If I’d still been holding the cup, it would have slid out of my hands. I’d had a vodka-induced headache before I’d arrived at Tariq’s, but now my heart was pounding in time with my temples. “Is Martin hurt?”

“I do not know. The inspector said my cousin had accosted Martin Sklar before being shot. I did not know Tariq’s connection to this man. I had never heard his name before.”

Tariq had accosted Martin? “Do you have a computer?”

“In the library.”

She led me down the hall. Tariq had a state-of-the-art desktop with a massive screen, but my nervous fingers fumbled on the ergonomic keyboard. “What else did the police say?”

“Ali is dead.” The way Padma said his name was like a sigh.

“Ali?”

“Tariq’s driver.”

Of course. The baby-faced young man who had reminded me to keep my gloves on in Kaylee Quan’s house was now dead. “Did Tariq call you before this happened?” My eyes were glued to the screen. The New York Times had nothing. I surfed over to New York 1’s website, where there was a tiny breaking news item.

“I had not heard from Tariq since he went out to meet you today,” said Padma.

The words on the screen made both of us fall silent. MIDTOWN SHOOTING LEAVES 1 DEAD, the headline read.

Two Pakistani nationals suspected in a kidnapping plot have been shot in midtown. Real estate magnate Martin Sklar was their intended target, but was unharmed in the shooting. The would-be kidnappers may have a terrorism connection, says a source. One of the attackers has made four trips to Pakistan in the past six months.

“What the hell is going on?” I thought of Tariq’s comments about Martin in the car that afternoon. Was he angry—or jealous—that Claudia had reached out to Martin for help? I reached for my phone and snapped it open, pulling Martin’s cell number out of memory. My call went straight to voicemail, where a robotic voice informed me the mailbox was full before it hung up on me. Same thing at his apartment. I felt like throwing the phone into a wall and screaming, but Padma was there. When I looked at her I was stunned to see her small hands balled into fists.

“He goes to visit his mother in Pakistan, and they call him a terrorist,” she said. “His mother, who is slowly dying of cancer in Lahore.” She choked on the last word, bringing her fists down so hard on the table that the computer bobbled from side to side. She sank to her knees, crying.