The Arab detective moved past the woman and stood above Omar Yussef.

“Greetings, ustaz,” he said, in Arabic. His voice was lighter than it had been, as though he were greeting a friend.

“Double greetings.” Omar Yussef stood.

“The other officers tell me you’re visiting from Bethlehem. That’s my hometown.”

Omar Yussef smiled and looked at Ala. “Did you hear that, my boy?” His son twitched his cheek and sneered at his hands.

“I’m Hamza Abayat. I grew up just down the hill from the Nativity Church.”

“I know the Abayats,” Omar Yussef said. “You’re from the Ta’amra clan.”

Hamza grinned broadly. “Welcome, welcome to New York.”

“Unfortunately, this is quite an unwelcome welcome.” Omar Yussef choked out a bitter laugh. He was surprised at how warmly he felt toward the policeman, simply because they shared a hometown. I must be feeling even more lost in this city than I suspected, he thought.

The lieutenant came out of the doorway and looked at Omar Yussef. “The victim’s Palestinian?”

“That’s correct,” Omar Yussef said.

She addressed herself to the Arab detective. “Here’s what we found in the victim’s pockets.” She held up a transparent plastic evidence bag containing a blue passport. “Jordanian passport, identifies holder as Nizar Fayez Khaled Jado, born Bethlehem, West Bank, April 18, 1984. How does this guy have a Jordanian passport if he’s Palestinian?”

“Palestinians don’t have a state, so they don’t have passports of their own,” Hamza said. “Not the kind that’re worth anything, at least.”

The lieutenant waved the Jordanian passport. “You were born in Bethlehem, Hamza. Do you have this kind of passport?”