years that would convict you of murder, or that people would have believed DiBennedetti.” Devlin pointed toward the corpse facing the ghostly statue beyond. What was he thinking of? For a split second, the story of Brennan with the garment district model so many years ago. “She would have believed! Charlotte would have believed DiBennedetti as no one else could, because his story explained every bad thing that has ever happened to her, including her daughter’s insanity. It’s you! You never loved her. You never loved anybody. Once you went after her, that woman out there never drew another free breath. You even decided when she’d stop breathing. Monster only begins to describe you!”

Brennan pushed himself out of the chair, his teeth bared. He jabbed a finger toward the transmitter. Devlin knew what was coming next, but Brennan was still too fast for him. Brennan spat in Devlin’s face. John grabbed Brennan, but Devlin moved faster.