Simone Casolaro entered the lecture hall with great élan. Ninety-five pairs of eyes watched her attentively. Ms. Casolaro's Renaissance Literature class at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York, was the most popular academic option on campus, and this was day one of Winter term.

She stomped snow from her galoshes and kicked them off, revealing a pair of Roman-style sandals. Then she removed her full-length wool coat, showing off a fine Egyptian cotton dress with a low bosom and high hemline. Appreciative male murmurs rippled through the room as she eyed her troops for a few pregnant moments. Then, abruptly, she began.

"You will buy Dante's Divine Comedy today and start reading it at once. Read every word. Don't skip the "boring bits." There are no boring bits in Dante. Turn off the television, put your computer to sleep, take the iPod out of your ear. No twittering, texting, tooting, hooting or whatever new App you're addicted to. Dante is to be smelled, savored, tasted, chewed, and digested, like a juicy Italian sausage."

The hall erupted in laughter. Simone was an exceptional performer, with a unique flamboyant style. She felt a passion for her subject and had a knack for the provocative. More important, however, she animated her students' imaginations, a gift they would carry, and many of them treasure, for the rest of their lives.

"A hundred years ago," she began, "Flaubert in a letter to his mistress made the following observation: 'What a scholar one might be if one knew well enough some half a dozen books.'" She swept the room with her gaze. "Dante's Divine Comedy is one of those worthy to be included in any short list. Dante's allegory, however, is highly complex, and we shall examine other levels of meaning, such as the historical, moral, literal, and the anagogical. The development of the art of description throughout the centuries should be treated in terms of vision, of that prodigious eye of individual genius." She paused for effect, rising to the balls of her feet. "What we call genius is an evanescent quality, gradually yielding a complex spectrum for all to see. In reading and thinking and dreaming, you should notice and absorb the details. Let's leave generalizations, well-worn clichés, popular trends and social commentary at the door."

She strode to the blackboard, quickly drawing an outline of Dante's face. "Any real work of art is the creation of a new psychic world. A great writer is always a great enchanter, and Dante is a supreme example."

A skinny girl in the front row raised her hand. "Professor Casolaro, I was told in my last year's class that we can learn a lot about people and their culture from reading historical novels. By reading Dante, will we learn about Renaissance Italy?"

Simone looked at the girl and smiled. She made an expansive movement with her hand. "Can we truly rely on Jane Austen's picture of England during the Industrial Revolution when all she really knew was a clergyman's parlor? Those who seek facts about provincial Russia won't find them in Gogol, who spent most of his life abroad. The truth is that great works of art are, in a way, fairy tales and this trimester we will focus on one of the supreme fairy tales of all time."

The stage door on her right was pulled slightly ajar and a man's head emerged. "I am sorry to disturb you, Professor Casolaro, but could I have a word, please?"

She looked at the clock. "I can see you in half an hour."

The man gave her a heavy look. "I'm afraid it can't wait."

Simone felt a chill. "All right, give me two minutes."

He nodded his head and closed the door.

She turned back to the auditorium. "Although the two great events which made the fifteenth century a turning-point in human history – the invention of printing and the discovery of the New World – were still two centuries in the future, Dante's era was unique, essentially a period of great men; of free thought and free speech; of brilliant and daring action. Now, you'll have to excuse me for a moment. Please feel free to twitter and text away, but remember that what should interest us most is not Dante the political activist but rather Dante the great Renaissance artist, his powerful poetic imagination and his peculiar vision of the world he created."

Simone exited the hall and confronted the visitor. "What is so important?"

"Ms. Casolaro," the man's voice was calm but strangely flat. "My name is Detective Lyndon Torekull." Simone swallowed hard, a sudden surge of panic jabbing her in the gut.

"What, what is it, Detective? Obviously something has happened?"

"Ms. Casolaro, I am sorry to inform you ... we found your brother's body this morning in a motel in Shawnee, Oklahoma. He appears to have committed suicide."

As the blood drained from her head, Simone felt a series of conflicting impacts reverberate through her. Shock, disbelief, grief and, worst of all, guilt. She managed to turn away from Torekull, and re-entered the classroom. Her students looked up curiously from their ubiquitous electronic devices.

"Class ... class dismissed. I have to ... go home. You, I mean. Go." As she left the room in a trance, for a brief moment, her eyes locked on an incongruous shimmer of light gliding up Dante's left cheek on her chalkboard drawing. Somehow she found herself back in the hall.

"Ms. Casolaro, from what we understand, you are Danny's only living relative. I'm sorry, but I must ask you to look at this photograph, if you can?

She sucked in a long breath. "Yes. All right."

Detective Torekull reached into his pocket and held out a 5 by 7 color photo.

"Is this your brother?"

Simone forced herself to look. A spasm of horror struck her forehead like a hatchet. She spun away and shielded her eyes with her hand. Her whole body shuddered and she thought she might pass out. Then, the word hit her. Suicide. Never.

She sucked in a long breath, and looked again. It was Danny, and, oh God, yes, he was dead. No, it wasn't Danny. It was just a picture of Danny. But he was still ... dead. Lying in a bathtub of blood. Both wrists were slashed, with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a dirty inch left in the bottom, clutched in one arm.

"This photo was taken five hours ago," the detective said. "Inside his motel room."

"He wasn't a heavy drinker. He was a devoted journalist. He said he was onto a great story. Not suicidal."

Two weeks ago, at his apartment in New York, they'd spent a couple of days together. He had told her that he was going to Shawnee. Why Shawnee? Where?

"It's the end of the quest. I'm bringing back the head of the Octopus. This is as serious as it gets. The story of a lifetime." Simone had never seen Danny so focused. The tremble in his voice scared her. "They are all corrupt. It goes to the highest level. I have a couple of contacts there, but they have no way of unmasking the corruption without compromising dozens of assets in parallel operations.

"Be careful," Simone had yelled after him. She could hear the echo of Danny's feet running, no, jumping down the stairs, two steps at a time.

"Don't worry, he will be fine, he always is," she had told herself.

Now, as her mind reeled, the image of an Octopus, its looming eyes staring implacably, hung like a gallows moon above her grief.

* * *

Danny was an investigative journalist, three years her junior, politically incorrect, idealistic and incorruptible. In the course of a...