“Because the molecule in his body would vibrate.”

“Exactly.”

“I like it when people’re excited about their jobs. When you first said ‘sound engineer,’ I thought, hm, pretty dull. But you’re, you know, totally into it. That’s cool.”

Funny when the one thing that makes you crazy keeps you sane.

He was looking over her now, as she turned and walked closer to an inscription in Latin, carved in stone.

Tap, tap, tap.

Her boots.

This isn’t a good idea…

Stefan said to himself: Leave. Tell her goodbye. It’s been fun. Have a nice trip back home.

But Stefan felt Euterpe hovering over him now, looking out, giving him permission to do what he had to do. Anything to keep the Black Screams away. She’d understand.

To the right the cave disappeared into a dim recess.

“Let’s go in the back there.” He pointed that way.

“There? It’s pretty dark.”

Yes, it was. Pretty dark but completely deserted.

Stefan wondered for a moment if he’d have to convince her but apparently Lilly believed she was in no danger. He was a little quirky maybe, he sweated a bit much, he was pudgy, but he was a sound engineer who didn’t mind conversation and who said interesting things.

Women always fell for men who talked.

Oh, and he was an American. How much danger could he be?

“Okay, sure.” A sparkle in her eyes.

They started in the direction he’d indicated.

On the pretense of looking around, he fell slightly behind her.

Hearing her boot soles and heels snapping:

Tap, tap, tap…

He looked around. They were completely alone.

Stefan reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the cool metal.

Tap, tap, taptaptaptaptap…

Chapter 38

Carl Sandburg.

“Carl…The poet, right?” Amelia Sachs asked the balding man driving a small, gray Renault.

The associate of Charlotte McKenzie’s, he’d picked her up at Linate Airport, the smaller of the two aerodromes in Milan, closer to the city center. They were in thick traffic.

“That’s right,” Pete Prescott told her. “He wrote ‘Chicago.’” The legal liaison dropped his voice a bit, to sound poetic, Sachs guessed, and recited the opening lines, about the Hog Butcher.

“You from there, Chicago?” Sachs didn’t know where this was going.

“No, Portland. My point is the poem might’ve been about Milan. Milan is the Chicago of Italy.”

Ah. Got it. She’d been wondering.

“Working, busy, not the prettiest city in the country, not by a long shot. But it has energy and a certain charm. Not to mention The Last Supper. The fashion world. And La Scala. Do you like opera?”

“Not really.”

A pause. Its meaning: How could someone with a pulse not like opera?

“Too bad. I could get tickets to La Traviata tonight. Andrea Carelli is singing. It wouldn’t be a date.” He said this as if waiting for her to blurt, “No, no, a date would be wonderful.”

“Sorry. I’ve got to get back tonight, if possible.”

“Charlotte said you’re working on the case. The kidnapper.”