Levine glanced at Devlin with an expression that Devlin took as a request for forgiveness. For the first time Devlin glimpsed the consequences of Jack Brennan’s death on the annulment petition. He was going to have to ask Loncaric to put on the brakes. It was important to behave correctly. He had to find an appropriate way to express his sympathy to the Brennans. And Maryellen. All Devlin knew about her now was that she was teaching grade school in Minnesota. He had drunk his way to sunrise on September 16, 1971, not knowing that it would be the last day he would ever set eyes on her.

“I don’t want you leaving Lopez for a moment,” Levine told McQuaid. “If you’re right about him starting to talk as he comes down, you’ll get a commendation.”

“Not if he talks a lotta crap,” McQuaid said.

Shaking his head, Levine turned to Devlin. “I’m going back downstairs to make sure all the right questions get asked.”

“That’s how you really feel about us,” McQuaid said. “You think we can’t do shit.”

“I’m ambivalent about you,” Levine answered, deadpan. He turned to Devlin. “Take a pass on downstairs. You might as well get your rest, because I want you on call from here on out. For all we know, there’s something stuck in that head of yours that’s going to be just what we need. I’ll have someone take you back downtown to your car.”

Devlin nodded. He didn’t want to see Jack Brennan’s autopsy. Octavio Lopez! It might be an hour before Devlin got home. He wasn’t looking forward to trying to sleep, but that was exactly what he was going to have to do.

“Nice meeting you,” McQuaid said. “Take it easy.”

“Yeah,” Devlin said, “easy does it.”

Repeating the A.A. line reminded him of wasting his time this evening with the Quinns in New Jersey. Shit.

Devlin lived in his parents’ old rent-controlled apartment, where he had grown up, after years of living elsewhere. His mother had died young, after three ever-more debilitating strokes. Sixty-four years old. Devlin moved back home when it became obvious that his father was temperamentally unfit to care for her. He’d known his parents’ marriage hadn’t been happy; what hadn’t occurred to him was that they had gotten worse with each other while he had lived away, bickering, sulking, carping—grim, hateful stuff. Had Devlin lived in a dream? His mother’s slurred speech made her almost unintelligible, and her frustration unleashed resentment that had been building for years.