“Laura Martelli. Yes. Of the Police of State.”

“That’s right. And then I spoke to that American woman and, curiously, a Forestry Corps officer the other day.”

Spiro tossed a wry look Rhyme’s way. He turned back to Natalia. “One detail I am curious about. You say you and your boyfriend had a meal of Indian food the day of the party.”

A pause. “Yes, that is correct. Dinner.”

“What did you have?”

“I cannot recall for certain. Possibly korma and saag. Tikka masala. Why?”

“And you did laundry in the afternoon?”

“Yes. As I told you. Or told someone who asked. So I might have clean linens in the event a guest wished to stay the night.”

Spiro leaned forward slightly and asked in an abrupt tone: “The night of the party, for how long was Frieda Schorel, the victim, flirting with your boyfriend, Dev?”

“I…” He had caught her completely off guard. “They weren’t flirting. Who told you that?”

“I cannot talk about witnesses who give statements in cases.”

Even nonexistent ones, Rhyme reflected.

The green eyes widened momentarily. A potent color. Shamrock green. Rhyme suspected contact lenses. She sputtered: “They were joking, Dev and Frieda. That is all. Your witness is mistaken. It was a party of university students in Naples. A beautiful autumn night. Everybody was having fun.”

“Joking.”

“Sì.”

“Do you know if Dev has ever bought Comfort-Sure condoms?”

She blinked. “How dare you ask me a personal question like that?”

Spiro’s tone was persistent. “Please respond.”

After a hesitation she said, “I do not know what he buys.”

“You are his girlfriend and this you don’t know?”

“No. I don’t pay any attention to such things.”

“If I were to look in your medicine cabinet would I find Comfort-Sure condoms?”

“I resent that question and I resent your attitude.”

Spiro gave a Gallic sneer, his lower jaw extended. “It is of no matter. After you left to come here, an officer went through your apartment. She found no Comfort-Sure.”

“What? How can you do that?”

“Your apartment is a crime scene, Signorina. That is how. Now, as I was saying: None were found. However, credit card records show that your boyfriend did buy a box of Comfort-Sure three days ago. A box of twenty-four condoms. And yet there were none in the house. Where did they go? Who threw them out? For disposing of them is—let us be frank—the only way two dozen condoms might disappear within three days. Some youths have voracious appetites in that regard. But, honestly, two dozen?”

“Are you accusing my boyfriend of the rape? He would never do such a thing.”

“No, I am accusing you of the sexual assault of Frieda Schorel.”

“Me? You are mad!”

“Ah, Signorina Garelli. Let us explain what we have found.”

He glanced at Rhyme, who wheeled to face her. He said evenly, “The lip and neck of the wine bottle on the smoking deck contained traces of condom lubricant, which profiled to be Comfort-Sure brand. It could be associated with—forgive me. I am parsing too fine here. It matched the lubricant on Frieda’s thigh and within her vagina.