Hawkins went through the papers on his desk; the commissioner wanted an income/education breakdown on the new black rookies. He was supposed to write a speech for a PBA meeting, on anything he wanted, and he tried to work on it, but couldn’t. He looked out of his window at people in the little park next to the buildings. He made up lives for them. The man with the striped red and black umbrella was a customers’ man with three children. The harried look and conservative three-­piece suit told him that much. But the umbrella was gaudy, and didn’t fit. So maybe the man was a fag . . . a closet job. A squall came up, rain crashed down, and the people ran for cover; the drops hit hard, mud splattered the sidewalk and peoples’ legs, and Hawkins thought of Adam in his fresh grave, the rain smashing against the dirt that covered him. He’d go to the grave today and leave a pebble as a token of his visit the way Adam had done when they’d gone to old Feldsher’s grave. He would pray for his friend, even though he hadn’t prayed since he was a kid and didn’t remember any prayers. He’d ask Ableson to go with him, to help him.

He tried to call Ableson, but he was out. He tried again at four and at five, but Lerner hadn’t heard from him and he sounded worried.

He tried again to work, but he couldn’t forget that it was after five and Mo still hadn’t called in. It wasn’t like him. Mo was a rock, the most reliable officer in that precinct—or any other, Hawkins thought. If only they were all like Mo. Then where was he? Hawkins looked at the clock. Five-­fifteen. It was getting dark earlier now and they couldn’t go to the grave today. They’d go on Sunday, and maybe bring Alma and Peg. Five-­twenty-five and still no Mo. Hawkins wondered if his old friend had found another woman. He wouldn’t tell Hawkins if he had, because Hawkins was Peg’s friend, too, and he’d hate knowing about it. Maybe Mo was getting it right now at the Granada Hotel across from the precinct.

At five-­thirty-­five Mo called on Hawkins’s private line. “Roger, help me.” He sounded sick.

“Where are you?”

“The clubhouse on President Street. Take a squad car. Use the siren.” Incredibly, Ableson sobbed. “Get here, oh God, get here. . . .”