Rhyme said, “Truth.”

Spiro stopped. He looked back.

Rhyme said, “There’s only one thing that matters to me. The truth.”

A cold smile. “Do I suspect an excuse is about to wing my way? That’s something else Americans love: excuses. They can do anything, then excuse away their behavior. We kill thousands wrongly, but it was because we were blinded by a higher cause. How your country must feel shame. Day and night.”

“Not an excuse, Prosecutor. A fact. There is absolutely nothing I will not do to arrive at the truth. And that includes going behind your back and anyone else’s if I need to. What we did here, I knew it was against procedure, if not against the law.”

“Which it is,” Spiro reminded.

“Garry Soames could very likely be guilty of raping Frieda S. I don’t care. I honestly don’t. If my line of inquiry proves him guilty, I’ll give those details to you as happily as if I found exculpatory evidence. I told Garry’s lawyer as much. But what I can’t do is allow any uncertainty to remain. Has this piece of evidence told us everything it possibly can? Is it being coy? Is it being duplicitous? Is it pretending to be something else entirely?”

“Very clever, Mr. Rhyme. Do you use that personification in your courses, to charm your students?”

He did, as a matter of fact.

“I found your investigation into the rape case well done—”

“Condescension! Yet another quality you Americans so excel in.”

“No. I mean it. You and Inspector Martelli have done a fine job. But it’s also true that your case is lacking. I identified threads of investigation that I thought it was a good idea to pursue.”

“Ach, these are just words. You have my ultimatum. Leave the country at once or face the consequences.”

Again he turned.

“Did you know about the break-in at Garry’s apartment?”

He paused.

“Someone wearing latex gloves broke the window of his bedroom and hid the break-in, covering the cut-out window with dirt. And it was the room where the date-rape drug traces were found on his clothing. And the window frame and sill—outside the building—contain traces of the drug too.”

Rhyme nodded to Thom, who found the yellow pad, the mini chart. He handed it toward Spiro, who waved his hand dismissively.

He continued to the door.

“Please. Just take one look.”

Sighing loudly, the prosecutor returned and snatched the pad. He read for a moment. “And you found evidence linking someone at the, as you say, smoking station with the scene where the victim was attacked. The trace, the detersivo per il bucato—the soap—and the spices.”

So he recognized the ingredients in the detergent. Impressive.

In a firm voice, he said, “But that proves nothing. The source for that trace would be the hostess, Natalia. She went to the victim’s aid. And her boyfriend, Dev, is Indian. Explaining the curry.” The prosecutor’s face softened. He cocked his head as he said to Rhyme, “I myself was suspicious of him at first. I took his statement at the school and while doing so I observed that he frequently would look over women students as they passed. His eyes seemed hungry. And he was seen talking to the victim, Frieda, earlier that evening. But every minute of the party he was accounted for. And his DNA did not match that which was inside the victim.”