He had stayed away from all the Brennans, their activities and associates, just as he had been told to do by old Jim Brennan fifteen years ago. Having been eighty-sixed by old man Brennan had turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to Frank Devlin. John Lord had been Devlin’s partner for years without ever asking about the Brennans. As young as he was, John was acutely sensitive to other people’s privacy, and before Devlin met Eileen, he had seemed to want to be left to himself. In 1984 an article appeared in the Times about Jack Brennan’s political ambitions, with a review of the family history, and Devlin found John reading it.

“Any questions?”

“I don’t think so,” John said. “You’re probably better off without them.”

“Oh, I know I am,” Devlin responded.

He didn’t feel a twinge about the newspapers, radio, and television being full of Jack Brennan’s shoo-in Democratic candidacy for the U.S. Senate. On the other hand, contending with the emotional impact of the media was easier than a face-to-face confrontation in his real life, even with an asshole like Tom Quinn in New Jersey earlier this evening. Devlin’s last contact with the Brennans had been eight years ago, when Joe Brennan, once Devlin’s best friend, had drowned. Devlin had wanted to go to the funeral, but then the word had come down from old Jim, ever Devlin’s nemesis, to stay away—stay the hell away, was how one of Brennan’s assistants had phrased it on the telephone. Not even the death of a son had been an occasion for Jim Brennan to ease up.…

Devlin had heard last night’s news broadcast at 10:30, crossing the Jersey Meadows at eighty miles per hour, figuring it would be just his luck to get pulled over—Quinn had left Devlin feeling queasy and unhappy. He had had a conversation about Jack Brennan last Friday morning. Devlin was one of the guys in A.A. the church called on when a priest had a problem, and Father Steve Loncaric was one of Devlin’s “boys”—five years sober. Loncaric was currently attempting to do the biggest favor Devlin had ever asked of anybody in his life.

“Frank! Can you have lunch with me this afternoon?”

“Pass, Steve. I’ve got to be at Police Plaza for a meeting on South American pickpockets.”

“Tuesday, then,” Loncaric said. “I’m busy Monday, and this has to be fast. We’re going to get some questions from Rome on your annulment petition, and you know the cardinal takes his pastoral duties seriously. He’ll want to meet with you before he signs you off. You know what his schedule is like. If he gets a cancellation, he wants to move things up. I’m hoping to get you in to see him sooner rather than later, and you need to be briefed.”