Signora Caputo had been shot first. Point blank. And then her husband had apparently turned the weapon on himself, because his fingerprints were on it. The weapon was a two-shot.44 magnum derringer. Powerful, but tiny. The kind of weapon few people even knew about unless they were firearm aficionados.

Roscani shook his head. Why a derringer? Two shots didn't give you much room for miss or error. The only positive thing about it was its size, because it was easy to conceal. Stepping back, Roscani nodded to a member of the tech crew, and she moved in with an evidence bag to take the gun away. Then he turned and walked out of the shed and across a parking area to the ambulance company's front office. In the street beyond he could see people gathered in the gray early-morning light watching from behind police-barricades.

Roscani thought back to last evening, and what he and his detectives had learned from their singular tours of the hospitals outside Rome. And that was nothing more definitive than the chance they could be right. That there could have been a twenty-fifth passenger on the bus who was never recorded. Someone who could have walked away in the confusion if he was able or taken off by car or – Roscani glanced at a promotional calendar tacked on the office wall as he stepped into the company's office – by private ambulance.

Castelletti and Scala were waiting as he came in. They were smoking and immediately put their cigarettes out when they saw Roscani.

'Fingerprints again,' Roscani said, deliberately waving away the smoke that still hung in the air.

'The Spaniard's prints on the assassination rifle. Harry Addison's prints on the pistol that killed Pio. Now the clear prints of a man who allegedly never owned a gun, yet committed a murder-suicide. Each time making it seem obvious who the shooter was. Well we know that wasn't the case with the cardinal vicar. So what about the others? What if we have a third person doing the killing, then making sure the prints they wanted on the weapon got there? The same third person each time. The same "he/she", maybe even "they", killed the cardinal vicar. Killed Pio. Did the job here at the ambulance office.'

'The priest?' Castelletti said.

'Or our third person, someone else entirely.' Absently Roscani took out a piece of gum, unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. 'What if the priest was in bad shape and was brought by ambulance from one of the hospitals outside Rome to Pescara…'

'And this third person found out and came here looking for him,' Scala said quietly.

Roscani stared at Scala, then folded the chewing gum wrapper carefully and put it in his pocket. 'Why not?'

'You follow that thinking and maybe Harry Addison didn't kill Pio…'

Roscani walked off, slowly chewing his gum. He looked at the floor, then at the ceiling. Through the window he could see the red ball of the sun beginning to come up over the Adriatic. Then he turned back.

'Maybe he didn't.'

'Ispettore Capo-'

The detectives looked up as an investigator from the Pescara police came in, his face already streaked with sweat from the early heat.

'We may have something else. The chief medical officer has just examined the body of a woman who died in an apartment house fire last night-'

Roscani knew before he was told. 'The fire didn't kill her.'

'No, sir. She was murdered.'

61

Rome. 6:30 a.m.

Harry walked toward the Colosseum, head down, unmindful of the rush of morning traffic passing on the Via dei Fori Imperiali beside him. At this point, motion was everything. The only way to keep from losing what small splinter of sanity he had left. Cars. Buses. Motor scooters. Roared and putted past. An entire society going about their own personal business, their thoughts and emotions focused wholly and innocently on the day before them, the same way he had every morning of his professional life until he had come to Rome. It had been as routine and comfortable as old shoes.

Up at six, exercise for an hour in the gym off his bedroom, shower, breakfast meeting with clients or potential clients, and into the office, cell phone never more than inches away, even in the shower. The same as now. Cell phone right there, in his pocket. Only it wasn't the same. None of it. The cellular phone was there, but he dared not use it. They could trace it back in an instant to whatever close-by cell site he was using, and the whole area would be filled with police before he knew it.

Suddenly he walked from bright sun to deep shade. Looking up, he saw that he stood in the shadow of the Colosseum. As quickly, his eye caught a movement in the dimness, and he stopped. A woman in a tattered dress stood watching from the base of the ancient arches. Then another like her stepped in beside her. And then a third, this one holding a baby. Gypsies.

Turning, he saw there were more. Eight or ten at least, and they were beginning to encircle him. Closing in slowly. Singly, and in twos and threes. All were women, and most had children in tow. Quickly Harry glanced back toward the street. There was no one. No groundskeepers. No tourists. No one.

Suddenly he felt a tug on his pants, and he glanced down. An old woman was lifting his pant leg, looking at his shoes. Jerking back, he stepped away from her. It did no good. Another woman was right there. Younger, grinning. Her front teeth gone. One hand held up for money, the other reaching out to caress the material of his trousers. That he seemed to be a priest made no difference. Then something brushed his back and a hand went for his wallet.

In one motion he whirled, his own hand flashing out, coming up hard with a piece of material, dragging a wildly shrieking young woman up with it. The others shrank back, frightened, uncertain what to do. All the while the woman in his grasp thrashed and wailed, screaming as if she were being murdered. Abruptly Harry pulled her close. His face inches from hers.

'Hercules,' he said, quietly, 'I want to find Hercules.'

The dwarf sat with one hand on his hip, the other holding his chin, and stared intently at Harry. It was just past noon, and they were on a bench in a small, dusty square across the Tiber in the Gianicolo section of Rome. Midday traffic rumbled past on a boulevard at the square's farthest boundary. But that was the extent of it; other than two elderly men on a bench farther down, they were alone. Except that Harry knew the Gypsies were there, somewhere, out of sight, watching.

'Because of you, the police found my tunnel. Because of you, I now live outdoors instead of in. Thank you very much.' Hercules was angry, and put out, literally.

'I'm sorry…'

'Yet here you are again. Back, I think, looking for help instead of the other way around.'

'Yes.'

Hercules deliberately looked off. 'What do you want?'

'You, to follow someone. Two people, actually. You and the Gypsies.'

Hercules looked back. 'Who?'

'A cardinal and a priest. People who know where my brother is… who will lead me to him.'

'A cardinal?'

'Yes.'

Hercules suddenly pulled a crutch under him and stood up. 'No.'

'I'll pay you.'

'With what?'

'Money.'

'How are you going to get it?'

'I have it…' Harry hesitated, then took Eaton's money from his pocket. 'How much do you want? How much for you and the Gypsies?'

Hercules looked at the money, then at Harry. 'That's more than I gave you. Where did you get it?'

'I got it – that's all… How much do you want?'

'More than that.'

'How much more?'

'You can get it?' Hercules was surprised.

'I think so…'

'If you can get so much money, why don't you ask the people giving it to you to follow the cardinal?'