“Thought so,” Lombardi said. “The credit card he used is legit, though. Opened in twenty twenty-two. The GoRide account was just opened today.”

“Does it have Wendell Balen’s address information?”

“GoRide just needs a valid email,” Lombardi said. “I can tell you rideshare a lot when you aren’t crashing expensive motorcycles through windows.”

Carmody was quiet another second. “If the card’s for real, the issuer would have a mailing address on file for Balen. Other information from when the account was opened. Somebody had to fill out an application.”

“Right.”

Carmody grunted. “Got anything else on Balen for me?”

“If I say a case is yours, it’s yours,” Lombardi said. “I’m not looking for extra work.”

Carmody sat quietly as the van rolled on.

“OK,” he said. “Thanks for the call.”

“Don’t mention it, McQueen. You ever feel like telling me what all this is about, I’ll cover the beers.”

“One or several?”

“Hey, I live my whole life in Queens, it makes me a Mets fan. Doesn’t necessarily make me a fucking cheapskate too.”

Carmody nodded with the phone to his ear.

“Good to know,” he said.

“Some guys have all the luck,” said the doctor.

The name on her tag was Lina Rae, and she was an acute care surgeon at Mount Sinai West in Hell’s Kitchen, about four blocks north of the Terminal.

“When’s getting shot ever lucky?” Carmody asked.

He was sitting on a cot in the ER, shirtless, Rae inspecting the dressing she had applied to his forearm with the help of one of the nurses. The privacy curtains were drawn, and an antibiotic solution was dripping into his arm from an IV bag.

“When the bullet misses your artery and doesn’t hit bone or nerve tissue because your triceps belongs on a plow horse, leaving very little collateral damage besides the wound,” Rae said. “The X-rays show I got most of it out. But I think there are still pieces in your arm.”

“You think?”

“You have enough shrapnel inside you to trigger a metal detector. Some of what’s in your arm is embedded in scar tissue, so I’m guessing it’s been there a while. But I can’t absolutely differentiate the new from the old without more scans.”

Carmody grunted and glanced up at the IV bag. It had emptied by about a third since she had spiked the back of his left hand. He put his right thumb and forefinger around the needle cap.

“What are you doing?” Rae asked.

“Unhooking.”

“You can’t do that,” she said.

He pulled out the needle, hung the line on the pole and smiled at her. “Wasn’t so hard.”

She frowned. “You haven’t gotten the full round of amoxi. I’d also like you to stay for observation. At least a couple of hours.”