“Perhaps he’s working. He drives a taxi. So did Nizar. They were like brothers.”

“That’d make him a prime suspect-it’s a specialty of us Palestinians to kill our brothers.” Hamza wiggled his fingers. “His description?”

Ala shrugged like a surly teenager. “Rashid’s about my height, a bit shorter. All three of us used to share clothes, except for some of Nizar’s better items; he was very particular about them. Anyway, Rashid’s slim and has dark hair that he wears brushed back. He’s clean-shaven. He smokes all the time, and he’s very jumpy.”

“Does he have a black coat?” Omar Yussef asked.

“Yeah,” Ala said.

The detective stared at Omar Yussef, even as he posed his next question to Ala. “When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday evening, when I went out to do my night shift in the taxi.”

“Anything unusual? Did he seem especially nervous or excited?”

Ala folded his arms. “Especially nervous? Since he came to New York, Rashid has always behaved like there was someone around the next corner who might want to kill him. He’s constantly terrified of being mugged or shot or stabbed or pushed under a subway train.”

“Why?”

“He thinks Americans are all blood-crazed street hoodlums who hate Arabs.” Ala stuck out his jaw and sneered. “What do you think of Americans?”

“Stick with Rashid, okay?”

“He’s perpetually terrified.”

“And that’s how he seemed last night?”

“No more than usual.”

Hamza turned to Omar Yussef. “What’s your name, ustaz? Where in Bethlehem does your family live?”

“I’m Omar Yussef Sirhan, from Dehaisha Refugee Camp.”

His eyes on the notepad in his hand and his voice quiet, the detective said, “You’re the schoolteacher called Abu Ramiz. From the UN Girls’ School in the camp?”

Omar Yussef looked in surprise at the policeman. “How do you know?”