“Okay. Easy-peasy. I’ll tell the crew. They’ll need to file a flight plan. Coupla hours should do it. And I’ll have my driver take you to the airport.”

Sachs began, “Mr. Hill—”

“Mike, per favore.” Spoken with the worst Italian accent Rhyme had ever heard. “And if you’re gonna bring up money, forget it. Won’t cost much to make a stop in Milano. So consider this gratis.”

“We appreciate it.”

“Never had a chance to help catch a psycho and probably never will again. Glad to do my duty.” Hill rose, pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped to the corner of the office, where, Rhyme could hear, he had conversations with the pilot and his chauffeur, coordinating the trip.

“Lincoln, Amelia.” A woman’s voice from the doorway. Rhyme looked up to see Charlotte McKenzie walk into the office, looking rumpled. Her short blond hair was a bit spiky and her copper-colored blouse a bit wrinkled. Maybe her cold was taking its toll. “Henry.” She nodded to Thom too.

“So, hitching a ride to Milan,” she said to Rhyme. “That worked out?”

Musgrave nodded toward Mike Hill, still on the phone, and said to McKenzie, “Mike’s plane’ll get Detective Sachs up there this morning.”

“Good. You think this guy, the Composer, he’s left Naples? He’s up there?”

Sachs said, “We don’t know the connection. Just an address on a note from the crime scene at the refugee camp.” She then said to Musgrave, “One thing I’m hoping. Is there someone at the consulate in Milan who could drive me, translate for me?”

Charlotte McKenzie said, “I have a colleague there. He does what I do, legal liaison. Pete Prescott. Good man. I can see if he’s free.”

“That’d be great.”

She texted and a moment later her phone chimed with an incoming message. “Yes, he is. I’ll text you his number, Amelia.”

“Thanks.”

Mike Hill joined them, slipping his phone away. Musgrave introduced him to McKenzie and then the businessman said to Sachs, “All set. You’re good to go. My driver’ll pick you up at eleven…where’s good?”

She gave him the hotel address.

“Know it. Great old place. Makes me feel like I’m part of the Rat Pack when I stay there.”

Another figure appeared in the doorway, the slim, very pale man of indeterminate age Rhyme remembered from the other day. Ah, yes, the public relations officer. What was the name again?

He nodded to those present and introduced himself to Hill. “Daryl Mulbry.”

The slight man sat and said to Rhyme, “We’re getting inundated with requests from the press—about both Garry and the Composer. Would you be willing to sit down for an interview?” Mulbry stopped short and blinked—undoubtedly at the awkward choice of a verb, considering Rhyme’s condition.

As if he cared. “No,” Rhyme said shortly. “I don’t have anything to say at this point, other than that we’ve got a composite rendering of the Composer and that’s gone to the press anyway.”

“Yes, I’ve seen it. Intimidating-looking guy. Big. But what about Garry? Any statement?”