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vacancy. By thirteen he had lost her. And three years later she was dead.
    He did not know why. The school psychologist had called it “congenital loneliness,” as if, by giving it a name, he had solved the mystery. But it remained a mystery to Frank, one that sank into him like water into the open veins of broken wood. For two years he’d thought of almost nothing else, thought about it as his cases lay unsolved on his desk, as his esteem in the department shrank to nothingness.
    Now, it seemed to him, he had only the city and its unending streets. From his position on the small porch, he could see the skyline as it rose like a wall of stars against the night. There was still a kind of magic in its life which appealed to him. There was something wondrous in the concentration of so much humanity in such constricted space, and it was this amazing compression which created the wild, insatiable energy of the streets, an energy which spilled into them each summer night and held there, hour after hour, as if certain that the life which generated it could go on this way forever. At times, as he stood alone on the porch, gazing out at the glittering city, Frank thought that he could actually comprehend its people, as if the diverse and hidden forces which drove them forward were the product of a single, central longing that, by some tragic and mysterious code, urged one man to save his brother, and another to destroy him.

6
    F rank awoke early the next morning, just as the first gray light had begun to inch its way into his room. He showered, dressed quickly, then headed for his car. The early morning traffic was lighter than he’d expected, and because of that he found himself alone in the detective bullpen. He pulled out the lab report and read it once again. He was still reading it when Asa Brickman, the head of Homicide Division, walked up to his desk.
    â€œMorning, Frank,” he said.
    â€œMorning, Asa.”
    Brickman nodded toward the lab report. “That about the girl over on Glenwood?”
    â€œAngelica Devereaux,” Frank said.
    â€œYeah, that one. Gimme.”
    Frank looked at him, puzzled. “You want to read it?”
    Brickman laughed. “Naw, I don’t want to read it,” he said. “I want to give it to somebody else.” He reached down and took the edge of the folder in his huge black hand.
    Frank did not release it. “Why?”
    Brickman shook his head. “Oh, come on, Frank, you know when a rich white girl like this gets wasted, we got to jump on it fast.”
    â€œI am on it.”
    â€œWe’re talking old-time white money here, Frank. This Devereaux piece is not just some whore in a back alley.”
    Frank said nothing. He still did not release the folder.
    Brickman let it go and straightened himself. “You going to give me shit on this?” He looked at Frank menacingly. “We’re talking old white money, goddamnit.”
    â€œThat what you are, Asa?” Frank asked. “Old white money?”
    Brickman sighed heavily. “Yeah, right. And don’t I look it?” He shrugged. “Look, the fact is, the bluebloods’ll be watching us on this one. I want my best men on it.” He smiled knowingly. “And your record’s spotty to say the least, my man. Know what I mean?”
    â€œI have a feeling about this one, Asa,” Frank told him.
    â€œA feeling?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? You got something on this case already?”
    Frank shook his head.
    â€œThen forget it,” Brickman said. He reached for the report again, but Frank did not let it go.
    Brickman’s voice hardened as he once again released the folder. “What the fuck you think you’re doing, Frank?”
    â€œI want this case.”
    â€œSince when does it matter to you what case you’re on?”
    â€œSince right now.”
    â€œYou got some connection to