“I heard Dispatch says the tows are on the way. But it’ll sit a while longer so the evidence techs can finish their on-site. In case your people want a look for themselves.”

“Thanks.”

Votto shrugged. “You didn’t get that piece of information from me,” he said and paused. “I hope the cocksucker who did this pays.”

Carmody nodded, turned to look for Kali and saw her crouched near the foot of the crossing.

“See you around,” he told the cop, and strode over to her.

“Find something?”

She stood up and showed him.

“This was lying on the street,” she said. “It’s a dastār. A Sikh turban.”

He grunted. “DeBattista’s plane is waiting for us,” he said. “We’re supposed to fly in an hour.”

She nodded.

“Don’t think we’ll make it,” he said.

She nodded again.

“You were way ahead of me on that, weren’t you?” he said.

Kali didn’t answer. After a second she brushed off the turban and folded it neatly in her hands.

“I should return this to Musil,” she said, and walked toward the ambulance.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, the request-a-ride driver pulled his blue Mazda3 sedan into a quiet, dead-end street in Flushing, then rolled slowly toward a large, well-maintained bungalow that was the last house before the cul-de-sac. A For Sale by Owner sign stood in the lawn. The rooms visible through the half-drawn window shades looked empty and bare.

In the passenger seat, Grigor as Luis Castro played with a paper clip he had nicked off the hostess’s stand at the ale house, straightening it and twisting it between his fingers.

“Would you please back in?” he said as they neared the driveway. He dropped the clip into his pocket. “I need to get some luggage out of the place.”

The GoRide driver nodded, drove slightly past the house, and nosed up to the weedy cul-de-sac for a good angle. Then he reversed into the driveway.

“Moving out of town, sir?” he asked.

“Yes.” Grigor used a faint Andalusian accent. Specifically, northern Sevillian with its swallowed letter s. Practice. “I didn’t want to sell. It’s private and quiet here. But my parents are ill, and it’s time to live closer.”

The driver nodded and stopped outside the garage.

“I get it. It’s kinda the same with my mom these days.”

“Asi que va...so it goes. We all get older.”

Grigor reached for his door handle, hesitated. “Would you mind if I put everything into the trunk? My backpack too? So it can all stay together.”

The driver popped open the trunk latch. The phone app had identified him as Terrence. He was about thirty, with brown skin and black hair done in short, tight braids.

“Why not?” he said. “I’ll help with it.”