As Spiro left, Ercole dropped to his knees. He happened to glance up and see just outside the doorway Rossi’s protégé Silvio De Carlo, looking in. The handsome officer would have witnessed the entire dressing-down—and the order to complete mopping, the implication being that Ercole was not even a competent janitor, let alone investigator. His face a blank mask, De Carlo moved on.

Ercole said to Rossi, “What have I done, Inspector? I was merely stating what seemed logical from the facts. I could see no pattern. A crime in New York, a crime in the hills of Campania.”

“Ah, you committed the crime of blinders.”

“Blinders. What is that?”

“It’s a subtle psychological condition that inexperienced investigators fall victim to. You had already—on the basis of very preliminary evidence—reached the conclusion that this was a random crime. But by embracing that theory you will be disinclined to expand your investigative horizons and consider that the Composer might have acted out of design to target these particular people and that we can discover a pattern to his acts that will help us apprehend him.

“Is it possible to see a pattern at this point? Of course not. Does Prosecutor Spiro think it likely? Of course not. But there is no one I know with a mind that is more expansive than his. He will take in all the facts, making no judgment, long after others have drawn conclusions. Often, he is right and the others are not.”

“Open mind.”

“Yes. Open mind. The most important asset an investigator can have. So, we will not vote on patterns or no patterns at this point.”

“I’ll remember that, Inspector. Thank you.”

Ercole glanced down at the puddle on the tile floor once more. He’d used all the paper towels. He stepped outside and strode past De Carlo, who was texting on his mobile. My God, the man is completely in vogue, from hair coiffure to polished shoes. Ercole ignored his glance and continued down the hall to the men’s room to fetch more towels.

As he was returning, he noted Daniela Canton up the hall, finishing a conversation with her fellow officer, the blond, Giacomo Schiller. After he had walked away Ercole hid the paper towels behind his back and, after a hesitation, approached. “Excuse me. May I ask a question?”

“Yes, of course, Officer…”

“Call me Ercole, please.”

She nodded.

He asked, “Prosecutor Spiro.” A whisper. “Is he always so stern?”

“No, no, no,” she said.

“Ah.”

“Usually he is far less polite than he was in there.”

Ercole lifted an eyebrow. “You heard him?”

“We all did.”

Ercole closed his eyes momentarily. Oh, my. “And he can be worse? Is that true?”

“Oh, yes. He’s formidable. A smart man, there’s no doubt. But he tolerates no errors—in fact or in judgment—by others. Be careful not to anger him.” She lowered her voice. “Did you see that book in his pocket? The leather one.”

“Yes.”

“He’s never without it. People say it’s a notebook in which he writes down the names of people who have crossed him or are incompetent and will damage his future.”