Abdul Samad was dropping off a fare on East Twenty-Seventh Street when his wristwatch signaled the midday prayer call. He waited for his passenger to skim her card, thanked her for a generous tip and waited only until she left his cab to hit the off-duty sign and pull into traffic.

Ten minutes later he was heading crosstown in his Toyota passenger van. He yawned, tired. With five hours to go, his break could not have come at a better time. He would make his offering and enjoy a good lunch with his first cousin Haram.

The street was nearly clear of traffic, and he reached Tenth Avenue in minutes. As usual his cousin had reached the restaurant ahead of him, so he double-parked alongside his cab. Grabbing his wireless key fob from the center console, he hustled up the sidewalk toward its door.

As he entered, Abdul saw two of the drivers already at their usual table. Haram, meanwhile, was in the back on the prayer rug, immersed in his devotions.

Abdul spared a glance at the buffet before joining him, hoping the cook would bring out some aloo bonda today. He hadn’t yesterday, choosing to experiment with dosai. Dosai after breakfast. An insult! He and the other drivers had made sure to give him an earful.

At the lunch buffet one always knew what to expect. It was an oasis of friendship and harmony—a serene, happy place amid the craziness of driving a taxi on the streets of New York—and the food was what held it all together. Why change things on a whim?

No one came to the Share Punjabi restaurant looking for surprises.

Grigor was across the street from the Terminal when he saw Musil exit through its Tenth Avenue doors. It was five minutes past noon. Roughly the same time he had taken his lunch for the past two days. Most people were creatures of habit. That was the known and expected element. But today Musil was leaving with another man. He was an unknown and unexpected variable.

They turned right, in front of the building, Musil on the inside of the sidewalk, his companion to his left on the outside.

Grigor took out his phone to snap some photos, holding down its shutter button for three seconds. The two men walked one block south to the corner of West Fifty-Fourth, then crossed to his side of the street, turned right again and continued downtown. He walked about a half block behind them, his long legs keeping an even pace as he checked the phone. Its camera had taken over a dozen rapid-fire photos of the men. In most they were partially blocked from the lens by the moving northbound traffic and other pedestrians. But one clearly showed the person with Musil.