“Why was he going to attack me?”

Prescott listened to the man’s response with a cocked head. Then explained: “Until a few weeks ago he was living in this warehouse, which had been abandoned for at least a year. He’d even put a chain and lock on the back door, so he could have access whenever he wanted and feel safe from street thugs. He had it fixed up nicely. Then the owner or somebody leasing it came back to store things and a man threatened him and threw him out. Beat him up. And he kicked Mario.”

“Who’s Mario?”

“Il mio gatto.”

“His—

“Cat.”

Pronti: “Era scontroso.”

Prescott said, “The man who threw him out was…unpleasant.”

As most cat-kickers would be.

“Today he heard someone and assumed that the man had come back. Pronti wanted to get revenge.”

“Was someone here earlier?” She mentioned the broken bottle.

Pronti’s response, Prescott said, was that, yes, some workers either dropped off a shipment for storage or picked something up. “About two hours ago. He was asleep and missed them. But then he heard you.”

Sachs dug into her pocket and handed the homeless man a twenty-euro note. His eyes grew wide as he calculated, she was sure, how much cheap wine it might buy. She displayed the composite picture of the Composer and the passport photo of Malek Dadi.

“Have you seen them?”

Pronti understood but shook his head in the negative.

So, the most logical explanation for the Post-it was that it had been given to Dadi by someone in the camp, maybe as a possible lead for a job when he was granted asylum.

On the slim chance, though, that there was a connection to the Composer, she said, “You see him.” Pointing to her phone. “You call me?” Mimicking making a phone call like a stand-up comic and pointing to herself.

“Nessun cellulare.” He offered her a disappointed pout. As if he’d have to give back the euros.

“Is there a place near here where I could get him a prepaid?”

“There’s a tabaccaio a block or so away.”

The three of them walked to the tiny quick-mart and Prescott used Sachs’s cash to purchase a phone and some minutes for text and voice.

She entered her number into the phone. “Text me if you see him.” She handed him the Nokia and another twenty.

“Grazie tante, Signorina!”

“Prego. Ask him how his cat, Mario, is? After getting kicked.”

Prescott posed the question.

With a dark face, Pronti answered.

“He says Mario wasn’t badly hurt. The greatest injury was to his pride.” Prescott shrugged. “But, then, isn’t that often the case?”

Chapter 41

C apitano Rhyme glanced up as he was finishing a call to Amelia Sachs.

Ercole fell silent, noticing the phone.

Sachs, still in Milan, was reporting no success; it was almost certain that the clue they’d found—the Post-it note—was from Malek Dadi, not the Composer. For completeness’s sake, she was taking soil samples in the warehouse, and photographing footprints. As for fingerprints, she’d found nearly three hundred latents, too many for a practical analysis. But the effort was surely futile; it was unlikely the Composer had any connection to the place.