“On the glue from the window and also the glue on the coin?”

“Certainly.”

Fourier Transform Infrared Spectroscopy is a simpler concept than the name implies. Chemical bonds of a molecule absorb light wavelengths and produce an annotated spectrum that is as unique as a fingerprint. At first glance, what they find is no surprise. The spectra are the same for the glue used on the window and the glue on the coin: Both are a cyanoacrylate but not one either Scarpetta or Dr. Franz recognizes. The molecular structure isn’t the ethylcyanoacrylate of everyday superglue. It’s something different.

“Two-octylcyanoacrylate,” Dr. Franz says, and the day is running away from them. It’s half past two. “I have no idea what that is except, obviously, an adhesive. And the glue in Rome? The molecular structure of that?”

“I’m not sure anyone asked,” she says.

Historic buildings softly lit, and the white steeple of Saint Michael’s pointing sharply at the moon.

From her splendid room, Dr. Self can’t distinguish the harbor and the ocean from the sky because there are no stars. It has stopped raining, but not for long.

“I love the pineapple fountain, not that you can see it from here.” She talks to the city lights beyond her window because it’s more pleasant than talking to Shandy. “Way down there at the water, below the market. And little children, so many of them underprivileged, splash in it during the summer. I will say, if you have one of those expensive condos, the noise would rather much tarnish your mood. Listen, I hear a helicopter. Do you hear it?” Dr. Self says. “The Coast Guard. And those huge planes the Air Force has. They seem like flying battleships, overhead every other minute, but then you know about those big planes. Wasting more taxpayers’ money for what?”

“I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d stop paying me,” Shandy says from her chair near a window, where she has no interest in the view.

“For more waste, more death,” Dr. Self says. “We know what happens when these boys and girls come home. We know it all too well, don’t we, Shandy?”

“Give me what we talked about and maybe I’ll leave you alone. I just want what everybody else does. There’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t give a shit about Iraq,” Shandy says. “I’m not interested in sitting here for hours talking about your politics. You want to hear real politics, come hang out at the bar.” She laughs in a not-so- nice way. “Now, that’s a thought, you at the bar. You on a big ole hog.” She rattles ice in her drink. “A Bush-whacker in Bush country.”

“Or perhaps you’re shrubs.”