Hawkins put one arm firmly around Levy, and with the scalpel in his free hand, he caught the point on the fabric of Levy’s shirt and pulled. It ripped and Levy moaned.

“Take me home, Roger. Please take me home.”

Pescado said softly, “You have to sign, Rabbi.”

Levy signed the forms and dropped the pen.

“Now, please,” he told Hawkins.

They were almost at the door when a man in a white uniform stopped them. He was holding a needle, tip up, catching the light.

“What’s that shit,” Hawkins snarled.

“Librium,” Pescado said from across the bare room. “I’ll put him to sleep.”

They rolled up Levy’s sleeve, the needle point glittered, and Hawkins looked away. He smelled alcohol and something like old ice, and Levy leaned against him. Then they left them alone, and Levy and Hawkins went slowly and carefully out of the morgue. Like two old drunks, Hawkins thought, just trying to get home.

The elevator was still out, and Hawkins carried Levy up the six flights. He cradled him against his chest, holding his head so his hat wouldn’t fall off. Rachel was waiting on the landing, and she held the door open for him while he carried Levy in and down the narrow hall to Adam’s old room. Adam had loved horses, and the walls were covered with pictures of ponies photographed against rocks, of Arabians running and big, solid Percherons standing still. The only other picture in the room was a faded black and white of Levy as a young man. In it Levy was wearing a fur-­brimmed hat and smiling at a girl who was just as young and almost as beautiful as he was. Hawkins had never seen the picture before, but he knew that this was Leah, Adam’s mother, Rachel’s mother-in-­law. . . .