“They paid with a credit card?” Sachs asked, hoping.

“No,” the waitress responded. “Euros. And they gave no tip, of course.” A sour pout.

Sachs asked how they had arrived but the server wasn’t sure. They had just walked in, from up the road.

Sachs inquired, “Did anyone seem to be interested in them? Anyone in a black car?”

She understood the English. “Da! I mean to say, yes.” Her eyes widened. “Fascinated that you would be speaking of that.”

She returned to Italian.

Ercole said, “Halfway through the meal a large black or dark-blue car drove by and slowed suddenly, as if the driver took an interest in the restaurant. She was thinking that she might be having rich tourists as customers. But no. He drove on.”

“The driver might have seen them?”

“Yes,” the waitress said. “Possible. The two men I am been talking about, they were outside. That tavola, table, there.”

Sachs looked up and down the quiet street. On the other side of the road was a tree-filled lot and, behind that, farmland. “You said they fell silent but did you hear them say anything?”

After a conversation with the waitress, Ercole explained, “She did hear them mention Trenitalia—the national train service. She believed the Italian said ‘you,’ meaning Maziq, would have a six-hour trip and Maziq seemed discouraged by that. Six hours—that means he would be going north.” He smiled. “We are not such a big country. They could almost be at the northern border in that time.”

The woman had nothing more to add and seemed disappointed that they didn’t want a second lunch. The tortellini was the best in southern Italy, she promised.

So, the Composer was cruising the streets looking for a likely target—an immigrant, possibly. And he had seen Maziq. What then? She scanned the hazy street, dead quiet. And then gestured for Ercole to follow her. They crossed the road and ducked through the stand of trees and bushes bordering the empty lot opposite the restaurant.

She pointed. They were looking at the tire treads of a car with a large wheelbase. The markings seemed similar to those of the Michelins from the bus-stop kidnapping. The vehicle had pulled into the back of the vacant lot and parked. The ground here was sparse grass and dank earth, and it was easy to see where the driver had gotten out and walked to the passenger’s side—which faced the line of trees and bushes and, beyond, the very table where Maziq and his unpleasant companion had sat. It appeared that the Composer had opened the passenger’s door and sat, facing outward, toward the diners, the door open.

“He liked the looks of his prey,” Ercole said. “He sat here and spied on Maziq.”

“So it seems,” she said, walking up to the trees, through which she could see the tortellini restaurant clearly.

She pulled on latex gloves and told Ercole to do the same, which he did. She handed him rubber bands but he shook his head and produced a handful from his pocket. She smiled at his foresight.