‘Invited to what?’ I had no idea what he was talking about. My name was rare. I had never encountered another Scarpetta, not even in Italy.

The maitre d’ hesitated. ‘You are not related to the Scarpetta who comes here often?’

‘What Scarpetta?’ I said, getting uneasy.

‘A man. He has been here many times recently. A very good customer. He was invited to our Christmas party. So you are not his guests?’

‘Tell me more about him,’ I said.

‘A young man. He spends much money.’ The maitre d’ smiled.

I could feel Wesley’s interest pique. He said, ‘Can you describe him?’

‘I have many people inside. We reopen tomorrow…’

Wesley discreetly displayed his shield. The man regarded it calmly.

‘Of course.’ He was polite but unafraid. ‘I find you a table.’

‘No, no,’ Wesley said. ‘You don’t have to do that. But we need to ask more about this man who said his last name was Scarpetta.’

‘Come in.’ He motioned us. ‘We talk, we may as well sit. You sit, you may as well eat. My name is Eugenio.’

He led us to a pink-covered table in a corner far removed from guests in party clothes filling most of the dining room. They were toasting, eating, talking and laughing with the gestures and cadences of Italians.

‘We do not have full menu tonight,’ Eugenio apologized. ‘I can bring you costoletta di vitello alia griglia or polio al limone with maybe a little cappellini primavera or rigatoni con broccolo.’

We said yes to all and added a bottle of Dolcetto D’Alba, which was a favorite of mine and difficult to find.

Eugenio went to get our wine while my mind spun slowly and sick fear pulled at my heart.

‘Don’t even suggest it,’ I said to Wesley.

‘I’m not going to suggest anything yet.’

He didn’t have to. The restaurant was so close to the subway station where Gault had been seen. He would have noticed Scaletta’s because of the name. It would have made him think of me, and I was someone he probably thought about a lot.

Almost instantly, Eugenio was back with our bottle. He peeled off foil and twisted in the corkscrew as he talked. ‘See, 1979, very light. More like a Beaujolais.’ He pulled the cork out and poured a little for me to taste.

I nodded, and he filled our glasses.

‘Have a seat, Eugenio,’ Wesley said. ‘Have some wine. Tell us about Scarpetta.’

He shrugged. ‘All I can say is he first come in here several weeks ago. I know he had not been in before. To tell the truth, he was unusual.’

‘In what way?’ Wesley asked.