Slowly, as if figuring out the scenario, Rossi said, “The victim was perhaps fishing for money in anticipation of the bus when the kidnapper took him and he dropped it. How else would it be scattered? Which means he didn’t have a ticket. Perhaps this was an unexpected trip.”

Daniela, nearby, had heard and she said, “Or, if he was illegal—a Libyan refugee—he might not have wanted to go to a ticket office.”

“True.” Rossi’s glance rose and he broadened his examination. “The coins are here. The dinar there, a bit farther away and scattered. Let us assume he had dug out the contents of his pockets and withdrawn the money to count it out. He’s attacked, the coins fall directly to the ground. The lighter dinars are carried in this breeze and float over there. Was there anything lighter yet in his hand that the wind carried?” Rossi said to Daniela and Giacomo, “Search in that direction. We should preserve it now, even before the Scientific Police arrive.”

Ercole watched them pull booties and latex gloves from their pockets, don them and walk through the bushes, both playing Maglite flashlights over the ground.

Another car approached.

This was not a Police of State Flying Squad patrol car or an unmarked but a personal vehicle, a Volvo, black. The driver was a lean, unsmiling man, a dusting of short gray hair on his head. His salt-and-pepper goatee was expertly crafted and ended in a sharp point.

The car nosed to a stop and he climbed out.

Ercole Benelli recognized him too. He’d had no personal contact with the man but he owned a TV.

Dante Spiro, the senior prosecutor in Naples, wore a navy-blue sports coat and blue jeans, both close fitting. A yellow handkerchief blossomed from the breast pocket.

Fashionista…

He was not a tall man, and his deep-brown ankle boots had thick heels that boosted his height a solid inch or two. He had a dour expression and Ercole wondered if that was because he resented being interrupted at dinner, surely with a beautiful woman. Spiro, like Rossi, had had considerable success in prosecuting cases against and winning convictions of high-profile criminals. Once, two associates of a Camorra kingpin he’d put in jail had tried to kill him. He’d personally disarmed one, and had shot the other dead with the thug’s own weapon.

Ercole also recalled some gossip reporter’s comment that Spiro was intent on a career in politics, his eyes ultimately on Rome, though a judgeship at the World Court in The Hague might not be a bad goal either. Belgium, capital of the EU, was another destination perhaps.

Ercole noted a small book in the prosecutor’s right jacket pocket. It appeared to be leather-bound, with gold-edged pages.

A diary? he wondered. He suspected it was not a Bible.

Slipping an unlit cheroot between thin lips, Spiro approached and nodded to Rossi. “Massimo.”

The inspector nodded back.

“Sir,” Ercole began.

Spiro ignored him and asked Rossi what had happened.