They dropped outta the blue twenty minutes ago. The girl wants her ride back and everything in it.

MANNING

What did you tell her?

URIBE

I told her forget it. I got a warrant.

MANNING

Do you?

URIBE

Fuck, no. But the weapon and mags I showed you . . . they’re the least of it. Wait till you see what else we found.

Time is 0845. In the nine hours since the conclusion of the Brighton Beach warrant service, two fresh factors have been incorporated into the LV murder files.

First, exhaustive canvassing of Borough Park/Crown Heights and Columbia University/Morningside Heights has turned up nothing on Jake Instancer. The department of Judaic studies has no record of him either as a student or a faculty member. He is unknown at every apartment and dormitory complex within ten blocks of the campus. Nor has his likeness drawn recognition from the proprietors of any local market, deli, bodega, newsstand, or dry cleaner. He has never ordered a pizza at Ray’s or a caramel macchiato at Starbucks, dated a coed, propositioned a hooker, created a Facebook profile, or jogged on the grass in Riverside Park.

Ditto for Borough Park and the Chasidic community.

Instancer is a ghost.

Everything he told Manning is a lie.

Second, four more murders matching Instancer’s MO have been turned up in searches of overseas databases—all committed within the past thirteen days. One in Brazil, another in China. The third is a Tarahumara Indian, killed in Colombia. Homicide #4 is from Germany.

Known total now, counting the Rebbe: nine.

Manning falls in step beside Uribe. His glance takes in the impound floor, Uribe’s Crime Scene team, the Hi-Top van, as well as Rachel and Ben-David waiting beside the vehicle with expressions of impatience and indignation. I catch Manning’s eye and start to alert him to who Ben-David is and what stature he carries in the wider world.

MANNING

I know.

One of Manning’s prime assets as an investigator is he can sling bullshit with anyone, at any level of society. He crosses in stride to Ms. Davidson, whose eyes remain blacked and bloodshot forty-eight hours after her get-together with a highway abutment. The left side of her face shines, livid and swollen; her hair is a rat’s nest. Her right arm is in a sling. Inside her Converse low-tops I spy non-skid socklets from the hospital.

Manning greets Ms. Davidson and introduces himself and me to Dr. Ben-David.

Have our guests been offered coffee? Can Manning get them some? Bottled water? A soft drink?

Manning inquires after Ms. Davidson’s physical well-being. Was her treatment at Maimonides satisfactory? Did the hospital run a concussion protocol on her? Has she been X-rayed for possible rib injuries? How about fluids? Is she hydrated? Has she gotten any sleep? Is she in pain?

I’m studying Ben-David.