“And today someone we think is Grigor, who somehow or other got off the Stalwart, tried to murder Jot Musil. The agent who’s been investigating what happened to the ship,” Natasha said. “And who by no coincidence is also investigating what happened to Stephen Gelfland.”

“Yes,” Kali said. “And we know what’s gone on since.”

Natasha looked at her. “You think maybe somebody here should be checking out the Lucky Gift? Like, at warp fucking flying Hawaiian speed?”

Kali sat in the silent room a moment.

“I do,” she said.

Carmody got a lift back to the Terminal in the rear of the Seeker van. There was no digital evidence for it to collect at the scene, so it hadn’t stuck around long. The techs told him Harris had sent it out just in case.

Meanwhile, the cops gave Jot Musil and his kids a ride home. Musil had wanted the girls to pick up some of their things before bringing them to a relative’s. It was too dangerous for them to stay at their own place with Malkira unaccounted for.

The Seeker was a full cyberforensics laboratory on wheels. Its rear section had creamy fluorescent lighting and looked like the inside of a starship. Computer equipment, control panels, counters and swivel chairs lined the walls. The air was filtered and recycled. Three techs had come out with it. As the van rolled toward Manhattan, Carmody sat in one of the available chairs thinking about things and trying to keep his left arm as still as possible.

They had not yet reached the Queensboro Bridge when his phone rang. The number wasn’t familiar, but on a hunch he decided to answer. The hunch proved correct.

“Carmody. It’s Lombardi.”

“What’ve you got?”

“You’re killing me with pleasantries,” Lombardi said. “Wendell Balen. That’s the name your man used to book his GoRide.”

“You have the trip history?”

“His request was made at one thirty. Pickup spot was a pub called Caswell’s. It’s on West Fifty-Third off Seventh Avenue.”

Carmody was thinking that was just a couple of blocks from where Malkira had ditched the taxi van.

“Balen asked for a couple of stops,” Lombardi said. “One was the bungalow on Meadows Court. The next drop-off was LaGuardia Airport. But I assume that was bullshit. He was never really going there.”

“You have the pickup time?”

“The driver arrived at the pub at one twenty-eight.”

“So he would have gotten to the bungalow around two, two fifteen.”

“In decent traffic, yeah. Probably your man had it all set up ahead of time. Killed Josephs right there in the driveway, stashed him in the trunk, drove to the middle school for the kids. It’s maybe five minutes away.”

“Anything else?”

“I’m assuming the Balen name is an alias. Not that you’re going to tell me if I’m right.”

Carmody was silent.