He turned to Rhyme. “In Italy, if you haven’t already gathered, we have a more—come si dice?—a more holistic approach to justice. The magistrates and the juries take many things into account—not just in setting the punishment but in establishing guilt in the first place.” He added, “One last remaining matter has been resolved. Garry Soames has been released, and Natalia Garelli formally charged for Frieda S.’s assault.” He rubbed a finger across his mustache. “Natalia was quite astonishing. Her first question, upon hearing the formal charges, was what brand cosmetics were sold in prison and if she could get a cell with a makeup table and mirror.”

Ercole Benelli appeared in the doorway. Rhyme saw immediately that his face was troubled.

“Sir?”

Both Rossi and Spiro looked his way, though it was clear he meant the inspector.

“Sì, Ercole?”

“I just…something is curious. Troublesome, that is to say.”

“Che cosa?”

“You recall, as you wanted, I took the evidence to the locker room, everything the Scientific Police and Detective Sachs and I collected regarding Fatima and Mike Hill and the incident at the Castel dell’Ovo—everything, of course, except the C4 explosive itself, which is at the army bomb facility. I asked that this evidence be filed with the Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie evidence.”

“That was right,” Rossi said. “The cases are related, of course.”

“But the administrator of the evidence room looked at the records and said there was no file for Stefan or Charlotte. No evidence had been logged in.”

“Not logged in?” Rossi asked. “But didn’t you do so?”

“Yes, sir. Yes. Just as you asked. Everything from the bus stop, the camp, the aqueduct and underground, the farmhouse near the composting facility, the factory in Naples…all the scenes! Everything! I went directly there from here. But the administrator looked twice—and then, at my request, again.” His miserable eyes zipped from Rossi’s to Spiro’s and settled on Rhyme’s. “Every bit of evidence in the Composer case. It has vanished.”

Chapter 69

Massimo Rossi strode to the landline telephone unit on a fiberboard table and placed a call, dialing three numbers. After a moment, he cocked his head and said, “Sono Rossi. Il caso del Compositore? Stefan Merck e Charlotte McKenzie. Qual è il problema?”

He listened and his face grew troubled. After a moment, he looked toward Ercole. “Hai la ricevuta?”

Ercole fell into English. “The receipt? For the evidence, you mean?”

“Sì. When you logged it in.”

The young officer was blushing furiously. “I received one just now—for the recent evidence. But earlier? No. I left everything at the Evidence Room intake desk. There was a man in the back—I didn’t see who. I called to him that I was dropping off evidence, along with the proper paperwork, and I left.”

Rossi stared at him, whispering, “Nessuna ricevuta?”

“I…no. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Rossi closed his eyes.

As a forensic scientist, Rhyme could think of no greater sin among law enforcers than being careless with—much less losing—the evidence in a case.