“Benelli.”

“Ah, Benelli! You are perhaps an heir to the motorcycle family?” Albini’s face beamed. “The shotgun family?”

The officer said nothing in response, though he was at a loss to figure out how the criminal planned to leverage a famous family connection to his advantage, had one existed, which it did not.

Then Albini grew serious. “But honestly. All I do is sell a product for which there is a need and desire and I charge a fair price. I never said they are from Campania. Has one person ever said I have made that claim?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a liar.”

“There are dozens.”

“They, then, are liars. To a man.”

“Even so, you have no import license.”

“What is the harm, though? Has anyone gotten sick? No. And, in fact, even if they are from China, they are of equal quality to those from our region. Smell them!”

“Mr. Albini, the very fact that I cannot smell them from here tells me they are vastly inferior.”

This was certainly the case. The best truffles give off a scent that is as far-ranging as it is unique and seductive.

The crook offered what appeared to be a smile of concession. “Now, now, Officer Benelli, do you not think that most diners would have no clue as to whether they were eating truffles from Campania, from Tuscany, from Beijing, from New Jersey in America?”

Ercole didn’t doubt this was true.

But still, the law was the law.

He lifted the handcuffs off his belt.

Albini said, “I have euros in my pocket. Many euros.” He smiled.

“And they will be logged into evidence. Every last one of them.”

“You bastard!” Albini grew agitated. “You can’t do this.”

“Hold your hands out.”

The man’s eyes were cold as they dipped to Ercole’s gray uniform, scornfully focusing on the insignia on the cap and the breast of the open-necked jacket. “You? Arrest me? You’re a cow officer. You’re a rare-species officer. You’re a fire warden. You’re hardly a real policeman.”

The first three charges, while insultingly toned, were accurate. The fourth comment slung his way was false. Ercole was a full-fledged police officer with the Italian government. He worked for the CFS, or State Forestry Corps, which was indeed charged with enforcing agricultural regulations, protecting endangered species, and preventing and fighting forest fires. It was a proud and busy law enforcement agency that dated to the early 1800s and counted more than eight thousand officers in its ranks.

“Come along, Mr. Albini. I’m taking you into custody.”

The counterfeiter growled, “I have friends. I have friends in the Camorra!”

This was decidedly not true; yes, the crime organization, based in Campania, was involved in rackets surrounding food and wine (and, ironically, the end result thereof: garbage), but no self-respecting gang leader would invite into the fold such a small, weasely operator as Albini. Even the Camorra had standards.

“Now, come on, sir. Don’t make this difficult.” Ercole stepped closer. But before he could restrain the criminal, a shout of alarm rang out from the road. Indistinct words, but urgent.