Radio, or for that matter, television, didn’t use tabloid words like “love nest” and “tryst”—the Post this morning had referred to Milburn as “Brennan’s youthful bedmate”—but behind the radio announcer’s careful language and trained, measured tones was a breathlessness that hardly concealed common school yard curiosity. According to WCBS, Anita Brennan was in seclusion and not available for comment. And a spokesperson for Brennan’s parents indicated they would have nothing to say. Devlin thought people were going to remember how public the Brennans had been in the aftermath of Joe’s death, and maybe some people were going to conclude that the years and tragedies had worn the Brennans down to weakness and maybe even, at last, a little humility.

The bold headlines of the early morning editions had been relatively restrained compared to the screaming banners hitting the streets at this hour. Devlin had all four papers, the Times, News, Post, and Newsday, on the seat beside him, and as the traffic crept forward, he turned pages, tossing them neatly on the floor when he was done. He thought he was managing his panic quite nicely, thank you. The Post had the last picture of Jack Brennan alive, taken yesterday afternoon at his campaign headquarters with the normal collection of semibeautiful volunteer workers—one plump brunette in the second row was caught with her eyes closed. The Times had a complete obituary, with Jack Brennan’s genealogy back to his maternal great-grandfather working as a laborer on the construction of the then privately owned Interborough Rapid Transit Company. Possibly only the Times would print the old, full name of the I.R.T. branch of the New York subway system. The lower two-thirds of Newsday’s front page was simply a formal color photograph of Jack, his blue eyes gazing intently into the camera, his fine sandy hair brushed carefully into place. Dark blue suit, blue shirt, medium blue silk tie with little yellow sea horses floating across. The drop behind him was a pale blue satin. Devlin guessed that this was the picture that would have appeared next fall on the telephone poles across the state. BRENNAN MURDERED was the headline. For all the time Devlin had known him, right up to September 16, 1971, Jack Brennan had been interested only in the seduction of beautiful women, the more famous, the better. Would he have been alive today if he had stayed a lightweight? Through Devlin’s mind flashed a picture of Jack running his hand up a girl’s leg at a nightclub. Elmo’s, The Blue Angel—it could have been any one of a dozen places. With Jack, the girl would have been his date. With Joe, it would have been Jack’s date. With Devlin, when he’d had enough to drink, it could have been anybody’s date.…

You were not a nice guy, Devlin.