After we killed Owen Cohen, cleaned up the scene, and went out the freight entrance, we walked two blocks before we tried for a cab. She wanted to use her Uber app. I said, “No, that’s an e-track—is that a word yet?—with your name on it.

“Cabs and cash are anonymous. It’s all analog. Human, vague, confusing, and time consuming.” It was still raining. Making it a typical bitch of a New York night to catch a cab, even as late as it was, and it took another fifteen or twenty minutes, trudging to Forty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue, water squishing in our shoes, especially hers with the duct tape wrappings—we’d done both to make them look more uniform—and I wish we’d kept them as art pieces since that banana duct-taped to a wall went for $120,000. Even though I hate umbrellas, I’d taken Owen’s batwing version to mask our faces and create the type of image that misdirects memories. I could imagine a witness, “Uh, it was, uh, like a walking black dome with four legs, I didn’t see no faces, that’s what I remember, a moving black dome, four legs.”

We didn’t catch a cab until the lineup in front of Port Authority. More misdirection. If the driver remembered us at all, it would be as people who’d come in on a bus from New Jersey or upstate or some other distant realm. The cab was a Toyota sedan, neither too old, nor too new. The driver was a Haitian, Johnny-Wolf Juste.

As we headed downtown, Allie asked, “What happened? It seemed like it was all under control, then, what?”

Johnny-Wolf Juste had some Haitian music on. A Caribbean sound, the lyrics more incomprehensible than reggae and its heirs, since it was in an actual other language. I encouraged him to turn it up. He was pleased to do so.

“A ghost,” I explained to Allie. “A text from a dead man. Winston Walker, who’d been Owen’s partner.

“It was actually Winston’s wife using Winston’s phone. Owen would have figured it out quick enough. Wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe he did. He probably did. Then the text. It was a map of Winston’s last half hour or so. He was at the office. Where we just were. It shows that he walks to his car. Stops on the street. Briefly. Walks faster. Into the garage. Where he was killed.

“They’re the lines in a coloring book. It tells you what you should fill in.