Oh, and there was the fact that the food here was damn good.

“Garry was beat up. Anything we can say about the case might help get him moved from general population.” Mulbry was on speakerphone in the office Charlotte McKenzie was using at the consulate. She was with him and now said, “The Penitentiary Police are decent folks and they’re looking out for him. But they can’t be there all the time. I just need one fact that suggests he’s innocent, to get him to a different facility.”

Mulbry came on the line. “At least could you give us,” he asked, “an idea of what you’ve found?”

Rhyme sighed. He said, trying to be patient, “We have some indication he might be innocent, yes.” He didn’t want to be more specific, for fear Mulbry would leak it.

“Really?” This was McKenzie. Enthusiasm in her voice.

“But that’s only half the story. We need to be able to point to the real perp. We’re not there yet.” Spiro had blessed their involvement but no way was Rhyme going to make a press statement without the prosecutor’s okay.

Mulbry asked, “Could you give us any clue?”

Rhyme looked up, across the breakfast table. “Oh, I’m sorry. I have an important meeting now. A man is here I have to see. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Well, if—”

Click.

Rhyme turned his attention to the man he’d referred to, who was approaching the breakfast table: their server, a slim fellow in a white jacket with a flamboyant mustache. He asked Rhyme, “Un altro caffè?”

Thom began, “It means—”

“I can figure it out and yes.”

The man left and returned a moment later with the Americano.

Thom looked around the room. “Nobody’s fat in Italy. Have you noticed?”

“What was that?” Rhyme asked Thom. His tone suggested he was not fully present mentally. He was considering both the Garry Soames and the Composer cases.

The aide continued, “Look at this food.” He nodded to a large buffet of different kinds of ham, salami, cheese, fish, fruit, cereal, pastries, a half-dozen varieties of fresh bread, and mysterious delicacies wrapped in shiny paper. And there were eggs and other dishes cooked to order. Everyone was eating a full meal, and, yes, nobody was fat. Plump, maybe. Like Beatrice. But not fat.

“No,” Rhyme said in a snappy tone, summarily ending what would probably have been a conversation about American obesity—a topic that he had absolutely no interest in. “Where the hell is she? We need to get going.”

Mike Hill’s private jet had collected Amelia Sachs in Milan and had transported her back to Naples. She’d landed a half hour ago. She was going to meet Ercole to check out a possible clue in the hills above the refugee camp, but Rhyme hadn’t thought that would take this long.

The waiter was hovering once again.

Thom said, “No, grazie.”

“Prego.” Then, after a dawdle: “It is possible for un autografo?”