“No, no, not at the moment. It is one regret. That my mother did not see me married.”

“You’re young.”

He shrugged. “I have other interests at the moment.”

Ercole then launched into a discussion of his career and his desire to get into the Police of State or, even better, the Carabinieri. She asked the difference, and it seemed the latter was a military police organization, though it had jurisdiction over civil crimes, as well. Then there was the Financial Police, which covered crimes involving immigration as well as financial irregularities. This didn’t appeal to him. He wanted to be a street cop, an investigator.

“Like you,” he said, blushing and smiling.

It was clear that he saw the Composer case as an entry into that world.

He asked her too about policing in New York City, and she told him about her career—from fashion model to NYPD. And about her father, a beat patrol officer all his life.

“Ah, like father like daughter!” Ercole’s eyes shone.

“Yes.”

Soon they came to the first village on the list and began canvassing. It was a slow process. They would go into a restaurant or bar, approach the server or owner and Ercole would flash a picture of Maziq and ask if they had seen him on Wednesday night. The first time this happened, a lengthy and intense conversation ensued. Sachs took this as a good sign, thinking that the person he was speaking to had provided a lead.

As they returned to the car, she asked, “So he saw Maziq?”

“Who, the waiter? No, no, no.”

“What were you talking about?”

“The government is desiring to build a new road nearby and that will improve business. He was saying that sales have been down lately. Even with the depressed price of gasoline, people don’t seem to be taking trips out into the countryside because the old road can get washed out, even in a small rainstorm. And—”

“Ercole, we really should move along.”

He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Then he smiled. “In Italy, we enjoy our conversations.”

Over the next two hours they hit eighteen establishments. The results were negative.

Just after noon they finished interviewing people in one small town and marked it off the list. Ercole looked at his watch. “I would say, we will have lunch.”

She looked around the small intersection. “I could use a sandwich, sure.”

“Un panino, sì. Possibly.”

“Where can we get one to go? Coffee too.”

“To go?”

“To take with us.”

He seemed confused. “We…Well, we do not do that in Italy. Not in Campania, at least. No, nowhere that I know of in Italy. We will sit down. It won’t take long.” He nodded to a restaurant whose owner they had just interviewed. “That is good?”

“Looks fine to me.”

They sat outside at a table covered by a vinyl sheet that depicted miniature Eiffel Towers, though French food did not appear on the menu.