“You’ll need a better coat if you’re going to walk the streets of New York, uncle.” Hamza came to Omar Yussef’s side, pushing his big hands into the pockets of his blue parka. “It’s colder than a water-carrier’s donkey, as they say back home.”

Omar Yussef was about to tell the detective that his shivers were for his son, but a sharp gust of icy wind stopped him. His hands trembled as he tried to zip the front of his windbreaker. “I’m going to the police station,” he said. “I don’t need a coat.”

“Not a good idea. You won’t be able to see your boy for a long time, unless he changes his mind and decides to talk.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Even if he isn’t the perpetrator-”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course he’s not.”

“-he’s hiding something. The killer may know that and want him out of the way, in case your boy decides to spill. Could be he’s safer in custody than out here. Maybe that’s why he clammed up.”

Omar Yussef spun around, as though the killer might lurk behind one of the stark winter trees. He shuddered.

Hamza stared south along the avenue, away from the direction in which the patrol car had disappeared. “This isn’t the magical, exciting New York you see in the cinema,” he said. “This is just a quiet neighborhood of Brooklyn. But there are many astonishing things even here, uncle-things we could never imagine back home in Palestine.”

Omar Yussef closed his eyes and breathed deeply, willing his frozen hands to stop shaking. He’s giving me a chance to fumble with the zipper on this jacket without embarrassment. He’s also switched to calling me uncle from the more formal ustaz. He wants to charm some kind of information out of me. Perhaps I can lead him away from the idea that Ala could’ve had anything to do with this. Maybe that’d be more use to my son than waiting in a corridor at the station. “The neighborhood looks very ordinary to me, but I’m ready to be impressed,” he said with a smile.