She was speaking to Rhyme, Massimo Rossi, Ercole Benelli and Amelia Sachs.

Rossi asked her a question in Italian.

The forensic analyst said in English, “I was able only to make reconstruction of a partial fingerprint from the leafs that you”—a nod to Ercole—“recovered. Yes, it was a print on the leaf, yes, I would assume it was left by our furfante, our villain, the Composer, for his footprint was below the place where you sawed the branch off. But it is merely a very minor portion of a friction ridge. It is not enough for the systems to match.”

“And the trace?” Rhyme asked.

“I have had more successfulness there. From the soil in the tread marks of his Converse shoes I have discovered a several grains of soil…infused with carbon dioxide, unburned hydrocarbons, oxides of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, kerosene.”

“Engine exhaust,” Rhyme said.

“Yes, exactly as I had considered.”

“What do the proportions suggest?”

“Jet aircraft. Because of the levels of kerosene. Not automobiles or trucks. And in addition, I found this: Fibers that are coerente…”

“Consistent,” Ercole said.

“Sì, with those in napkins or paper towelettes. And in the trace and in the fibers were substances that are consistent with these foods: sour milk, wheat, potatoes, chili powder, turmeric, tomatoes. And fenugreek. You are familiar?”

“No.”

Ercole said, “Ingredients in Northern African cuisine, most frequently.”

Beatrice said, “Yes, yes. With those materials, ingredients, possibly it is being bazin, a bread from Liberia or Tunisia.” She touched her belly and added, “I know food well. All types of food I know, I will say.” No smile, no embarrassment.

She added, “Allora, I called restaurants in the area of his staking-out, fifteen kilometers around, a circle, from D’Abruzzo, and they are all traditional Italian. There are no establishments of Middle Eastern or North African eating nearby.” She spoke to Ercole, who translated: “So, the Composer had recently been somewhere near cooking of this kind, a restaurant, a family.”

Rhyme scowled.

“Is something wrong?” Massimo Rossi asked.

“The analysis is fine. The problem is I don’t know how to put the evidence in context. You have to know the geography in this business. The landscape, the culture of your crime scenes.”

“Sì, this is true,” Beatrice said.

“Allora,” Rossi said. “Perhaps, Captain Rhyme, I can be of help. We had an incident not long ago. Refugees from Africa refused to eat Italian pasta. True, it was simple, with only pomodoro—tomato—sauce.” He wrinkled his nose. “I prefer ragù or pesto. But, my story is this: The refugees complained, can you believe that? And they insisted on native food. My feeling is, your expression in English, beggars cannot be choosers, but many people took their protests to heart and an effort was made to give the refugees traditional Libyan and North African food. But the refugee camps and facilities are not always able to do so. So, near the camps are many vendors selling Libyan and Tunisian ingredients and fully cooked food.”