You don’t know anything about Jim Brennan, Devlin thought, but stayed silent. Perhaps Loncaric was thinking he had struck a nerve, or that Devlin was contemplating the depth of Loncaric’s insight. Nothing like that, but Devlin was content to let Loncaric think what he liked. With his mind’s eye, Devlin was looking again at the information John had dug up about the Lake Tranquility place. Maybe, finally, the real estate agent would testify that a guy named Lederer had rented the place. The real estate agent’s testimony meant nothing in itself, but it was a piece of the puzzle. But Devlin could have hired Lederer to create a story John Lord’s detective work only seemed to corroborate. All Devlin’s protests about a tape of a guy identifying himself as Nelson meant nothing, either. Zilch. What remained true was that Devlin had been Jack Brennan’s brother-in-law, had run his assassin Octavio Lopez as an informer, and had attended high school with the man who had shot Lopez. That much remained true.

And, in John’s phrase, wheels were still in motion.

For a few moments after he said good-bye to Steve Loncaric, Devlin was disoriented. He could not remember where he had parked his car. He was trying to remember another lot, another day, and for a split second, he forgot the rest of the day’s agenda. Now it unfolded before him: Major had asked him to call before two—too late for that now. And Liz Becker, after five, from an outside phone. By then Devlin would be working Times Square.…

2:51 P.M. …

2:51 P.M. …

Six blocks. Walking in the sunshine through the crowds, Devlin had his jacket open. He wanted to take it off, but he was wearing his piece on his belt, where it would be seen. His shirt was soaked with sweat front and back, slapping cold against his skin with the shifting of his body. He was only too aware of the time. He had things to do at his desk and wanted to have another word with John before getting up to Times Square before four o’clock. Because of the time, it was beginning to look like he would have to go straight uptown, without stopping at Fifth Street.

As soon as he turned the corner and the parking lot came into view, Devlin could see something wrong with his car. The Seville was sitting back on one haunch like an old dog. Flat tire.

“Shit!”

People turned. Devlin hurried across the street as the lot attendant saw him coming; he knew the tire was flat. Devlin caught up with the attendant as the kid took another customer’s ticket.

“Hey! What happened to my car?”

“Don’t ask me. I have to get this other guy’s.”

“Hey, I’m a cop! I’m talking to you!”

“I don’t care if you’re Lee fucking Iacocca, man! Read your contract!”