He didn't use the key. After all this time, he pressed his finger on the small black brass-encircled buzzer and listened as the chimes echoed throughout the apartment, softly, melodiously, insistently. He stared straight at the small round mirror, caught the slight change in its consistency as she peered at him before opening the door.

She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her: sleek, scrubbed, dark hair pulled back from her face casually with a clip. She'd been doing exercises and she wore a dancer's leotard and tights. She was one long sinuous lean tight fine-boned vision of perfection.

"Brian? Why did you ring the bell?"

He leaned heavily against the door and felt his age and his weariness and his deep regret as he looked at her. She was so lovely. Finally, he reached into his jacket pocket, fingered the key he had detached from the others, then gently took her right hand and put the key in her palm and closed her hand within his with a gentle pressure.

Karen whirled from him, tossed the key furiously to the floor.

"Goddamn it to hell, Brian, come on! You can't be this childish. You absolutely cannot be this stupid damn childish. It has nothing to do with you and me."

All the way to her apartment, in the taxicab, he thought of what he would say to her but all of it was pointless. None of it would penetrate; none of it would be comprehensible to her.

Basically, he finally decided, it was the difference between them, between their time. Her world was right now, this minute, the quick and flashing sensation devoid of sentimentality or ties of any kind. She was riding the crest of her own career; singlehandedly, she had caused the explosive public scandal, she had accomplished the great coup. Her producers would take her more seriously now, would give her better time slots, more operating expenses.

Her public outrage, night after night, had been really good: controlled, righteous, determined. But beneath the performance, Brian knew there was a total, cold lack of concern. The whole area of police corruption was something that would play itself out and she'd move to whatever was more timely, more exotic; on to the next great story.

There was no more connection between them; it had always been tenuous and based on their differences rather than their similarities. They had amused and puzzled and delighted each other and through each other themselves. But it was the basic difference now which separated them: her insistence that nothing between them had changed, that they could remain aloof and remote and apart from something that really meant nothing to her and that was in the process of destroying a part of him.

"Why don't you at least say something, for Christ's sake? Don't stand there looking so...so...God Almighty, you knew I was after the story. That Caputo boy came to me because your people failed him. I handled it the way I had to handle it, Brian."

She stopped speaking abruptly, held her long hands behind her neck, stared down for a moment, closed her eyes, raised her face to him.

"There's no way to keep it under wraps, Brian. I've been served with a subpoena from the grand jury. God, I've been interviewed by two assistant district attorneys and some people from the mayor's committee have been calling. Bri, they've given me an hour, prime Sunday-afternoon talk-show time, this week. Work with me." The idea suddenly encompassed her. "You could come off looking good, get the Commissioner to come on the show. Brian, it doesn't have to all fall apart. You could be instrumental in salvaging something if you'd work with me."

He knew exactly which part of her was real, which part performance. He was oddly touched at the slight edge of panic which crept into her voice at his failure to respond. That was real. He watched and knew exactly when the realization came to her that she wasn't going to have it her way. That in gaining whatever she felt she had gained professionally, she'd lost something too.

She came to him, anger and panic exposed; she pulled his head down, forced her lips on his as though this was the answer to everything, this was what put them in a separate existence, apart, could maintain them and keep them untouched.

He responded because her mouth was familiar, had been part of him for two years, and because he was tired and drained and emptied and in need of safety. She pressed her lean body against him, down the length of him; her hands slipped inside his jacket, encircled him, moved into him. He felt her sigh of relief as she rubbed her cheek against his, whispered something about his needing a shave.

Finally, he pushed her back, held her by the shoulders, examined her with deep regret.

"You want me," she insisted in a husky whisper, "damn you, you know you do, Brian."

"What I want and what I get are two different things, Karen. It would be just like making it with a whore." He reached his hand to her cheek, gently fitted his palm to the contour of her face and said quietly, sadly, "That would really be a lousy last memory for both of us, baby."

Then he left.

FORTY-FOUR.

ARTHUR POLLACK LOOKED THE way Brian O'Malley felt, fatigued beyond any sense of his own being. He spoke mechanically in a dull hoarse voice; occasionally, his hand touched his throat as though to comfort an ache.

He waved Brian across the broad expanse of the Chief Inspector's office, leaned forward, hunched over the desk which practically devoured him. He peered over the rim of his reading glasses, then searched the array of papers on his desk, held up first one memorandum, then a second.

"Brian," he said, "these were handed to me within the last hour. First, Aaron Levine. Then, Ed Shea. Brian, you knew all along these would be submitted?"

Brian flung one leg over the arm of the wooden chair and shook his head slightly, then said, "Only as of a few hours ago, Arthur."

"Brian, how much is there to tell? How much are you going to tell me?"

"As much as I know, Chief."

Carefully, slowly, wearily, meticulously, he told Arthur Pollack exactly as much as he felt Arthur Pollack needed to know.

The staff meeting lasted for nearly two hours, as Arthur Pollack outlined the various procedures of cooperation that would be established between the New York City Police Department and the interim investigating committee established by the mayor. Each top staff member was assigned to a specific area.

"The main concern at this particular time is that we not only give the impression of internal house cleaning, but that we actually become totally involved in this activity."

It sounded to every man present in the room like a direct quote from the Commissioner. It probably was. What the hell other line could they take?

When the meeting ended, Brian O'Malley and Arthur Pollack labored far into the night preparing the tone of the news releases and how the matter of Patrolman John Morrison's sudden and unexpected contrition and willingness to expose himself and his fellow officers had come about.

Late that afternoon, Arthur had received word that the grand jury had exonerated Patrolman Morrison with a finding of justifiable homicide. There was no other finding possible under the prevailing circumstances.

"You think the media will buy this story, Brian?" Arthur asked.

"Fuck the media, it's what we've got to go with." He stood up, pulled his loosened tie farther downward, rubbed one bare forearm, adjusted his rolled-up sleeve. He picked up the rough draft, paced up and down as he read softly, almost to himself, "Patrolman John Morrison, grief-stricken by the death of his young partner, Patrolman Peter Caputo, and after much soul-searching and struggling with his conscience, has come forward to the Manhattan County District Attorney with an offer to testify before a special grand jury now being formed to investigate corruption in the New York City Police Department. He has also offered to appear before the Webb Commission just formed by order of the mayor. He has further agreed to waive immunity before the grand jury."

Brian shrugged. "More or less, that's it and we'll stick with it."

Idly, Arthur picked up the resignations of Deputy Chief Inspector Aaron Levine and Inspector Edward Shea. "And these resignations represent a form of apology for not having properly done their jobs." He shrugged, let the papers fall on his desk. "I don't know, Brian. Such a sudden surge of morality in the midst of all this immorality." He shook his head sadly, and his weak eye turned inward. "Well, I'll have the Commissioner go over these first thing in the morning. I have to get top clearance on this, Brian. It's unusual, but, God, this whole thing is 'unusual.'"

Brian rolled down his sleeves, rumbled with the buttons on his cuffs, seemed unable to manipulate his fingers. He took his suit jacket from the back of a chair and put it on, adjusted his tie.

"Brian," Arthur Pollack began tentatively.

Brian held a hand up, then let it fall heavily to his side.

Pollack came beside him, searched his face earnestly. He put his hand on Brian's arm. "Brian, how did you get Morrison to turn himself in?"

Brian leaned forward, brushed his fortieth cigarette of the night into the overflowing ashtray. He could hardly see Arthur Pollack's face through the heavy smoke and his overused, agitated eyes.

"Christ, Arthur, you look like hell, kid. Whyn't you get home and get some sleep?"

Mary Ellen was waiting for him in the kitchen. She sat over a cup of coffee and there were two half-smoked cigarettes in the ashtray, which was unusual since Mary Ellen rarely smoked.

"Brian..."

He kissed her lightly and said, "You didn't have to wait up for me, honey. How come you're drinking coffee this time of night?" He glanced from the kitchen wall clock to his own wristwatch as though in confirmation. "Jesus, it's two-thirty. Come on, let's get to bed."

She rose slowly, grasped both of his arms as though to steady herself. She seemed about to speak, but unable, and her large blue eyes filled with tears.

"Mary Ellen? What is it?"

She licked her lips quickly, then said in a shaking whisper, "It's your mother, Brian. Kit telephoned an hour ago."

"My mother?"

Mary Ellen shook her head, shuddered, held him tighter. "Heart attack, Bri. She's gone."

There was a cool, remote, unreal quality about the room. It was large and subdued and theatrical. Groups of well-dressed men and women stood speaking in well-modulated whispers, careful of sound and gesture, as though they'd all been rehearsed in proper behavior.

Brian played his part too, stood, hostlike, greeted those who'd come to pay respects on his behalf. It seemed so peculiar, so strange, that all these hundreds of people who had never known his mother, never seen her, spoken to her, touched her, been touched by her, came to this midtown Manhattan funeral parlor, nodded with deference, expressed regret, looked sad, approached the coffin, offered the quick automatic prayer, then, duty done, quickly scanned the crowd for a familiar or sought-for face.

She lay all but forgotten, his mother, Margaret O'Malley. The banks of flowers which nearly stifled them in their profusion seemed limitless and bore cards from all the various organizations which he or his brothers and sister Kit belonged to as well as offerings from relatives and neighbors and friends.

Martin arrived from his parish in Chicago, his leave quickly arranged, and was there in time for the first night. He embraced Brian and Kevin, hugged Kit, inquired about Roseanne, who was flying in from California. His hair was still fair, but gray now instead of blond, and he wore it longer than Brian remembered, unpriestly, but then Brian remembered that Martin worked with the young people in his parish and had said something about hair being one of the minor but important bridges. And rock Masses. Christ, the last time he'd seen Martin was two years ago at Christmas and Martin played the guitar for them all and said he played in his parish's rock Saturday-night Mass.

Martin was thin and tall and the gathered spectators identified him to each other with some sense of awe and respect: the priest-son. They watched as he went to his mother's side, leaned close to the open coffin, privately whispered something no one was ever to hear. Then he knelt for a long, long time, then turned and gestured for his brothers to join him, and when they knelt by his side, Martin did a strange thing. He placed an embracing arm around each of them, totally mindless of the audience. He joined them together, her sons, for a brief prayer, then he pressed his hands to their shoulders, then into his eyes to smear away the tears without shame.

Kit had arranged everything in her quick and orderly way. Thin, intense, efficient, she consulted with the funeral directors, gave instructions, greeted and introduced and thanked the vast numbers of visitors from her political sphere. Martin was to say the Rosary on the third and final night. Then Margaret would be transported from Manhattan to the Bronx for the funeral Mass at St. Simon's, then burial would be in Woodlawn, next to their father.

Beside Kit, dark eyes filled with apprehension and awe, fingers nervously working, stood Juan and Jose. Kit put her arms around them both, confidently introduced them to judges and state senators and district leaders as her "two youngest brothers who are going to live with Murray and the rest of our brood now."

After many numbing hours, after the endless walking back and forth from the center of the room to the small alcove where, discreetly, unobtrusively, the coffin was under soft indirect lighting, people seemed to forget where they were, for what occasion. Voices rose a little, conversations picked up, crisscrossed, photographs of children and grandchildren were shown, stories were exchanged, laughter was heard from time to time.

At one point, Brian heard one of Kit's political friends say shrewdly, "You're a real cutie, Kit. Not only have you tied up the Jewish vote with that beauty of a name of yours-Kit O'Malley Weinstein-now you've got the Puerto Rican vote with these two little brothers of yours."

Two old women came on the last night, two shy, old neighborhood women who had known his mother as a person, contemporary, human being, rather than as the mother of one or the other of them. With gentle gratitude, with renewed awareness of the occasion, Brian escorted them, studied them with some odd memory as they perused his dead mother's face. They nodded, prayed, briefly held his hand and left for there was no one else present for them to speak and whisper with.

Francis Kelly and his wife, Marylou Delaney Kelly, came toward Brian, carefully picking their way through the crowded room. He hadn't seen either of them for several years. It was difficult to see them now, to recognize them, to find some memory of them.

Francis Kelly had retired after putting in his twenty years and he had gone fat and bald and diffident from years of messenger work in a bank. He offered a large moist hand to Brian, briefly reached for his arm, then dropped his hands quickly, as though he'd taken a liberty. He'd always been intensely aware of and uneasy about the differences in their departmental rank, for Francis Kelly had never gone beyond patrolman.

"Chief," he said, as though to a stranger, "I'm sorry for your troubles. We just heard about it and came as soon as we knew."

"Well, thanks for coming, Francis."

Marylou embraced him clumsily; she seemed overwhelmed by the number and importance of the people present "Sorry for your troubles, Brian."

He inclined his face toward the alcove and they went, regarded the doll-like figure, knelt briefly, said their prayers, stared again and withdrew. Brian felt a surge of memory and affection and emotion when he saw the tears glisten in Francis Kelly's innocent blue eyes and he felt a gratitude: there was still some memory of his mother alive.

Roseanne O'Malley Delaney arrived just as Francis and Marylou were leaving and the two women embraced and tried to examine each other after nearly twenty years, but in the dimness and under the circumstances, it was nearly impossible.

Kit reached her sister first, then Brian felt her shudder as he embraced her tall, thin body. She pulled back, searched his face, her eyes wide and dry with apprehension, and he realized with a dull shock of wonder that beneath the facade of mature woman was Roseanne, still his young sister, and though it was in some way absurd, he whispered to her, "It'll be okay, Roseanne."

It was absurd for their mother's death affected none of them, did not threaten or change any of them or assign them other roles in life for they, her children, were all middle-aged and parents, adults with their lives already mostly in the past, yet Brian found something still remembered in Roseanne and for one brief instant they were each of them who they had been so many years ago.

Roseanne swallowed dryly, glanced at all the strangers and asked her brother, "Will we have some little time alone with her, Brian? All these people..."

He nodded. "At the end of visiting hours tonight, we'll stay on. Just the family. And you can be alone with her."

He and Martin and Kevin went with her then and Roseanne knelt, her face tightly drawn and pale, and she couldn't seem to rise to her feet again and her brothers helped her. Mary Ellen and Maureen led her to a quiet corner of the room and sat with her on a velvet couch and after a while the three women fell into quiet conversation about children and weddings and cousins and grandchildren.

Patrick O'Malley stayed at his father's side throughout the three days of the wake. He was close-shaven and neatly cropped and fair and handsome in a dark suit and white shirt and black tie. They didn't say much to each other, there was little occasion, but Patrick filled in, took over for Brian easily, naturally, without being asked. Brian felt a bond with his son he'd never felt before, but couldn't examine it, just wondered if Patrick felt anything toward him or was just doing his family duty as his cousins did for their parents.

The family hour with their mother was an anticlimax; they were all too exhausted for any real feelings and it had all been extended too long, dragged out until they felt no connection with the presence in the coffin. Brian's mind wandered and drifted and couldn't seem to fasten on his mother because she was nowhere present in this artificial setting. Only Roseanne cried finally, neared hysteria, was quickly controlled and briefly apologetic: the long flight, the lack of sleep, the anxiety as well as her held-in grief. She hadn't seen her mother for nine years. Margaret had flown out to California for two weeks and they'd gotten on each other's nerves, but they corresponded regularly and spoke on the telephone every month and got on well enough on that basis.

The day of the funeral was clear and autumn-crisp. There were twelve cars in the procession. It was a Low Mass and the graveside service was simple and swift and they all returned to Brian's house for something to eat.

Mary Ellen had hired a very capable couple to prepare and serve food to the mourners. Everything was ready for them; everyone was hungry and filled with surprise at their appetite: their affirmation.

Martin and Roseanne left together for Kennedy; he would see her on her plane for Los Angeles an hour before his flight to Chicago. Kit would see to Mom's apartment. Since no one really wanted anything, she'd see that it was all dispensed to people who could use what little she'd left.

Finally, they all left, his brothers and sisters, his daughter and son-in-law, the close friends and distant relatives who returned to the house with them. Mary Ellen worked with the catering couple, cleaned up and put away and tidied.

Just he and Patrick remained, alone, for the first time since Margaret died.

"Let's have a drink," Brian said.

Patrick loosened his tie, gestured for his father to sit down while he poured for both of them.

Brian leaned back and studied his son and he didn't need the taste of Scotch, the warmth of alcohol, to relax him. "It meant a great deal to us, your mother and me, Pat, to have you with us these last few days."

Patrick nodded. "I'm really sorry about Grandma, Dad."

"I know you are, Pat. Christ, the whole thing kind of turns into a circus after a while, doesn't it? It doesn't really have much to do with the person who's died. Well, cheers." He drank deeply, then put his feet up on the table between them. "Want to talk, Pat?"

"Is this a bad time? I do want to talk to you, but if you'd rather let it ride a while-"

Brian shook his head. "No, go ahead. Christ Almighty, Pat, let's talk. Let's get it out or try anyway."

"Okay." It was the serious, earnest face of a man who confronted him. "I've been following what's been happening in the newspapers and through...other sources. You got two at the top, Levine and Shea, to turn in their papers. You got Morrison to turn himself in and agree to testify. That was you, right?"

Brian shrugged but didn't answer.

"And the investigation will go deeper than just skim the surface, right?"

Brian looked up at his son, steadily held his eye. "That was the goal, wasn't it?"

Patrick put the glass on the table and leaned toward his father. "Okay, the goal is being reached, or at least approached. But what about the methods? I don't know how you got two top men to retire. I don't know how you got that bastard Morrison to turn. I do know that it had nothing at all to do with the corruption at hand."

"Which means what?" Brian asked softly.

"Which means more corruption." Patrick held his hands up, his mouth fell open, he shook his head. "Christ, isn't there a moral way to commit a moral act?"

There was a ragged, pained edge in his son's voice and the pain showed on his face, which had lost the boyish soft innocence, had acquired the beginning hardness of knowledge. Brian felt sad for his son and for himself.

Gently, he said, "Patrick, I am fifty-one years old. In all of my life I've found that morality counts shit when it comes to getting a job done. What counts is doing it any goddamn way you can, but get the job done. Your way, Pete Caputo's way, nothing. Absolutely nothing. No proof, just charges. We examined the contents of Caputo's safe-deposit box. He kept nice, neat, uncorroborated records: dates, names, places, amounts paid, et cetera. Okay. Now Morrison will corroborate. Never mind why or how. The fact stands. Yeah, I got Morrison. That's what counts."