“This could have been very painful to His Eminence,” Loncaric said, “and no pun intended. Just the sort of thing a political opponent would have loved to use, oh, a week before the election. Even privately, to make Brennan fold, it would have been hideously embarrassing. By election day the cardinal would have been out to here for Brennan, singing his praises from the pulpit. It was in the works. In the future we’re going to have to be a lot more careful and thorough.”

Devlin shook his head. “The cardinal did a deal with Brennan. What did he think he was dealing with?”

“Then you do know something!”

“No more than you. The deal was corrupt. Corrupt deals are not made by saints.”

“The cardinal happens to be the personal representative of the Vicar of Christ,” Loncaric said, unable to smother his mirth.

“So was Francis Cardinal Spellman, and try to stop the rumors about him being a homosexual.”

Loncaric laughed. “Rumors? How discreet! Sometimes I think I liked you better before you fell in love and started worrying about God and other things that don’t concern you.” He laughed again. “What shit. What have you said to Eileen?”

“Nothing. We decided not to talk about it.”

“Nothing like facing reality. What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know yet. Any more than she’s read in the papers, she doesn’t want to know. Not interested in what the horses do off the track, is her way of putting it. Unlike some priests I know. Aside from the probable delay—”

“All but certain,” Loncaric corrected.

Devlin’s frustration boiled up and he wanted to bring his fist down on the table. Instead, he took a deep breath and sighed. The damned question rose up before him still one more time: Why would someone want to implicate him in Jack Brennan’s murder? Loncaric’s eyes went up. The maitre d’.

“Mr. Devlin?”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Lord on the telephone. He says it’s urgent.”

“Excuse me,” Devlin said. On the way to the front of the restaurant, the maitre d’ said, “You’ll have to take it at the reservations desk. We’re not really equipped for incoming calls.”

“I won’t tie up the line for long.”

“Thank you.”

As he took the desk handset, Devlin saw a pay telephone on the wall in the corridor to the restrooms. “Do you want me to call you back? I can’t talk here.”

“Maybe you’d better. I’m at my desk.”

“How’d you describe me to the maitre d’?”

“Light brown hair, some, gray-blue eyes, beige sports jacket, brown slacks, white shirt, brown tie. And maybe sitting with a priest.”

“Smart-ass. I’ll call you right back.”

Devlin had plenty of change. John picked up on the first ring.