Through the angles of steel the morning sky was a wonderful cloudless blue: it was like being inside a diamond. He switched on the radio for some news.

The dream was gone from his thoughts before he knew it.

6:27 A.M. …

6:27 A.M. …

He was trying to figure some slack in his schedule. From four to twelve this evening he would be working Times Square, tonight’s only likely target for pickpockets, purse snatchers, and the new bicycle thieves. News announcers on radio stations from one end of the dial to the other were nattering like back-fence gossips over the assassination of Jack Brennan and a woman not his wife in a room in the Waldorf Towers. The announcers were saying “last night” for the time of the killings to conceal how late they were on the story. Things hadn’t begun to heat up yet, but by nightfall, Devlin knew, the city would be in a frenzy. A media event in New York had a natural history as much fun to watch as a pennant race, and this one promised to be a doozy. Devlin was hoping he might be able to catch a nap in the late morning. He would get the most out of it, too, if he went easy on the coffee. Before the day was over, he’d hear again from the News, from the Post three or four times, and maybe even a talk show or two. He didn’t want to be interfered with while out on the streets, and he hoped nobody would wander so far from the central issue, Jack Brennan’s death, as to bother Eileen. Devlin wondered if he should call her and warn her. No.

As Devlin headed on foot from Centre Street into the Tombs’s parking area, the first person he recognized was Gerrity, the puffy-looking detective who had been in the M.E.’s building uptown last night.

“Were you able to get any sleep?” Gerrity asked.

“That guy Nelson called me too soon. I thought I’d see Harry Levine here.”

“He’s down in his office.”

Now Devlin saw someone else he recognized—but not the canary-yellow sports jacket he was wearing, more than a little bright for this crowd. Devlin didn’t know where he knew the guy, or when. A lot of years had passed, Devlin was sure of that. He kept trying to see the guy as much younger than he was now. The guy was on the other side of the lane the cops were forming. An Italian—or was he Jewish? Had Devlin known him in the sixties? That long ago?

“Anybody ever escape from here? I can’t remember.”

“I don’t remember, either,” Gerrity said. “God, how I hate the inside of this building! All the fight goes right out of me.”

Devlin couldn’t help laughing. Up the street, a siren howled.

“That’s them,” Gerrity said.