“There are no skid marks from the cab’s tires,” he said. “When a driver hits his brakes to stop, his wheels lock. His wheels lock, there’s friction between the tire and the street. There’s friction, the tire rubber heats up and transfers a residue to the blacktop.”

Votto didn’t say anything.

“The cabbie never hit the brake pedal,” Carmody said. “His wheels kept spinning. There was zero drag between the rubber and the road. So no marks.”

Votto still didn’t say anything.

“Another thing,” Carmody said. “When somebody flies backward over a moving vehicle, it usually happens for two reasons. One, its front end is higher than his center of gravity. Figure the bumper of the taxi was about level with our guy’s stomach, maybe a little higher, so that part jibes. But you know the second reason?”

Votto slowly shook his head.

“The taxi was accelerating. If it’s decelerating when it hits someone, it pushes him forward, or rolls over him, or maybe carries him along under its wheels. But when the driver’s foot is on the gas and the vehicle is speeding up, it tosses him up and backward. Like a wild bull in a ring when it charges the matador.”

Votto looked at him for a long moment.

“Were you a cop in another life?”

“No.”

“Then, what?”

“Air Force,” Carmody said. “Twenty-Second Special Tacs.”

“Iraq?”

“Different places.”

“And after you got out of the service?”

“I can’t talk about after,” Carmody said.

Votto shrugged, then glanced past him and down the block.

“Those cabbies park outside the restaurant over there every day around noon,” he said. “It’s got a prayer rug in back. They go over to it, do their thing, then have lunch together and go back on shift. Usually, they’re inside an hour or so.”

Carmody nodded.

“One of them had his passenger van stolen,” Votto said. “Whoever took it hit your guy and then left it a few blocks east of here. In the middle of the street.”

“What’s a few blocks east to you?”

“Fifty-Sixth,” the cop said. “Around Ninth.”

Carmody nodded. “Those cab drivers wouldn’t leave their motors running. Not if they’re going to be inside the place an hour.”

“Probably not.”

“Was there a spare key in the van?”

“No. It’s keyless.”

“People still leave spares. Most often in the center console.”

“The driver claims he didn’t.”

Carmody regarded him a moment. “So somebody starts up the cab, plows through this crosswalk, rounds the next corner, drives an avenue and runs off.”

“Right.”

“Like that somebody did what he did with a purpose.”

“Maybe.”

“Any sign of him?”

“Not far as I know. But Fifty-Sixth is a crowded street. He could’ve stopped at the light and booked it before anyone noticed.”

“And the van’s still there?”