Ableson pulled into the Adventurer’s Inn off the Expressway and ordered a brisket sandwich on a roll. He ate and tried to understand how this could happen to his best friend, the best man he’d ever known, in only one night. He decided it was Levy’s fault. Hawkins loved Levy, and he had to know, like Ableson knew, that somehow Levy had killed those kids. So maybe he was afraid they’d catch Levy and Hawkins couldn’t help him. Or maybe he was afraid that if Levy could do such a thing, even to avenge his son, then everything Hawkins thought about Levy . . . all the love and trust and gentleness . . . was a lie.

Ableson finished the sandwich and stuffed the paper plate and napkin into a litter can. Then he got back on the Expressway and headed home, cutting easily in and out of the early afternoon traffic. He was past Lefrack City—the ugliest place in the world, he thought:—when Lerner called him.

“Get Roger,” Lerner said, “and get in here. We got some guy in the pen who says he saw who killed the Eagles. . . .”

¶ Clan.

6

Chapter 6

Lerner conducted the interrogation in a small dingy room on the third floor of the precinct. Hawkins and Ableson sat to the side, Hawkins close to the wall, a little in the shadows of the room. Ableson watched his friend. He could see the tension in his back, and Ableson knew what he was thinking. This man—Juan Comera was his name—had seen the men who killed the boys in the basement. What if he said he saw some old men with black skullcaps and beards? What if he described Levy? Ableson watched Hawkins shift in his chair, trying to relax. He’d known Hawkins so well, and for so many years, he could almost hear the other man’s thoughts.

How much did he really trust Levy, Hawkins would ask himself. Totally would be the answer. Then why was he nervous? Could Levy really kill five young men without a trial or any chance to speak for themselves? Not just kill them, but beat them to death and cover their bodies with mud? Could Levy plan that and then do it? Never, Hawkins would answer. But his body still wouldn’t relax.

Lerner started the interrogation.

“What kind of car did you see?” Lerner asked Comera.

“It was a van, not a car. A green Dodge van,” Comera answered. He was twenty-­four. He was wearing clean chinos and a blue sport shirt that had been washed, ironed, and mended too many times.

“What about the plates?”

“I couldn’t get the number,” Comera said, “but I think they were New York. They were orange and black like ours.”

Lerner nodded. Hawkins shifted in his chair.

“Can you tell us any more about the van?”