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KEVIN DOYLE HAD sat almost in the middle of the church during the service. He felt completely anonymous among the waves of cops and family mourning their loved one. He wore a simple blue suit. He could’ve been a piece of furniture, for all he was noticed. Doyle knew all about their loved one. He’d done his research. Lou Sanvos had gone to Hofstra on the GI Bill after he got out of the Army. After graduating, he’d decided to join the NYPD. It felt like Sanvos had done more for young people in the Bronx than all of the politicians in the whole city. That was a sort of activity Doyle respected. And it was that reputation that had made killing Lou Sanvos so upsetting.

Doyle’s dad used to say, “We need to do more for the community because too many people do nothing.” Doyle had joined the Army because of his dad’s civic sense. And now Doyle had eliminated one of the few people who did more than their share.

Doyle had planned it perfectly. The light traffic up in White Plains had made him feel exposed, but the higher speed limit on the outskirts of town allowed Lou Sanvos to go fast enough for Doyle to tap the front bumper of Sanvos’s Lincoln Continental with his stolen Ford. Physics did the rest. After Sanvos’s car slammed into some kind of safety supply store, Doyle had been prepared to stop and finish off his target, but when he saw the fire, he knew his job was done.

Doyle remained seated in the church as the service concluded, taking in the architecture and traditions. A young Greek Orthodox priest, dressed in a traditional white cassock for funerals, paused at the end of the aisle and looked at him.

“Are you all right, my son?”

Doyle nodded. He didn’t need anyone remembering him. “Just getting ready to light a candle for Lou.”

“That’s very thoughtful. We’re also collecting money for the youth centers Mr. Sanvos helped create. The donation box is up front.”

Doyle nodded to the priest as he stood up. The shrapnel in his left knee sent a quick spike of pain through his body. It happened so often he was surprised he still noticed it. Maybe it was judgment. If it was some kind of punishment, it wasn’t enough.

The priest said, “Are you in this parish?”

“No, Father, I’m Catholic. Just here for the funeral.”

“Are you a police officer?”

Doyle smiled and shook his head. “Not even close.”

He turned toward the main entrance to the church, where he stopped and lit a candle for Lou’s soul. Then he dug a twenty out of his pocket and slipped it into the donation box the priest had mentioned.

Outside, the fresh air felt good on his face. He looked up at the gathering clouds and decided to head back to his hotel. He’d worry about any messages later. He’d done enough for the cause this week.