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“We’d like you to take a look at a series of photos,” Tamar says from her computer. She points to the large screen on the wall. “Do you recognize this man?”
The man looks to be in his twenties, with dark hair and blue eyes. He’s attractive, but I’ve never seen him. “No,” I reply. “He doesn’t look even vaguely familiar.”
Tamar changes the image before I can ask any questions. “What about this one?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I’m savvy enough to know this is some type of identification, and I’m sure it has something to do with the photo I described from Valentina’s phone.
“This one?”
The moment the picture hits the screen, even before I fully grasp the features, my heart stops and a gasp escapes into the quiet room.
“Do you recognize him?” Tamar’s voice gives nothing away.
I nod, my eyes glued to his profile. “I think so.”
“You’re not sure?” Zé asks. “It’s important that we get this right.”
I move closer to the screen. The man is wearing a black T-shirt, and he’s smiling at something away from the photographer. His head is turned. “Where did you get this photo?”
“We can answer your questions after you’ve had a chance to identify the men in the photographs.”
Rafael steps behind me, his hands on my hips. “We don’t want to bias the identification,” he murmurs. “Take your time. It’s okay if you don’t remember, or if you’re not sure. Do the best you can.”
I stare at the image for what seems like an eternity, trying to make a connection between the man on Valentina’s phone and the photo Francesca showed me and this man up on the screen. Think, Lexie. Think. I try to recall the images, but I can’t be sure.
The longer I analyze the image, the more uncertain of the connections I become—and disappointed in my inability to remember something so vital.
“This isn’t the photo I saw on Valentina’s phone. The man talking to Marco wasn’t smiling.” My voice feels shaky, and Rafael’s presence behind me is like a warm embrace, supportive, imbuing courage and strength. “But it’s him. I’m sure of it. Although I’m not certain that he’s the man Francesca said was Paolo. I think he is, but I got such a quick look, and I wasn’t really paying attention. I can’t say for certain.”
“No worries,” Rafael whispers. “Identifications are always tricky.”
Tamar shows me three more images, all young men. None of them are familiar. When she’s done, Rafael pulls me closer, my back to his chest, and places a kiss on the back of my head before releasing me. I miss his supportive presence the moment he steps away.
“These photos are all from Francesca Russo’s phone.” Tamar puts up the photo of the man I recognized. “Does that knowledge change anything?”
Glancing at the screen, I rack my brain, trying to remember something—anything—about the photo Francesca showed me. “I don’t know. I think I remember the black T-shirt, but I can’t be sure. I wish I could be of more help.”
“You were a huge help,” Rafael says, and Zé nods.
“When you saw the photo”—Tamar tips her head toward the screen—“you gasped. It was an involuntary reaction. You might not remember him, but some part of your brain does.”
It’s almost a relief.
“This isn’t the man who the Italians captured, is it? The one they thought was Paolo?”
“No,” Rafael says, his jaw ticcing.
“What now?” I look from one to another, but their expressions give me no clues as to anything.
“We’ll enhance the photo and then run it through facial-recognition software,” Tamar replies. “It could take some time to get an identification.”
“But you will be able to ID him, right?”
“Probably,” Rafael adds, “but the chances are always better when we’re working with the entire face. The profile shot will make it harder.”
Of course. “What about Valentina? Are you worried for her safety?”
