“Polizia, ” she said as a warning. “È venuta dirci che Emilia fosse guasto.”

Frank wasn’t certain exactly what she’d said but recognized enough words to know she’d warned him Frank was from the police and Emilia was dead. The man showed the shock his wife had not.

“Emilia?” He didn’t want to believe it, and he looked to Frank for confirmation.

“Someone stabbed her to death this morning in City Hall Park,” he said.

“No,” he said desperately. “No true!”

“I’m afraid it is. Someone who knows her already identified the body.”

“Who?” he challenged.

Sarah’s name would mean nothing to them. “A lady who met her at the mission.”

“Mission,” Mrs. Donato repeated and spat on the floor to show her contempt. Donato’s shoulders sank in defeat, and he looked as if he might pass out.

This wasn’t going the way Frank had expected. The man of the house was shocked senseless and his wife was spitting on the floor. “Sit down, Mr. Donato,” he tried, guiding the man into the flat and pulling out a chair for him. He sank down as his wife had, but he was suffering from grief, or something very like it. Frank still wasn’t sure.

Donato rubbed a calloused hand over his face. When he looked up, Frank saw strong emotions but none he could identify. “You say she stab?”

“Probably with a stiletto,” Frank said, watching for a reaction.

Donato frowned, and his wife started muttering invectives in Italian.

“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill Emilia?” Frank asked.

“We no see her, long time,” Mrs. Donato said firmly.

“What about her brother? Has he seen her?”

“No,” Mrs. Donato said firmly. Her husband said nothing.

“Maybe I should ask him myself. When will he be home?”

She crossed her arms beneath her heavy breasts and just glared at him.

“What about Ugo?” Frank asked casually. “You wouldn’t mind if he went to jail, would you?”