A man’s voice interrupted her. “That is not necessary.”

Sachs turned to see the prosecutor, Dante Spiro. He was approaching from behind a clutch of uniformed officers and cars. One officer leapt forward and lifted the yellow tape for him, high so that Spiro did not have to bow down.

“Procuratore,” Ercole began.

The man cut him off with a stream of Italian.

The young officer said nothing but looked down and nodded every few seconds as Spiro continued to speak to him.

Ercole said something, nodding to Maziq, sitting in the back of the ambulance now, looking much better.

Again, Spiro shot words his way, clearly unhappy.

“Sì, Procuratore.”

Then the young officer turned to her. “He says we can leave now.”

“I’d like to search with the team.”

“No, that is not possible,” Spiro said.

“I’m a crime scene officer by profession.”

Michelangelo appeared in the dim doorway. He spotted Spiro and approached. He spoke to him for a moment.

Ercole translated. “They have finished the search. No sign of the Composer. They’ve gone down all the aqueducts and searched all the rooms in the basement. There is a supply tunnel that leads to the subway station. No sign he was anywhere there.”

“The building above the basement.” She nodded to the structure behind them.

Michelangelo said, “Is sealed off with concretes. No entrance is possible from sotto terra.”

As the woman forensic officer walked past her she said, with a smile, “We’re going to step the grid.”

Sachs blinked.

“Yes, we know who you are. We use Ispettore Lincoln Rhyme’s book in our lessons. It is not in Italian but we took turns translating. You are both an inspiration. Welcome to Italy!”

They vanished through the doorway.

Spiro fired another dozen sentences to Ercole, then walked off toward the ancient doorway, pulling on his own blue latex gloves.

Ercole translated, “Procuratore Spiro appreciates your assistance and your offer to help with the scene but he thinks it would be best, for continuity’s sake, if the investigation is conducted by Italian law enforcement.”

Sachs decided that to push the matter further would merely embarrass Ercole. He looked desperately to the Mégane and lifted a hand to her shoulder, as if to direct her toward it. Her glance at him had the effect of lowering the limb as if it were in free fall, and she knew he would never try to usher her anywhere again.

As they approached the car he looked tentatively at the driver’s seat.

Sachs said, “You drive.”

To Ercole’s great relief.

She handed him the keys.

Once she and Ercole were settled and the engine running, she asked, “That line you gave me about continuity? Is that what Spiro really said?”

Ercole was blushing and concentrating on getting the car in first gear. “It was a rough translation.”

“Ercole?”

He swallowed. “He said I was to get the woman—that is, you—out of the scene immediately, and if I let her—that is, again, you—talk to any officers again, much less the press, without his permission, he would have my job. Here, and in my own unit of Forestry.”