But now he was a true investigator, about to search a crime scene on his own.

Even more exciting: Ercole was Lincoln Rhyme’s “secret weapon,” as the famed officer had told him.

Well, one of the secret weapons. The other was sitting beside him. Thom Reston, the man’s aide.

Unlike the first assignment on the furtive Soames investigation—to Natalia Garelli’s apartment—this mission didn’t bother Ercole at all. He had, he supposed, caught the bug, so to speak. Thinking that there might in fact be another perpetrator who’d committed the heinous crime and was blaming innocent Garry Soames, he was inspired to do all he could to get the facts. Earlier, he’d cornered an expert. This specialist came in the luscious form of Daniela Canton. The beautiful—and musically savvy—officer was a basic Flying Squad cop but much of what she did, as the first person on the scene, was to isolate and preserve evidence for the Scientific Police, later to come. Naturally, she was the perfect person to ask. They’d sat in the cafeteria of the Questura, over cappuccinos, as the woman had lectured him matter-of-factly about what to look for, how to approach the scene and, most important, how not to contaminate or alter evidence in any way. Or allow others to do so.

Much of this, it turned out, he’d already learned from Amelia Sachs, but it was pleasant to sit across from Daniela and watch her heavenly blue eyes gazing toward the dusky ceiling as she lectured.

Watch her lengthy, elegant fingers encircle the cup.

A cheetah with azure-blue claws.

He had decided, though, that perhaps she was less creature of the wild than a movie star, albeit one from a different era: the sort appearing in the films of the great Italian directors—Fellini, De Sica, Rossellini, Visconti.

Accordingly, he resisted the sudden urge to show her a picture of Isabella. Proud though he was, there seemed no possible excuse to bring up the topic of a pregnant pigeon to this stellar woman. He simply took notes.

So, armed with her insights, and a fast review of the Scientific Police guidelines, Ercole Benelli had plunged into his mission. And now he eased the poor boxy car onto a sidewalk (parking Neapolitan-style) and climbed out—as did his co-conspirator.

Thom looked around the neighborhood. “What part of town is this?”

“Near the university, so there are many students. Writers. Artists. Yes, yes, it looks tough but it’s rather pleasant.”

The street was typical of this portion of Naples. Narrow apartment buildings painted yellow or gray or red—and most in need of more painting. Some walls were decorated with graffiti and the air was “fragrant”; it had been several days since the trash had been picked up—a condition not unusual, or entirely Naples’s fault, as the Camorra largely controlled the trash collection and the dump sites. Waste removal could be fitful, depending on who was late in paying off whom.

Clothing hung from lines. Children played in the alleyways and the yards behind the stand-alone structures. At least four football games were in progress, the age of the players ranging from six or seven up to early twenties. The latter players, Ercole noted, were strapping and intense and skillful; some of them seemed of professional quality.