Rhyme stared at the translated document. “And something I don’t like. ‘No Other Evidence Found.’ There is always evidence. Ercole, do you know the name ‘Locard’?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“A French criminalist. He lived a long time ago. He came up with a principle that is still valid. He felt that at every crime scene there is a transfer of evidence from the perpetrator to the victim or to the scene. And from that evidence it is possible, even if very difficult, to determine the perp’s identity or location. He was speaking of trace evidence, of course.”

Ercole, some sixth sense kicking in, it seemed, said quickly, “Allora, I am happy to have helped you. Now I must go. I will see if Beatrice has made some discoveries, as she probably has. Moving us closer to the Composer. Our important case.” He looked to Sachs for help. None was forthcoming.

Rhyme said, “We need another search of Natalia’s apartment, Ercole. Particularly the smoking station. I’ll bet that’s where Mr. X was waiting to keep an eye on Frieda. The roof next door too. And we need to examine Garry’s apartment—to see if the drug residue was planted to incriminate Garry…Two simple searches. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Oh, tops.”

Both he and Sachs were staring intently at Ercole Benelli, who had taken to reassembling the file, as if by closing it he’d put this matter to rest forever. Finally, he could avoid them no longer and he looked up. “Quello che chiedete è impossibile. Do you understand? Impossibile!”

Chapter 29

The party where the rape had occurred had been held in an apartment in the Vomero neighborhood of Naples.

The area was atop a high hill that could be reached via funicular or a drive up steep, winding streets. From the crest, you had an Olympus-like view—of the bay, Vesuvius in the distance, and the infinite patchwork of colors and textures and shapes that was Naples.

This was, Sachs’s chauffeur, Ercole Benelli, had told her, considered the nicest part of the city. The Vomero was dotted with Art Nouveau architecture and modern-style offices and residences, while mom-and-pop stores and vintage-clothing shops were found next to the chicest designer retail locations that Italy had to offer…and Italy, of course, had chic down cold.

As they’d begun the drive, after a persuasive argument by Rhyme, Ercole had been sullen. His “impossibile” eventually became “forse”—perhaps—and then what must have been the Italian equivalent of a grudging, “Oh, all right.” Eventually his easy spirits had returned and as they careened through Neapolitan traffic, Ercole seemed resigned to the risk of being pummeled by Spiro, and he turned tour guide, pelting Sachs with sound bites of the history of the city, present and distant past.

GPS finally got them to Natalia’s apartment, a classic Mediterranean-style structure on a small residential street, Via Carlo Cattaneo. They parked and Ercole led the way. Some children stared at them, enthralled, their attention seized by his uniform and the NYPD gold shield on her hip. Some boys tried to catch a glimpse under their jackets, hoping, she guessed, to spot a weapon. Others were more cautious.