“I have an American passport, Lieutenant.”

“Right, right.” The woman smiled and brandished another clear bag. “Wallet containing New York State driver’s license, bank card, Social Security card, all in the name of the said Nizar Fayez Khaled Jado, resident at this address. A couple of ticket stubs from the Cyclone at Coney Island and some paintball thing out that way, too-a thrill-seeker, this guy. Then there’s this one other bag. What does this say, Hamza? It’s in Arabic, right?”

“What’s paintball?” Omar Yussef asked.

“Killing for fun,” Hamza mumbled, reaching for the last plastic bag. Spread inside it was a sheet of pink writing paper covered in delicate script. Omar Yussef noticed Ala look up, as the detective read.

“It’s a letter from someone named Rania. She’s writing to this Nizar,” Hamza said.

“What does it say?” the lieutenant asked again.

Hamza cleared his throat. “It’s a love letter.”

“Come on, bashful. Translate.”

“‘I want to be with you again, to feel you close-’” The big detective stopped. “It’s not decent to read it here. It’s very-detailed.”

Ala sucked in his breath.

The lieutenant took the letter. “Okay, fine, we’ll go back to the precinct house and dim the lights, and you’ll read me Romantic Rania’s letter over a nice bubbly flute of Chateau Budweiser.” She turned to the bedroom, halted, and pointed at the smaller room. “Whose room is this?”

Ala mumbled, “My roommate, Rashid.”

“Rashid? Get his full details, Hamza.” She went back to the corpse.

The Arab detective took out a narrow notebook, small in his thick hand. He rubbed his chin and lifted his eyebrows at Ala.

The boy dropped his eyes to Hamza’s tan boots. His lip rose as though he felt nauseous. “His name is Rashid Takrouri,” he said.

“Where is he?”