“Not aware of that.”

“No? An interdiction planned for a few days. I think we’ll need to let you have the kidnapping here.”

Rossi looked concerned. “But I have no time for this, for a major criminal investigation.”

“Major, is it? Pesky college boys?” Giuseppe smiled. “I will let you take all the glory, my friend. I will sign the case over to you formally back at the station.”

Rossi sighed. “All right. But you do owe me.”

A wink from the senior officer and they turned and left.

Spiro glanced at them departing and said to Rossi, “The Positano drug cases? They were dismissed two months ago.”

“I know. As soon as he mentioned them, I knew I’d won our little contest here.”

Spiro said, with a shrug, “Giuseppe’s good. A solid officer. But…I prefer working for you. Army rules add layers.”

Ercole realized he’d just seen a subtle chess game. Massimo Rossi had, for some reason, wanted to keep control of the case. So he had tried reverse psychology, attempting to palm off the case to the Carabiniere, who had immediately become suspicious.

If the Positano case was an illusion, so was the initiation story.

“Inspector?” Daniela Canton asked.

Rossi, Spiro and Ercole joined her.

She was pointing down to a small piece of cardboard. “It’s fresh. It’s likely he dropped it with the money. And it blew here. It was beside another dinar bill.”

“Prepaid phone card. Good.” Rossi extracted a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placed the card inside. “We’ll have Postal analyze it.” To the uniformed officer he said, “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Pull back then. We’ll let Scientific Police search more carefully when they get here.”

They returned to the road. Rossi turned to Ercole. “Thank you, Officer Benelli. Please write up a statement and then you’re free to go home.”

“Yes, sir. I’m happy to be of help.” He nodded to the prosecutor.

Spiro said to Rossi, “We, of course, cannot assume that the dinars and phone card are the victim’s. They are, probably, yes. But it could be too that the attacker had been in Libya recently.”

“No, impossible.” Ercole Benelli said this softly, almost a whisper. He was staring at the bus-stop bench, an ancient thing, bearing only a fraction of the paint that had been applied years ago.

“What?” Spiro snapped, staring, as if seeing Ercole for the first time.

“There would not have been enough time to go to Libya and arrive here in Italy.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Rossi muttered.

“He fled America late Monday night and arrived here yesterday, Tuesday.”

Dante Spiro’s voice cut like a blade. “Enough riddles. Explain yourself, Forestry Officer!”

“He’s a kidnapper, though he intends to kill his victim eventually. He goes by the name ‘The Composer.’ He creates music videos of his victims dying.”

The inspector and prosecutor—Daniela too—seemed unable to speak.

“Look.” Ercole pointed to the back of the bus-stop bench.

A miniature hangman’s noose hung from a beam.