“Whattaya say?” McQuaid turned back to Levine, too quickly for Devlin to believe it. Devlin had been watching McQuaid’s eyes taking in Devlin. If Devlin had had to say what McQuaid was really thinking, it would be, Who is this guy? Is he someone I’m supposed to pay attention to? By looking away now, McQuaid was indulging in a little gamesmanship. He wanted to see if Devlin was going to pay attention to him. Devlin’s age and experience allowed him to do something young McQuaid wasn’t capable of: Devlin made himself opaque. Glancing at Devlin again, McQuaid said, “Anyway, Mariano wanted you to know that the News night guy said he was looking for corroboration. He wasn’t checking a rumor, Mariano says, he’s working from a confirmed sighting. It’s just a matter of time before the guy starts calling hospitals. He’s probably doing it now.”

“We’ll see.” Levine gestured toward the door. “Anything new in there?”

“He hasn’t said a word. The doctors still don’t know jack shit about what he’s on. My seat-of-the-pants opinion, which is the only one of any value around here, is that The Joker is coming down off whatever he was shot up with, and he’s going to crash with one very big bang. He’s just starting, but that’s my considered opinion.” He held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. We’ve started calling him The Joker because of that nutty smile.”

Levine eyed him. “Do you think he’ll start saying something?”

McQuaid shrugged. Devlin couldn’t remember Lopez ever sporting a particular kind of smile. On something? What Devlin was remembering of Lopez was the weakest of individuals, as likely to be led into buying a trampoline franchise as into a dope deal. He wanted to be hip. Fragile souls, Eileen called such types. Lopez in the supermarket when Devlin was evoking for John Foy Lord a childhood memory of cheap, tasty lunches. Lopez the time before that? Sure …

Last fall, on one of those brilliant October days with the sun so warm that for a few afternoon hours you were actually overdressed in a jacket and sleeveless sweater, then shivering against the cold shortly after dark. Devlin had several such memories of last October: Eileen, pasta, racing home to her apartment. He could have seen Lopez on the afternoon of one of those nights. John would have been there, in Lopez’s ground floor, cold-water flat, the detectives eyeballing the ribbed rubber enema tube that ran around the gas meter in the kitchen. Lopez spun a tale of a Rican boy and a black girl, a true New York love story.…