“I wonder if Lopez started talking. This thing would go a lot easier if he did.”

“I don’t know a thing about it,” Gerrity said. “I’ve been down here since three o’clock.”

The vehicle, a dark, bulletproof van, rolled into view. The driver let the siren whoop! one more time before turning into the parking area. People had to move back, and in the pushing and stumbling, Devlin and Gerrity were separated, Devlin farther from the door where the van was stopping. A big guy moved a half step sideways to block Devlin’s line of sight completely. Devlin wondered what he was doing here anyway. Why had Levine called him? Devlin could hear the door of the van being unlocked—and suddenly everybody was silent. Out on the street a horn blew. It blew a second time.

Pop! A pause. Pop! Pop! People shouted: “Get the gun!” “Grab him!” “Son of a bitch!” And people shouted to learn what had happened. “Shot him,” the replies tumbled back, over the pushing and shoving. “The suspect has been shot.” “He killed him.” “Who did?” “A guy in a yellow jacket.”

Devlin wheeled to Gerrity, eight feet away, about to say, I know him, but he stopped because of the look on Gerrity’s face—stopped, he hoped, before Gerrity could read more. Something was going through Gerrity’s mind. For a split second, Gerrity seemed to be asking, Who?

Somebody yelled, “Sniper!” sending everybody down. “Inside!” came a shout, followed by a disgusted, “No sniper!” getting everybody up again—and pushing inside. “We have the new suspect in custody,” somebody called. Lopez’s body was carried into the building, blood in the middle of his chest. “Who saw anything? Make sure we know who you are.”

What Devlin had seen was the killer’s arrival. Anybody else notice? Devlin wasn’t going to count on it. “How many shots did you hear?” a guy asked him.

“Three. One and then two.”

“I thought I heard four.”

“Somebody must have seen it,” Devlin said, to silence him. “Somebody was standing there.” Three shots, not four. How did the guy get four?

“Relax,” another guy said. “It’s all on videotape.” Who is the guy in the yellow jacket? Devlin knew something about him, but it was distant, out of focus. And what was on Gerrity’s mind? Who? Devlin hadn’t said anything to Gerrity about Mr. Yellow Jacket. Devlin’s nerves were unraveling like an old man’s polyester slacks. Maybe Lopez getting shot twenty feet away was ninety percent of Devlin’s problem, but that didn’t change the fact that in his nervousness he was starting to go a little haywire. Focusing on Gerrity, for example. Gerrity was at the entrance, not looking in Devlin’s direction. Devlin tried to close the distance.

Inside, the cops’ voices rang off the walls. Devlin moved up beside Gerrity.