Zanetti motions to the nearby workers. “Do any of these men look as if they have the plague?”

Byron smiles. “Did Vittoria before she collapsed?”

Zanetti eyes Byron coolly, but says nothing.

Realizing they will need Zanetti’s cooperation, Alana opts for a more conciliatory tone. “Marcello, I’m sure we’re driving you crazy with the same questions. But can you tell us, has everyone reported in to work today?”

“I do not check every day. I will have to ask Paolo.”

“Please.” Alana wraps her fingers around Zanetti’s elbow and squeezes. “Meantime, will you tour us around the site?”

Zanetti bows his head slightly. “Prego. A pleasure.”

He calls out to some nearby workers. A few moments later, Paolo, the brawny contractor whom Alana had met the previous day, hurries toward them carrying three hard hats. Paolo and Zanetti exchange a few clipped words, before the developer turns to the others and says, “No one has called in sick. Everyone is accounted for.”

“Thank you, Marcello,” Alana says.

“Come.” Zanetti extends a hand proudly toward the pit. “Come see il futuro di Genova costruita sul suo passato!”

“Which means?” Byron asks.

“Our marketing slogan. How would you say in English? ‘The future of Genoa built on her past.’ ”

Zanetti leads them down a wooden staircase and into the excavation pit. They wander among the diggers and bulldozers, between the wooden frames where the cement has yet to harden. At one point, Justine wanders off. Zanetti doesn’t seem to notice. He’s an enthusiastic guide and treats them more like potential condo buyers than doctors tracking a plague outbreak, painting an optimistic picture of the luxurious residences that will soon tower overhead.

Minutes later, Justine rejoins them at the base of the staircase. She pulls a clear plastic container out of her bag and shows them the dark rice-shaped flecks inside. “Droppings,” she announces.

“From?” Byron asks.

“Can’t be positive. But from the size, I’m guessing Rattus. Our old buddy, the black rat.”

Byron nods. “Where did you find them?”

Justine points to a mound of dirt and rubble about a hundred feet away.

“That would make a good rat’s den,” Byron says.

“Ideal. Very cozy.”

Zanetti crosses his arms. “Show me a construction site that does not have a few rats.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Zanetti,” Byron says. “But we’re going to have to scour that pile. This whole site, if need be. Until we find those rats.”

“So go ahead and look.”

“I mean with an entire team. A proper forensic search.”

“And what do you expect us to do in the meantime?” Zanetti asks, his tone now as cold as his glare. “Stop construction?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. This is a public health emergency.”

“And this”—Zanetti taps the ground with a foot—“is the biggest construction site in all of Genoa. Every delay costs a fortune.”

“Your government has given us the authority to investigate wherever and however we deem necessary.” Byron motions to the rat droppings. “This is as necessary as it comes.”