They parked a mile from the perimeter wall and waited as the gray faded to black, moon invisible behind gritty smog. Alice scanned the sky with a pair of old NYPD image enhancers looking for Rothmore’s car to return. It took an hour before it dropped beyond the wall, its cubic form lit like a Christmas tree under her scopes. Xavi was asleep in the van’s rear, chest rising in a steady rhythm. She was about to wake him when her phone chirped. It was the NYPD MI data-request reply to her photographs of Xavi’s tattoos and fingerprints.