“Yes, sir, Inspector. Yes. This is Salvatore Crovi.” Ercole handed over the bicyclist’s ruddy identity card.

Rossi nodded, reviewed the card, and handed it back. Crovi reiterated the story of what he’d seen: a hulking man in a dark-colored sedan, no make or model, no number plate visible. He could see little of the attacker. Wearing dark clothing and cap, the perpetrator had flung the victim to the ground. They had struggled and the bicyclist had hurried away to find Ercole. The victim was a man, dark-complexioned and bearded, wearing a pale-blue jacket.

The detective withdrew a notebook and jotted in it.

Ercole continued, “But when we arrived back, there was no one. No victim, no attacker.”

“You searched?”

“Yes.” Ercole pointed out a large perimeter. “All that way. Yes. He might have gotten farther. But I called out. No one answered. Mr. Crovi assisted. He went in the opposite direction.”

“I saw nothing, Inspector,” the bicyclist offered.

“Perhaps witnesses on a bus?” Rossi asked.

“No, sir. There have been none. I called the transit office. A bus is not due for another half hour. Oh, and I checked with the closest hospitals. No one has been admitted.”

“So, maybe,” Rossi said slowly, “we have a kidnapping. Though that seems curious.”

A horn honked and Rossi looked up, toward a queue of cars. In the front, a sinewy, sixtyish balding man in an ancient Opel was gesturing angrily, sneering, wishing to pass. His way was blocked by Ercole’s SUV. There was another car behind his, filled with a family, and this driver too began to honk. A third joined in.

Rossi asked, “Is that your Ford blocking the road?”

Ercole blushed. “Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I thought it best to protect the scene. But I’ll move it now.”

“No,” Rossi muttered. He walked to the Opel, bent down and calmly whispered something to the driver. Even in the dark, Ercole could see that he blanched. A similar word with the driver behind him and both cars turned about quickly. The third did too, without the need for a personal visit. Ercole knew the lay of the land well here; to pick up the route on the other side of the scene would require a detour of nearly twenty kilometers.

Rossi returned to him.

Ercole added, “And, Inspector, as I was laying the rope, to preserve the scene, I found this.” He walked to a spot beside the bus shelter—little more than a sheet-metal roof supported by two poles, over a scabby bench. He pointed down at some money.

“The scuffle was here, correct?”

Crovi confirmed it was.

Ercole said, “There are eleven euros in coins and thirty Libyan dinars, in bills.”

“Libyan? Hm. You said he was dark?” Rossi asked Crovi.

“Yes, sir. He could well have been North African. I would say most certainly.”

Daniela Canton approached and glanced down at the money. “The Scientific Police are on their way.”

The crime scene unit would lay number placards at the money and at any signs of the scuffle, take pictures of shoe prints and auto tread marks. They would then search more expertly than Ercole had.