In fact, there had been two calls from women last night, before he had gone downtown to see Levine. The first had been Eileen: “Almost eleven o’clock and no you. If I told you I changed me mind, would you think I was rubbing it in? I hope not. I’m sittin’ here thinkin’ how nice it would be, and it’s just so much sweet torture. I think I’ll watch the news. I love you.”

The second call was from a woman who didn’t identify herself. After the beep, she said, “I … yes … no,” and hung up. Devlin wasn’t sure he didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded familiar, but no name or face leaped up from memory.

I … yes … no.

Devlin wanted to play it again, but he wanted to hear the late calls, too. He ran through the last of the calls before his arrival home from New Jersey. More calls from Mariano, another from John Lord. A patch of blank tape where Devlin had advanced it more than far enough to preserve the preceding messages.

And then Eileen again. “It’s after one, so maybe you’re asleep and safe. I hope so. I suppose you’ve heard the news. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Another beep: “This is Roger Burke at the Daily News. Would you call me, please, as soon as possible.” He gave his number.

And finally Nelson.

Devlin went back to the kitchen to crank up the coffee maker. Normally he liked to stick to a routine: two cups of coffee, maybe some raisin toast, and go. This morning he would pass on the raisin toast and have breakfast downtown. He wasn’t calling any Daily News guy. Rule one: Don’t talk to the press. Never talk to the press. It made becoming a famous cop a harder job, but back in the days when Devlin took himself to be on his way to becoming a famous cop, he knew he hadn’t done it by talking to the press. No, he had done it by marrying into a rich and powerful family. Old Jim had always thought Devlin had been cashing in. No again: for a brief few years, Devlin had been in charge.

Devlin didn’t think of his dream again until he was on the Williamsburg Bridge, stopping and starting in the framework of girders over the middle of the river. All he could remember was the subject. He and Maryellen must have been newlyweds when he saw his cousin Alice for the last time. He realized he had to fix a whole lot of half-forgotten life clearly in his mind again. He didn’t meet Maryellen until the summer of 1966. Five years from beginning to end—forever at the time. After forty, five years was nothing, a twinkling.