worked.
Maybe that's what you call a wry look, thought Devlin. He tried to see the color of her eyes in the dim light and decided they were probably blue.
Devlin liked the way she didn't seem at all bashful about being naked with a stranger.
'Did you ask me if my name was Helen?'
'Yes.'
'You don't remember my name?'
'It's Daryl. Daryl Austen.'
'Why'd you ask me, then?'
'I don't know.'
'Were you thinking of someone else?'
'No. You get up this early every day?'
'Yes. Who was drunker last night, you or me?'
'I figure me.'
'Did you tell me your name?'
'You don't remember my name?'
'No, are you insulted?'
'Yeah.'
'Really?'
Devlin started to gather his clothes. 'No.'
'How old are you?'
'You don't remember my age either?' 'You didn't tell me.'
'How would you know?'
'Come on,' she asked. 'How old are you?'
'Thirty-eight, how old are you?'
'Twenty-eight.'
'I'm too old for you,' Devlin told her.
'The hell you are, with that face and body. So what is your name?'
He leaned over the bed and shook Daryl's hand. 'Jack Devlin.'
She shook his hand and looked at his swaying cock. 'Not too shy, are you, Jack Devlin?'
'No.'
'Guess you don't have to be, Jack.'
'Guess you don't either, Daryl.'
'Well, I see you've showered and all. A couple more minutes you'll be dressed and you can get the hell out of here without any more morning-after chitchat.'
Devlin looked to see if there was any anger in her, but she still had that crooked smile.
'I'm sorry, but I do have to leave.'
'Well, don't leave before I tell you that I don't usually go to bed with strange men I meet in bars.'
'I don't see why you'd have to.'
'I don't.'
'Why did you?'
'Because my fucking bastard of a boyfriend broke up with me and I was angry and depressed and I figured it would do me good to get laid.'
'Did it?'
'Yes, but I don't like this hangover. And I don't like the feeling that you want to leave as fast as you can.'
He told her, 'It's not because of you.'
'Why, then? You have to get to work?'
Devlin's face twitched. He picked up his pants from the floor and started to step into them.
Daryl watched and waited for an answer.
Devlin said, 'No, I'm not going to work. I kind of ran out on my brother back at that bar. I want to catch up with him.'
'That big guy you were with was your brother?'
'Yeah.'
'And you said you two were out drinking because …' She stopped herself and put her hand on her mouth. Then she asked, 'Were you telling me the truth about your father?'
'Yes.'
'You really were?'
'Yes.'
'Oh shit. I'm sorry.'
Devlin was dressed except for buttoning his shirt. Daryl got out of the bed and walked quickly to her closet. He looked at her firm buttocks and legs and wondered how much she worked out.
She pulled out a robe and slipped it on with her back turned to him.
'Do you want any coffee or anything?'
'No thanks.'
'Come on. It'll take another five minutes.'
'Okay.'
'Regular or decaffeinated?'
'Regular.'
She left the bedroom, suddenly seeming remote and far away from him. As he put on his socks and shoes, he kept thinking about her smooth sleek belly that curved so nicely down to the dark patch between her legs. She wasn't a natural blonde. But Daryl Hannah probably wasn't either and as far as he was concerned this Daryl looked better.
Devlin sat where Lettieri had left him and worked the phone. Bellevue Hospital, New York University Hospital, Lenox Hill Hospital, and Beth Israel had no George Devlins admitted in the last twenty-four hours. Neither had Mount Sinai, Columbia Presbyterian, Harlem Hospital, St. Luke's Roosevelt, or Gouverneur.
Six hotels hadn't either.
Marilyn called him twice while he was looking up phone numbers. He'd kept her at bay. He didn't think he could do it a third time.
He threw the phone book on the floor and turned on the answering machine with the speaker on high. If it was Marilyn he wouldn't answer. If George called he'd hear the voice and pick up.
He took a quick shower with the door open and changed into fresh clothes. The last vestiges of the night before were left in a pile between the dresser and a wall.
His big brother, who didn't have a mean bone in his body, and who had taken care of him more than once when they were growing up, was gone. Why? If someone had hurt his brother, Devlin was going to find out who did, why, and make them pay for it. He was very good at doing all three.
He met Detective Lieutenant David Freedman in a small park surrounded by nonstop traffic. It was in Abingdon Square in the West Village. A play park that would be crawling with little kids by early evening when their yuppie parents returned from work. But now at three in the afternoon it was empty except for a few homeless bums and two Jamaican ladies airing out infants and visiting with each other.
Years ago Freedman had helped Devlin on a case that ended with a lot of people being killed, but made the NYPD look as if they had solved a major crime. The case had also made Freedman a lieutenant, but he never wanted to live through another one like it.
Freedman approached Devlin with a deprecating smile and a shake of his head. He was a short, wiry man with kinky black hair and the tough manner of a New York cop who had lived in the town all his life. He stuck out his hand and Devlin shook it. Devlin's smile was full force. Freedman's first words were, 'I see you're still alive, Devlin.'
'So far. How are you, David?'
'Still fighting the good fight.'
