“Yes. Insane. That would be Damian.” Leave it to him to figure out how to give himself an airtight alibi and still stay out of our reach.

“They ran his image through their own database. Nothing came up. The casino also says he broke even after three days of solid play. That’s a trick in itself.”

That would be Damian making a point.

Fifteen minutes later we’re back in Times Square. NYPD still has the street blocked off, but the body has been moved to the medical examiner’s office. There’s an outline of tape marking where the body had lain. Three techs in hard hats are using a saw to cut the asphalt out of the ground where she appeared to have landed. A road crew is standing by with hot gravel to patch it after them. In a few hours it’ll be like it never happened. This city seriously never sleeps.

One of Knoll’s agents has brought a large printout of a photograph documenting the placement of Claire’s body on the ground. It looks like it was taken from the overhead lift. The woman sets it on the sidewalk a few yards away from where Claire was found and rotates it to match her position.

We step back and take a look across the street in the same direction Claire was looking. The buildings are covered with electronic billboards. One of the agents, a tired-looking man with uncombed hair and an FBI jacket like mine, starts taking photographs of everything in front of us. I’m sure we already have this shot uploaded onto a server in Quantico by now, but it doesn’t hurt to be thorough.

Knoll takes a sip from his coffee cup and surveys the array of fashion models displaying clothing, perfume and watches. “So which one didn’t Leonardo DiCaprio date?”

There are a million things in front of us. Everything around us is demanding our attention. Anything could be a clue. The time on a watch. The image on one of the giant televisions. The models. The information overload is overwhelming. Somewhere back in Quantico, a room full of analysts will pore all over these images for hours or days trying to find something.

Maybe we’re being too literal? I remember something about a fingerprint on a cornea leading to a killer. “We ever have anything left on someone’s eyes before?”

“Dust, metal fragments. Sometimes fibers. Semen.” Knoll has another drink of his coffee in the absentminded way cops deal with the morbid.

We’re facing west and the sun is rising behind us. Rays of light start to shine through the streets. I once read an article about Manhattanhenge, a phenomenon that occurs two times a year when the sun is exactly parallel to the streets and sends shafts of light straight through the buildings like an ancient monolith. I look at my own shadow and think of something.

I call Ailes.

Gerald answers. “Hello?”

“Gerald, is Dr. Ailes there?”

Knoll raises an eyebrow.

“He’s sleeping on the couch. His wife said she’d kill me if I wake him. Can I help you?”