“Her. Ah. I kidnapped her husband, and it was really the wife.” A smile. “Who stole my shoe.”

“Yes.”

Intelligent. Good.

Spiro asked, “Would it help to shut the lights out?”

“No, I don’t need that.”

Ercole played the audio. Now that he was aware of its potential value, Rhyme listened carefully. He made out a few noises that he hadn’t noticed in the first or second hearing but not much.

“Again.” Stefan’s voice was firm. He wasn’t the least deferential. Odd how even the most insecure grow assertive when practicing their special art.

Ercole played it once more.

“And again.”

He did so.

“Can I have a pen and paper, please?” Stefan asked.

Spiro produced them instantly.

“It is hard, I am sure, to hear past the voices,” Rossi said.

Stefan responded with a bemused frown. Apparently he could hear past the voices just fine.

“Sound is better than words. Sounds have meanings that are more trustworthy. Robert Frost, the poet, talked about the sound of sense. I love that, don’t you? He said you could experience a poem recited on the other side of a door without hearing the words. The sounds alone would convey the intended emotion and meaning to you.”

Not exactly the ramblings of a madman.

He began to jot notes in perfect script. Beatrice Renza would approve of it.

As he wrote, he said, “The caller was not far from the harbor. I hear Klaxons and warning and announcement horns. Passenger and commercial vessels. Tugboat diesels.”

“Not from trucks?” Rossi asked.

“Of course not, no. They are clearly echoing off undulating water. You can hear the horns and liner diesels too, right?”

Rhyme could not. They were hidden in a morass of noise.

Stefan scribbled quickly, then stared at the sheet. Closed his eyes. They sprang open and he crossed out what he’d just inscribed and then started again.

“I need to control the playback.” He scooted close to the computer, nudging Ercole out of the way.

“These keys can—”

“I know,” Stefan said brusquely and typed. He rewound the audio and replayed certain parts, jotting notes. After ten minutes, he looked up.

“I can hear transmissions downshifting and increasing in volume, as the cars get closer to the phone. That means the caller’s on top of the hill. The hill’s steep. They are mostly cars, mostly small ones, both diesel and gas. One has a muffler about to go. Some vans, I think. But no large trucks.”

Another playback. Staring at a blank wall. “Birds. Two different types. First, pigeons. There are many of them. I can hear their wings flutter from time to time: once, when a roller board—those things boys ride on—went by. Once, when children, about four or five years old, ran after the birds. I can tell the age from their footfalls and the laughs. The pigeons returned at once. They didn’t fly off when cars went by. That tells us that they’re in a square or plaza. Not a street.”