“There won’t be any lovers,” I said.

“You seem pretty sure of that.”

“I am. Jimmy was always kind of ashamed, and always frightened.”

“Of what?”

“Of someone finding out. Of his friends knowing. They were all cops, and old school. I don’t think he trusted most of them to stand by him. He thought they’d laugh, or turn their backs on him. He didn’t want to be a joke. He preferred being alone to that.”

“Well, if it’s not down to his lifestyle, then what is it?”

I thought for a moment.

“Apples,” I said.

“What?” said Travis.

“You said you found apples-more than one-beside him?”

“Three. Maybe the killer thought that Jimmy might bite through after a while.”

“Or maybe he stopped after each letter.”

“Why?”

“To ask questions.”

“About what?”

It was Santos who answered. “About him,” he said, pointing at me. “He thinks this is connected to the Wallace thing.”

“Don’t you?”

“Wallace didn’t have ‘fag’ cut into his flesh,” said Santos, but I could tell that he was playing devil’s advocate.

“They were both tortured to make them talk,” I said.

“And you knew them both,” said Santos. “Why don’t you tell us again what you’re doing down here?”

“I’m trying to find out why my father killed two teenagers in a car in 1982,” I said.

“And did Jimmy Gallagher have the answer?”

I didn’t reply. I just shook my head.

“What do you think he told his killer?” asked Travis.

I looked at the wounds that had been inflicted on him. I would have talked. It’s a myth that men can stand up to torture. Eventually, everybody breaks.

“Whatever he could to make it stop,” I said. “How did he die?”

“He choked. A wine bottle was forced into his mouth, neck first. That’s going to hang weight on the hate crime side. It was, whatchacallit, phallic, or that’s how it will play.”

It was vindictive, humiliating. An honorable man had been left, naked and bound, with a brand upon his back that would mark him among his fellow cops, casting shadows upon the memory of the individual they had known. I believed then that it wasn’t about what Jimmy Gallagher knew or did not know. He had been punished for remaining silent, and nothing that he could have said would have spared him from what was to come.

Santos nodded at the attendant. Together, they moved Jimmy onto his back and covered his face once again, then restored him to his place among the numbered dead. The door was closed on him, and we left.

Outside, Santos lit another cigarette. He offered one to Travis, who accepted.

“You know,” he said, “if you’re right, and this isn’t a hate deal, then he died because of you. What are you keeping back from us?”

What did it matter now? It was all coming to a close.

“Go back and look at the files on the Pearl River killings,” I said. “The boy who died had a mark on his forearm. It looked like it had been burned into the skin. That mark is the same one that was found on the wall at Hobart Street, drawn in Wallace’s blood. My guess is that, somewhere in Jimmy’s house, you’ll find a similar mark.”

Travis and Santos exchanged a look.

“Where was it?” I said.

“On his chest,” said Santos. “Written in blood. We’ve been warned to keep quiet about it. I guess I’m telling you because…” He thought about it. “Well, I don’t know why I’m telling you.”

“So what was all that about in there? You don’t believe this was a hate crime. You know this is connected to Wallace’s death.”

“We just wanted to hear your side of the story first,” said Travis. “It’s called ‘detecting.’ We ask you questions, you don’t answer them, we get frustrated. I hear it’s an established pattern with you.”

“We know what the symbol means,” said Santos, ignoring Travis. “We found a guy at the Institute of Advanced Theology who explained it for us.”

“It’s the Enochian ‘A,’” I said.

“How long have you known?”

“Not long. I didn’t know when you showed it to me.”

“What are we looking at?” asked Travis, calming down some now that he realized that neither Santos nor I was going to be drawn by his baiting. “A cult? Ritual killings?”

“And what’s the connection to you, beyond the fact that you knew both of the victims?” asked Santos.

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Why not just torture you?” said Travis. “I mean, I could understand the impulse.”

I ignored him.

“There’s a man named Asa Durand. He lives out in Pearl Riv Zou diver.” I gave them the address. “He says a guy was casing his property a while back, and asking about what happened there. Asa Durand lives in the house where I lived before my father killed himself. Might be worth sending out a sketch artist to test Durand’s memory.”

Santos took a long drag on his cigarette, and expelled some of the smoke in my direction.

“Those things will kill you,” I said.

“I was you, I’d worry about my own mortality,” said Santos. “I assume that you’re lying low, but turn your damn cell phone back on. Don’t make us haul you in and lock you up for your own protection.”

“We’re letting him walk?” asked Travis incredulously.

“I think he’s told us all that he’s going to for now,” said Santos. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Parker? And it’s more than we could get from our own people.”

“Unit Five,” I said.

Santos looked surprised. “You know what it is?”

“Do you?”

“Some kind of security clearance that a regular wage earner like me doesn’t have, I guess.”

“That’s about the size of it. I don’t know much more about it than you do.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that’s true, but I suppose that all we can do now is wait, because my guess is that your name is on the same list that Jimmy Gallagher and Mickey Wallace were on. When whoever killed them gets around to you, either someone will be tagging your toe, or theirs. Come on, we’ll give you a ride to the subway. The sooner you’re out of Brooklyn, the happier I’ll be.”

They dropped me at the subway station.

“Be seeing you,” said Santos.

“Dead or alive,” said Travis.

I watched them drive away. They hadn’t spoken to me in the car, and I hadn’t cared. I was too busy thinking about the word that had been carved into Jimmy Gallagher’s back. How had his killer come to the conclusion that Jimmy was gay? He had kept his secrets close all his life; his own, and those of others. I only became aware of his sexuality from things my mother said after my father’s death, when I was a little older and a little more mature, and she had assured me that few of Jimmy’s colleagues had known about it. In fact, she said, only two people knew for certain that Jimmy was gay.

One of them was my father.

The other was Eddie Grace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

AMANDA GRACE ANSWERED THE door. Her hair was tied loosely with a red band, and her face bore no trace of cosmetics. She was wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old shirt, and she was bathed in perspiration [n p”[1]‡. In her right hand, she held a kitchen plunger.

“Great,” she said when she saw me. “Just great.”

“I take it this isn’t a good time.”

“You could have called ahead first. I might even have had time to put the plunger away.”

“I’d like to talk to your father again.”

She stepped back, inviting me inside.

“He was real tired after your last visit,” she said. “Is it important?”

“I think it is.”

“It’s about Jimmy Gallagher, isn’t it?”

“In a way.”

I followed her into the kitchen. There was a pungent smell coming from the sink, and I could see dirty water that wasn’t draining.

“Something’s backed up down there,” she said. She handed over the plunger. I slipped off my jacket and went to work on the sink, while she rested a hip against the sideboard and watched.