'I appreciate you coming. And so soon. I know you must be busy.'
'Yeah, yeah. You look like you've been hiding on a beach somewhere.'
'On a sunny beach.'
'Nice. Why are you here instead of there?'
'My father passed away. I came home for the funeral.'
'Oy, shit. I'm sorry. It was sudden? How old?'
'Heart attack. He was eighty.'
'He was healthy until then?'
'Yes. It was quick.'
'I guess that's good. But it's a loss. I'm sorry.'
'Thanks.'
Freedman became the tough cop again. 'So what the hell you want with me that won't get me into too much trouble?'
'I have a problem, David, and I want your advice.'
Devlin told the cop about the post-funeral drinking bout with his brother, picking up Daryl, staying the night with her and losing George.
Freedman shook his head slowly. 'Wonderful. Perfect. Death, booze, and a blonde.'
'Yeah. Reminds me of why I don't drink very much.'
'I presume your brother is not the kind of guy who disappears for a while.'
'No way. He's a citizen. Wife, kids, career, house in Westchester. The whole normal everyday scene. I've called a few hospitals and hotels. No record of any George Devlin.'
'This isn't good, Jack. Not in this fucking city. Not really. I tell you what I'll do. You give me the information and I'll file the report up in the one-nine. I'll make sure it gets into the channels fast and really gets assigned instead of just added to some guy's list.'
'Thanks.'
'I'm sorry there's not much else I can do.'
'One other thing,' Devlin said. 'If I'm going to really canvass the hospitals and hotels I'll need some help. He could be registered under a different name or as a John Doe waiting in a crowded emergency room somewhere. I need someone who can get around and see if anybody matching my brother's description was admitted. Do you know a reliable private detective?'
'Yeah, but what about your people at Pacific Rim? That's their business. They must know someone in New York. You could get professional rates or something, right?'
'Yes, but I'd rather not have them involved unless I have to. At the moment things are a little strained between us.'
'What things?'
'I think I've been trying to avoid doing the work, David. I don't feel right about some parts of it.'
'The killing part.'
'Yes. The killing part.'
'But if something happened to your brother I'll bet you'd almost enjoy killing that person.'
Devlin stared at Freedman. He had a tough, uncompromising look. Freedman had long ago decided some people deserved to be killed and he made no apologies, but he was smart enough to know that he was implying George might be dead and he apologized for that.
'Hey, I'm sorry. That was stupid. The main thing is to find your brother. Especially now. My father died two years ago. It wasn't a good feeling. I got a brother and a sister. Believe me, we're closer now. This ain't the time to lose your brother.
'I know a guy who can help you. A good, honest detective, if there is such a thing. His name is Sam Zitter. He's getting to be a crotchety old fart, but he knows what he's doing, and he gets around. He'll give you a full day's effort. He has a lot of contacts which more than make up for his age slowing him down a little bit. He's right near here, too. Go see him. He's over on Eighth Avenue, just below Fourteenth Street. The name of the place is Intrepid Investigations. Give his receptionist my name, otherwise he probably won't see you.'
'Okay. Thanks.'
Freedman stood up. 'Let me know if you need anything else.'
'Take care, David.'
'You, too. Let me know how it turns out.'
'I will.'
'Sorry for your troubles, Jack.'
Devlin watched him walk away and knew that David Freedman was genuinely sorry for his troubles. They both knew the troubles weren't over.
By 2:30 a.m. Devlin was standing in the shadowy entrance to a hardware store across the street from O'Callahan's bar.
It was a quiet night. Warm but not hot. The city seemed to be finally cooling down from the day's heat. Devlin stood without moving, feeling the air, sensing the quiet. Maybe the humid spell was breaking, he thought.
He watched the last two patrons leave the bar. Brian the bartender started closing up. Fifteen minutes later the cook and two young boys left the bar. All three spoke Spanish to each other.
Another fifteen minutes went by and the bartender was finally at the bar's doorway. He turned and switched off the neon sign in the window, closed the front door and locked it. It looked as if he were about to hail a cab, but then he started walking uptown on Second Avenue.
Devlin quickly crossed the street and trailed behind him about ten feet back.
Devlin wondered how he should do this. He felt too visible on Second Avenue. At the moment there was no one else in sight, but there was plenty of traffic moving down the avenue.
As they approached 84th Street, he quickened his pace. Just before they reached the corner, he closed the distance and quietly called out, 'Brian.'
The bartender hesitated then turned to look behind him. Devlin backhanded him across the face with a sharp, brutal slap. It was enough to knock the Irishman back a few steps, but Devlin quickly grabbed the man's shirt, pulled the bartender toward him, and smashed his left elbow into his temple.
Devlin watched the man's eyes glaze as he teetered on the edge of consciousness. The bartender had no control of his legs and looked like a man too drunk to walk.
Devlin was surprised at how much anger he felt. He observed it as one would analyze the symptoms of the flu. It had curled over him and enveloped him like a wave. He suddenly wanted to beat his fists into this man who had lied to him.
What had pulled such rage out of him?
Was it fear about what might have happened to his brother? Was it anger because he was so powerless to change what happened after he had left his brother?
Devlin knew he had to get off the street before he lost control. At that moment the anger filled him with such strength, he could have scooped the bartender up with one arm. He grabbed him around the waist and looped the man's left arm over his shoulder.
He turned and walked out into the street looking for a cab. There were two empty cabs coming his way and he hailed one of them.
As they struggled into the backseat the driver looked as if he were about to tell Devlin to get the drunk out of his cab. In a clear, sober voice Devlin assured him, 'Don't worry, I'm taking him home.'
As Devlin slammed the cab door with his left hand he shoved his right elbow into the bartender's sternum with such force that he nearly cracked it. The sound of the slamming door covered the sound of the Irishman's body absorbing the blow. He was paralyzed into unconsciousness.
Devlin gave the cab driver the address of the loft downtown.
Back at the loft Devlin sat in the living room, waiting until he felt the moment was right. The bartender was in a small room in the back of the loft. Devlin had shoved him, still half-conscious, into a straight-backed chair. Devlin taped the man's wrists together behind him and his ankles to the legs of the chair.
The only other piece of furniture in the room was a table placed a few feet in front of the chair. The
