The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  Despite his despair about losing his truffle thief, and the shock of stumbling into a case of this magnitude, his heart thudded, seeing such beauty: her heart-shaped face, full lips, the fringe of wispy flaxen hair at her temples. Eye shadow the blue of her car. He thought her movie-star-worthy and noted her name was Daniela Canton. She wore no wedding ring. He surprised her when he reached out enthusiastically and shook her hand in both of his; he thought immediately that he should not have done so.

  He greeted her partner with a handshake too, a gesture the young man took without a thought. Giacomo Schiller, slightly built and solemn. He had light hair and, given the last name, might have hailed from Asiago or somewhere else in the north, where many Italians were of Germanic or Austrian descent, thanks to a history of shifting borders.

  Another car was here too, unmarked, driven by a uniformed officer and containing a passenger in the front seat, a man wearing a suit and tan raincoat. Detective Inspector Massimo Rossi, Ercole saw at once. Though a Forestry Corps officer, Ercole on occasion had worked with the Police of State in and around Naples, and knew of Rossi. The man, whose face was burnished with permanent stubble, it seemed, and whose head was topped with a thick pelt of black hair, side-parted, was around fifty years of age.

  Resembling the actor Giancarlo Giannini--handsome, heavily browed dark eyes, thoughtful--Rossi was well known, and not just here, in Campania, but throughout all of southern Italy. He'd successfully arrested many suspects over the years, resulting in convictions of senior Camorra officials and Albanian and North African drug smugglers, as well as money launderers, burglars, wife (and husband) killers, and psychotic murderers. Ercole, whose Forestry Corps duty required him to wear a uniform, was impressed that Rossi was not a fashionista, as were some inspectors, who wore stylish designer (or, more likely, faux-designer) suits and dresses. Rossi wore the clothes of a journalist or insurance office worker. Modest, as tonight, his outfits were dusty and not well pressed. Ercole guessed this was to keep the suspects off guard, make them think he was slow or careless. The truth might simply be, however, that Rossi's mind was engaged in embracing cases and he didn't even notice that his look was unkempt. Then too he and his wife had five children, in whose rearing he was active, so there was little time for cultivating a trendy look.

  Rossi completed a call, climbed from the car. He stretched and took in the scene: the dusty road, the unsteady bus-stop enclosure, the trees. The shadowy forest. The bicyclist.

  And Ercole.

  He now approached. "Forestry Officer Benelli. You have stumbled on something more than a poaching, it seems. You marked off the scene. Clever." He looked over the area around the bus stop once more. Ercole was rarely involved in crime scenes, so he carried no tape, but he had used a rope meant for rock climbing--not a hobby but an occasional necessity in his job, which included rescuing hikers and climbers.

  "Yes, sir, Inspector. Yes. This is Salvatore Crovi." Ercole handed over the bicyclist's ruddy identity card.

  Rossi nodded, reviewed the card, and handed it back. Crovi reiterated the story of what he'd seen: a hulking man in a dark-colored sedan, no make or model, no number plate visible. He could see little of the attacker. Wearing dark clothing and cap, the perpetrator had flung the victim to the ground. They had struggled and the bicyclist had hurried away to find Ercole. The victim was a man, dark-complexioned and bearded, wearing a pale-blue jacket.

  The detective withdrew a notebook and jotted in it.

  Ercole continued, "But when we arrived back, there was no one. No victim, no attacker."

  "You searched?"

  "Yes." Ercole pointed out a large perimeter. "All that way. Yes. He might have gotten farther. But I called out. No one answered. Mr. Crovi assisted. He went in the opposite direction."

  "I saw nothing, Inspector," the bicyclist offered.

  "Perhaps witnesses on a bus?" Rossi asked.

  "No, sir. There have been none. I called the transit office. A bus is not due for another half hour. Oh, and I checked with the closest hospitals. No one has been admitted."

  "So, maybe," Rossi said slowly, "we have a kidnapping. Though that seems curious."

  A horn honked and Rossi looked up, toward a queue of cars. In the front, a sinewy, sixtyish balding man in an ancient Opel was gesturing angrily, sneering, wishing to pass. His way was blocked by Ercole's SUV. There was another car behind his, filled with a family, and this driver too began to honk. A third joined in.

  Rossi asked, "Is that your Ford blocking the road?"

  Ercole blushed. "Yes. I'm sorry, sir. I thought it best to protect the scene. But I'll move it now."

  "No," Rossi muttered. He walked to the Opel, bent down and calmly whispered something to the driver. Even in the dark, Ercole could see that he blanched. A similar word with the driver behind him and both cars turned about quickly. The third did too, without the need for a personal visit. Ercole knew the lay of the land well here; to pick up the route on the other side of the scene would require a detour of nearly twenty kilometers.

  Rossi returned to him.

  Ercole added, "And, Inspector, as I was laying the rope, to preserve the scene, I found this." He walked to a spot beside the bus shelter--little more than a sheet-metal roof supported by two poles, over a scabby bench. He pointed down at some money.

  "The scuffle was here, correct?"

  Crovi confirmed it was.

  Ercole said, "There are eleven euros in coins and thirty Libyan dinars, in bills."

  "Libyan? Hm. You said he was dark?" Rossi asked Crovi.

  "Yes, sir. He could well have been North African. I would say most certainly."

  Daniela Canton approached and glanced down at the money. "The Scientific Police are on their way."

  The crime scene unit would lay number placards at the money and at any signs of the scuffle, take pictures of shoe prints and auto tread marks. They would then search more expertly than Ercole had.

  Slowly, as if figuring out the scenario, Rossi said, "The victim was perhaps fishing for money in anticipation of the bus when the kidnapper took him and he dropped it. How else would it be scattered? Which means he didn't have a ticket. Perhaps this was an unexpected trip."

  Daniela, nearby, had heard and she said, "Or, if he was illegal--a Libyan refugee--he might not have wanted to go to a ticket office."

  "True." Rossi's glance rose and he broadened his examination. "The coins are here. The dinar there, a bit farther away and scattered. Let us assume he had dug out the contents of his pockets and withdrawn the money to count it out. He's attacked, the coins fall directly to the ground. The lighter dinars are carried in this breeze and float over there. Was there anything lighter yet in his hand that the wind carried?" Rossi said to Daniela and Giacomo, "Search in that direction. We should preserve it now, even before the Scientific Police arrive."

  Ercole watched them pull booties and latex gloves from their pockets, don them and walk through the bushes, both playing Maglite flashlights over the ground.

  Another car approached.

  This was not a Police of State Flying Squad patrol car or an unmarked but a personal vehicle, a Volvo, black. The driver was a lean, unsmiling man, a dusting of short gray hair on his head. His salt-and-pepper goatee was expertly crafted and ended in a sharp point.

  The car nosed to a stop and he climbed out.

  Ercole Benelli recognized him too. He'd had no personal contact with the man but he owned a TV.

  Dante Spiro, the senior prosecutor in Naples, wore a navy-blue sports coat and blue jeans, both close fitting. A yellow handkerchief blossomed from the breast pocket.

  Fashionista...

  He was not a tall man, and his deep-brown ankle boots had thick heels that boosted his height a solid inch or two. He had a dour expression and Ercole wondered if that was because he resented being interrupted at dinner, surely with a beautiful woman. Spiro, like Rossi, had had considerable success in prosecuting cases against and winning convictions of high-profile crimin
als. Once, two associates of a Camorra kingpin he'd put in jail had tried to kill him. He'd personally disarmed one, and had shot the other dead with the thug's own weapon.

  Ercole also recalled some gossip reporter's comment that Spiro was intent on a career in politics, his eyes ultimately on Rome, though a judgeship at the World Court in The Hague might not be a bad goal either. Belgium, capital of the EU, was another destination perhaps.

  Ercole noted a small book in the prosecutor's right jacket pocket. It appeared to be leather-bound, with gold-edged pages.

  A diary? he wondered. He suspected it was not a Bible.

  Slipping an unlit cheroot between thin lips, Spiro approached and nodded to Rossi. "Massimo."

  The inspector nodded back.

  "Sir," Ercole began.

  Spiro ignored him and asked Rossi what had happened.

  Rossi gave him the details.

  "Kidnapping out here? Curious."

  "I thought so too."

  "Sir--" Ercole began.

  Spiro waved a hand to silence him and said to the cyclist, Crovi, "The victim? You said North African. Not sub-Saharan?"

  Before the man could answer, Ercole said, with a laugh, "He would have to be from the north. He had dinars."

  Spiro, eyes on the ground where the struggle occurred, said in a soft voice, "Would not an Eskimo visiting Tripoli pay for his supper with Libyan dinars, Forestry Officer? Not in Eskimo money?"

  "Eskimo? Well. I suppose. Yes, true, Prosecutor."

  "And would not someone from Mali or Congo be more likely to find a meal in Libya by paying with dinars, rather than francs?"

  "I'm sorry. Yes."

  To Crovi: "Now. My question. Did the appearance of the victim suggest what part of Africa he was from?"

  "It was not so dark, sir. I would say the features were Arab or tribal. Libyan, Tunisian, Moroccan. North African, I would say that with certainty."

  "Thank you, Mr. Crovi." Then Spiro asked, "Scientific Police?"

  Rossi replied, "On the way. Our office."

  "Yes, probably no need to bother Rome."

  Ercole knew the Naples headquarters of the Police of State had a laboratory on the ground floor. The main crime scene operation was in Rome and the trickier evidentiary analysis was performed there. He had never sent anything to either facility. Fake olive oil and misrepresented truffles were easy to spot.

  Yet another vehicle arrived, a dark-blue marked police car with the word "Carabinieri" on the side.

  "Ah, our friends," Rossi said wryly.

  Spiro watched, chewing his cheroot. His face was devoid of any emotion.

  A tall man in a pristine uniform climbed out of the passenger's seat. He wore a dark-blue jacket, and black trousers with red stripes down the sides. He surveyed the scene with a military bearing--as was appropriate, of course, since the Carabinieri, though it has jurisdiction over civilian crimes, is part of the Italian army.

  Ercole marveled at the uniform and the man's posture. At his perfect hat, his insignias, his boots. He had always dreamed of being in their ranks, which he considered the elite of Italy's many police forces. Forestry Corps had been a compromise. Helping his father tend his ill mother, Ercole would not have been able to pursue the rigorous Carabinieri training--even if he'd been accepted into the corps.

  A second officer, who'd been driving, lower ranking than the first, joined them.

  "Evening, Captain," Rossi called. "And Lieutenant."

  The Carabiniere nodded to the inspector and Spiro. The captain said, "So, Massimo. What do you have? Anything enticing, anything plump? I see you're first on the scene."

  Spiro said, "Actually, Giuseppe, Forestry was here first." Perhaps a joke but he was not smiling. The Carabinieri officer, however, laughed.

  Was this a contest to see who would seize control of the case? The Carabiniere might have pushed, and would probably win, having a political edge over the Police of State.

  As for Dante Spiro, he might harbor a personal preference for working with the Police of State, on the one hand, or for the Carabinieri, on the other, but for his career it made no difference; the prosecution would be his, no matter which police unit took control.

  "Who was the victim?" Giuseppe asked.

  Rossi said, "No identification yet. Some local unfortunate perhaps."

  Or an Eskimo, Ercole thought but, of course, didn't even consider saying.

  Rossi continued, "A good case. A press-worthy case. Kidnappings always are. Camorra? Albanians? That Tunisian gang from Scampia?" He grimaced. "I would have liked to find out, firsthand. But here you are. So, good luck to you, Giuseppe. We'll get back to Naples. Anything you need, please, let us know."

  Rossi was giving away the case so easily? Ercole was surprised. But perhaps the Carabinieri wielded more power than he'd thought. Dante Spiro was looking at his phone.

  Giuseppe cocked his head. "You're giving us the case?"

  "Your organization is senior to us. You are senior to me. And it is clearly big. Kidnapping. Those reports you heard on the way over are wrong."

  "Reports?"

  Rossi paused. "The initial reports from Dispatch? Personally I think they were trying to downplay the incident."

  "Massimo," Giuseppe said. "Please explain?"

  "The youths, of course. That was pure speculation. I think this has to be Camorra. Or at worst Tunisian."

  "Youths?" Giuseppe tried again.

  "But it's not that. I'm sure."

  "Still, your meaning?"

  Rossi frowned. "Oh, have you not read? About the initiations?"

  "No, no, I think not."

  "It happens more in the north. Not in Campania." He gestured toward the scene. "That's why it could not be this."

  The second Carabiniere asked, "Inspector, how does this scheme work?"

  "Well, as I have read, it's university boys. The initiate must drive around, and when he sees someone he approaches on the pretense of asking directions or for change of money. Then when the victim is distracted, he is thrown in the car and driven for many kilometers and released. Pictures are taken and posted anonymously. A prank, yes, but there could be injuries. One boy in Lombardy ended up with a broken thumb."

  "Broken thumb."

  "Yes. And upon displaying the pictures, the perpetrators are allowed into the college club."

  "Club? Not a gang?"

  "No, no, no. But, again, it is the northern regions in which this is happening. Not here."

  "Perhaps not yet. But kidnapping from a bus stop, way out here, nowhere close to a city center? It makes no sense."

  Then a voice cut through the night: "Look what I have found." The Carabinieri lieutenant was pointing to the euros. "As he was counting out change for the bus driver."

  Giuseppe walked to the rope Ercole had laid out and looked down. "Yes, so perhaps it does fit that category of offense."

  Spiro watched silently.

  "Hm. But a coincidence. Surely." Massimo Rossi nodded and stepped toward his automobile.

  The Carabiniere turned to his associate and they had a quiet conversation. "Ah, Massimo, my colleague has reminded me that we have a drug operation in Positano. You are familiar?"

  "Not aware of that."

  "No? An interdiction planned for a few days. I think we'll need to let you have the kidnapping here."

  Rossi looked concerned. "But I have no time for this, for a major criminal investigation."

  "Major, is it? Pesky college boys?" Giuseppe smiled. "I will let you take all the glory, my friend. I will sign the case over to you formally back at the station."

  Rossi sighed. "All right. But you do owe me."

  A wink from the senior officer and they turned and left.

  Spiro glanced at them departing and said to Rossi, "The Positano drug cases? They were dismissed two months ago."

  "I know. As soon as he mentioned them, I knew I'd won our little contest here."

  Spiro said, with a shrug, "Giuseppe's good. A solid officer. But...I p
refer working for you. Army rules add layers."

  Ercole realized he'd just seen a subtle chess game. Massimo Rossi had, for some reason, wanted to keep control of the case. So he had tried reverse psychology, attempting to palm off the case to the Carabiniere, who had immediately become suspicious.

  If the Positano case was an illusion, so was the initiation story.

  "Inspector?" Daniela Canton asked.

  Rossi, Spiro and Ercole joined her.

  She was pointing down to a small piece of cardboard. "It's fresh. It's likely he dropped it with the money. And it blew here. It was beside another dinar bill."

  "Prepaid phone card. Good." Rossi extracted a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placed the card inside. "We'll have Postal analyze it." To the uniformed officer he said, "Anything else?"

  "No."

  "Pull back then. We'll let Scientific Police search more carefully when they get here."

  They returned to the road. Rossi turned to Ercole. "Thank you, Officer Benelli. Please write up a statement and then you're free to go home."

  "Yes, sir. I'm happy to be of help." He nodded to the prosecutor.

  Spiro said to Rossi, "We, of course, cannot assume that the dinars and phone card are the victim's. They are, probably, yes. But it could be too that the attacker had been in Libya recently."

  "No, impossible." Ercole Benelli said this softly, almost a whisper. He was staring at the bus-stop bench, an ancient thing, bearing only a fraction of the paint that had been applied years ago.

  "What?" Spiro snapped, staring, as if seeing Ercole for the first time.

  "There would not have been enough time to go to Libya and arrive here in Italy."

  "What on earth are you talking about?" Rossi muttered.

  "He fled America late Monday night and arrived here yesterday, Tuesday."

  Dante Spiro's voice cut like a blade. "Enough riddles. Explain yourself, Forestry Officer!"

  "He's a kidnapper, though he intends to kill his victim eventually. He goes by the name 'The Composer.' He creates music videos of his victims dying."

  The inspector and prosecutor--Daniela too--seemed unable to speak.

  "Look." Ercole pointed to the back of the bus-stop bench.

  A miniature hangman's noose hung from a beam.

  Chapter 11