“What would you tell a guy to make him behave like that?” Levine whispered. “I mean, clam up. I know he’s high. I can see that.”

“He didn’t have to be told anything,” Devlin said. “As long as he carries on like this, nothing bad will ever happen to him again. Room and board the rest of his life.”

“Fuck that,” McQuaid said. “As soon as he comes down from that shit he’s on, he’ll be crying, screaming, yelling, shouting—and singing his fucking head off.”

“I believe you,” Levine said.

“I’m not sure,” Devlin said. “I know Lopez, and when he’s in control of himself, he’s sly and devious. I’ve never seen him this way before.” He glanced to McQuaid. “And trust me on this: I have seen him high.”

McQuaid couldn’t help laughing. “I believe you.”

“There was nothing in his flat,” Levine said. “I’ve had four men in there since eight-thirty, and the last I heard from them, they told me the place had been cleaned out—no dope, no paraphernalia, nothing on paper. After so many years behind a desk, Devlin, I don’t claim for a moment to know as much as you do about a donkey like Lopez, but I do know that guys like him never take care of their business so well.”

“All right,” McQuaid said, “people cleaned up the place so nothing would lead back to them.”

“We’re going to have to talk to everybody Lopez knew,” Levine said. “And we’re starting from scratch. We don’t know who his friends are. Devlin, you’d better have good logs.”

“Literary masterpieces.” Now there was something he wanted to know. “How did you identify Lopez?”

“He had I.D.,” Levine said.

McQuaid said, “A wallet. The blue cloth thing with the Velcro closure. Social security card. He had a driver’s license. Can you imagine him on the road?”

“To where?” Devlin asked.

“I have a list of the stuff in the wallet,” McQuaid said. “It’s a whole lot of nothing in particular, but I’ll read it off to you if you want.”

Devlin flashed on Jack Brennan downstairs. Brennan often had been less than the best possible friend, but Devlin had liked him enough to have told him: Yes, I like you. Maybe, Devlin thought, he might remember that drunken night, too, as well as he remembered September 16, 1971. He said, “Give me your card. I’m supposed to be helping you—and more as a witness than a fellow officer.”

“No shit?” McQuaid asked. “How is that?”

“I’m married to the victim’s sister.”

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”

Devlin shook his head. “I haven’t seen any of them in fifteen years.”

McQuaid twisted his mouth. “I’m only a kid. I didn’t know I was signing up for an oral history project.”