This was the most frustrating occurrence in forensic work, struggling to discover a clue, only to learn that while it probably did have some connection with the perpetrator, the substance was so common that it was useless forensically.

Then Ercole said something to Beatrice and she stepped away, returning a moment later with some photographs.

He studied them carefully.

“What, Ercole, you see something?” Rhyme asked.

“I believe I do, Capitano.”

“And?”

“The reference on the chart—to the organic material. Bits of solids. Look at the photo.”

Rhyme glanced at the images. He could see hundreds of tiny dark fragments.

Ercole added, “Since we now know about the olive oil, I would say that this trace is not olive oil alone. It is pomace. That is the paste left over after the pressing of the olives.”

Spiro said, “So this might have come not from a restaurant or someone’s home but from a producer?”

“Yes.”

Narrowing things down some. But how much? He asked, “Do you have a lot of producers here?”

“In Campania, our region, we don’t have as many as in Calabria, farther south. But still many, many, yes.”

Rhyme: “Then why is this helpful? And why do I see a goddamn smile on your face?”

Ercole asked, “Are you so often in an unpleasant mood, Captain Rhyme?”

“I’ll be considerably more cheerful if you answer my question.”

“I am smiling because of the one thing I do not see in this picture?”

Rhyme lifted an impatient eyebrow.

“I do not see any residue of olive stones—the pits, you know.”

Sachs asked, “Why is that important?”

“There are two ways to make olive oil. To crush the fruit with the pits intact or to destone them first. Cato, the Roman writer, felt that denocciolato oils—destoned before pressing—were superior. Some swear by this, others say no. I am familiar with the subject because I have, in fact, fined producers for claiming their oil is denocciolato when it is not.”

“And,” Rhyme said, not exactly smiling himself, but close, “it is a much more time-consuming and expensive process and therefore fewer producers use that technique.”

“Exactly,” Ercole said. “I would think there are only a few in the area that do so.”

“No,” Beatrice said, head down as she viewed her computer. “Not ‘few.’ Solo uno.” She stabbed a blunt finger onto the map of Naples, indicating a spot no more than ten miles away. “Ecco!”

Chapter 48

Through the dirty windshield, Amelia Sachs looked over the hilly fields outside Naples.

The afternoon air was dusty, filled with the scent of early autumn. Hot too, of course. Always hot here.

She and Ercole were driving past hundreds of acres of olive trees, about eight to ten feet high. They were untidy, branches tangled. On the nearest, she could see the tiny green olives—fruit, Ercole said they were called.

They were not having much luck in the hunt for the Composer.

The Police of State and the Carabinieri had divided up the fields around the Barbera olive oil factory—the only one making oil from destoned olives—in their search for Khaled Jabril and the Composer. This was the sector Sachs and Ercole had drawn. As they had approached down a long road, she was discouraged to see…well, very little. This area, northeast of Naples, was largely deserted. Farmhouses, small companies—generally construction and warehousing—and fields.