She'd become a raging she-wolf and flung a bottle (the expensive Super-Tuscan, but empty, thank God) into his bathroom mirror, shattering both.
She'd muttered words to him in Italian. It seemed like a curse.
So. Just be more careful.
"Spend the year in Europe, kiddo," his father had told him, upon his departure from Lambert Field. "Enjoy, graduate at the bottom of your class. Experience life!" The tall man--an older version of Garry, with silver in his blond hair--had then lowered his voice: "But. You do a single milligram of coke or pot and you're on your own. You end up in a Naples jail, all you'll get from us is postcards, and probably not even that."
And Garry could truthfully tell his father that he'd never tried any coke and he'd never tried any pot.
There was plenty else to amuse him.
Like Valentina. (San Diego? Really? He'd used that as a come-on line?) Or Ariella. Or Toni.
Then he thought of Frieda.
The Dutch girl he'd met at Natalia's party on Monday. Yes, picturing them being on the roof, her beautiful hair dipping onto his shoulder, her firm breast against his arm, her damp lips against his.
"You are, I am saying, a pretty boy, isn't it? You are the football player?"
"Your football or mine?"
Which broke her up.
"Foot...ball..." Her mouth on his again. Above them spanned the Neapolitan evening, milky with million stars. He and this beautiful Dutch girl, blond and tasting of mint, alone in a deserted alcove of the roof.
Her eyelids closing...
And Garry looking down at her, thinking: Sorry, sorry, sorry...It's out of my hands. I can't control it.
Now he shuddered and closed his eyes and didn't want to think about Frieda again.
Garry's mood grew dark, and he decided that, hell, he'd open up a new grappa when he got home.
Frieda...
Shit.
Approaching the doorway of the old flat. It was a shabby two-story place, on a quiet stretch of road. The building had probably been a single-family at one point but then converted into a two-unit apartment. He lived in the basement.
He paused and found his key. Then Garry was startled by two people walking up to him. He was cautious. He'd been mugged once already. An ambiguous threat; two skinny but mean-eyed men had asked to borrow money. He'd given it up, along with his watch, which they hadn't asked for but had happily taken.
But then he saw that these two were police officers--middle-aged, stocky both of them, a man and woman, in the blue uniforms of the Police of State.
Still, of course, his guard was up.
"Yes?"
Speaking good English, the woman asked, "You are Garry Soames?"
"I am."
"May I see your passport?"
In Italy, everyone was required to carry--and produce upon demand--a passport or identity card. It rankled the civil libertarian within him but he complied without protest.
She read it. And slipped it into her own pocket.
"Hey."
"You were at a party Monday night, in the flat of Natalia Garelli."
His memories of just a few moments ago.
"I...well, yes. I was."
"You were there all night?"
"What's all night?"
"When were you there?"
"I don't know, from maybe ten p.m. until three or so. What's this all about?"
"Mr. Soames," the man said, his accent thicker than his partner's. "We are putting you under arrest for certain events that occurred at that party. I would like you to present your hands."
"My--"
Steel cuffs appeared.
He hesitated.
The male cop: "Please, sir. I would recommend you do this."
The woman lifted the backpack off his shoulder and began to look through it.
"You can't do that!"
She ignored him and continued to rummage.
The man cuffed him.
The woman completed the search of his bag and said nothing. The man searched his pockets, taking his wallet and leaving everything else. He found three unopened condoms and held them up. The two officers shared a look. Everything the man took he placed in an evidence bag.
Each taking an arm, they led him up the street to an unmarked car.
"What's this all about?" he repeated stridently. They were silent. "I haven't done anything!" He switched to Italian and said, in a desperate voice, "Non ho fatto niente di sbagliato!"
Still no response. He snapped, "Qual e il crimine?"
"The charge is battery and rape. It is my duty to inform you that, as you are now under arrest, you have the right to an attorney and an interpreter. Signor, please, get into the car."
Chapter 22
Rhyme and Sachs examined the evidence chart that Beatrice and Ercole had assembled.
Rossi and Spiro stood behind them, also scanning, scanning, scanning.
Beatrice had done a solid job, isolating and identifying the materials.
"Do you have a geological database?" Rhyme asked Rossi. "Where we can narrow the source of that clay-based soil?"
Rossi summoned the woman from the crime lab.
When posed the question, Beatrice answered. The inspector's translation: "She has compared the soil with a number of samples but it is common with those found in hundreds of areas and can't be narrowed down more."
Rhyme asked, "Can we canvass stores that would sell duct tape, wooden rods and buckets?"
Rossi and Spiro regarded each other with amusement. It was for Rossi to say, "That is beyond our resources."
"Well, at least can we see if the tobacco store where he bought the phone has a video camera?"
The inspector said, "Daniela and Giacomo have that assignment, yes."
Ercole Benelli appeared in the doorway and entered cautiously, almost as if worried he'd be physically assaulted by Dante Spiro.
"Sir, no, Ali Maziq has not had electroconvulsive treatment. He does not know what that is. And he has taken no medication. Well, I am not accurate. He takes Tylenol for his pains."
"That's not relevant, Forestry Officer."
"No, of course, Procuratore."
Spiro said, "Electroconvulsive, antipsychotic drugs, anti-anxiety drugs. So the Composer was surely a patient at some mental facility recently. Have you searched mental hospitals?"
Rhyme wondered if the question was calculated to be a barb to counter what he might perceive as Rhyme's criticism of the Italians' inability to search for the sources for the wooden rod, tape and bucket, which it was not.
"There are too many hospitals and doctors to check. And the theft of a small amount of the sedative wouldn't be reported in the national database. Our NCIC shows no similar crimes. Ever."
Beyond our resources...
Spiro regarded the evidence chart. "And no clue as to where he's holed up."
Surprised at the old-time American expression.
"Holed up?" Ercole asked tentatively.
"Where he's staying. Where he took the victim right after the kidnapping."
"It wasn't there, at the aqueduct?"
"No," Spiro said and offered nothing more.
Rhyme explained, "He hadn't peed. Or defecated." He knew this because either Sachs or the medical team would have observed and reported if he'd done so. "The Composer has a base of operation in or near Naples. He videoed Maziq in the aqueduct reservoir room but he assembled and uploaded the video from somewhere else. Maybe something there will tell us where. Maybe not." A nod toward the chart.
Rossi answered his mobile and had a conversation. After he disconnected, he said, "That was my colleague with the Postal Police. They have completed the analysis of Maziq's phone card. They have significantly narrowed the area where he made calls within the hour before he was kidnapped at the bus stop. They center on a cellular phone tower about ten kilometers northeast of the town of D'Abruzzo."
Spiro said to Rossi, "I know nothing about the area. Why would the Composer be hunting that far from downtown?
Allora. Can your officers get out there, Massimo? Tomorrow?"
"Possibly. Not, however, until later. Daniela and Giacomo will be canvassing here. Why don't we send Ercole?"
"Him?" Spiro looked his way. "Have you ever canvassed before?"
"I've interviewed suspects and witnesses. Many times."
Rhyme wondered if the prosecutor would make some cruel comment about canvassing wildlife. But the man merely shrugged. "Yes, all right."
"I will do it, si." Ercole paused, glancing to the room where Maziq had been interviewed. "Can you assign an Arabic speaker to come with me? Perhaps the officer who spoke with him earlier?"
Rossi asked, "Arabic, why?"
"Because of what you said, Procuratore."
"Me?"
"Yes, just now. Why would he go all that distance if there was not a Muslim community there? He doesn't speak Italian. I would guess he met with an Arabic speaker."
Spiro considered this. "Perhaps."
But Rossi said, "Our translators, Marco and Federica, are busy solidly." To Rhyme: "Our greatest lack, one of our greatest lacks, is Arabic interpreters, given the refugee flood."
The young officer frowned. To Sachs he said, "You were speaking Arabic."
"Me? Oh, I--"
"You were quite proficient," Ercole said quickly. Then to Rossi, "She was speaking to Maziq." To Sachs he said, "Perhaps you could assist." Then he grew stern. "Only for that purpose. You translate for me, and say nothing else."
Sachs blinked.
Rhyme reflected that there was something faintly comical about the gentle young man trying to sound like a prickly, lecturing father.
Ercole said to the prosecutor, "I recall what you said, Procuratore. She will translate only, and if anyone were to ask, that is what I will tell them. But I think it is important, if you agree, to find this dinner companion of Maziq. Or find evidence the Composer might have left or witnesses who saw him. Perhaps this will lead to establishing the pattern you were speaking of."
"But under no circumstances--"
"Will she utter a word to the press."
"Correct."
Spiro looked from Ercole to Sachs. He said, "On that condition. Complete silence other than to interpret the Forestry officer's words. If there is no need, you will remain in the car."
"Fine."
Spiro walked to the doorway. There he paused and turned back to Sachs. "Hal tatahaddath alearabia?"
She eyed him evenly. "Nem fielaan."
Spiro met her gaze for a moment, then pulled a lighter from his pocket and, clutching it and his cheroot together, continued into the corridor.
Rhyme suspected that with those two exchanges, the prosecutor had used up a good portion of his entire Arabic vocabulary. He knew Sachs's numbered about two dozen words.
He swiveled to see Thom standing in the doorway.
"And we're going to the hotel," the aide said firmly.
"I need--"
"You need rest."
"There are a dozen unanswered questions."
"I'll unplug the controller and push you to the van."
The chair weighed close to a hundred pounds. But Rhyme knew Thom was fully capable of doing just what he'd threatened.
A grimace. "Fine, fine, fine." He turned the chair and headed out into the hallway, leaving it to Sachs to say good night for both of them.
Chapter 23
Close to 11 p.m.
Stefan was driving outside Naples, edgy. Anxious. He wanted to start the next composition. He needed to start the next composition.
Wiping sweat, wiping. Stuffing the tissues into his pocket. So very careful to avoid that DNA crap.
He was aware of noises, of course, always. But tonight they didn't calm him or dull the anxiety: the car's hum, the shush of rubber on asphalt, the two dozen tones from one dozen insects, an owl, no two. An airplane overhead, imposing its imperial growl over everything else.
Evenings are best for listening: The cool damp air lifts sounds from ground and trees, sounds you'd never otherwise hear, and carries them to you like the Wise Men's gifts.
Stefan was careful to drive the speed limit--he had no license, and the vehicle was stolen. But there were no daughters, or sons, of Greek gods close on his trail. A Police of State car passed him. A Carabinieri car passed him. Neither driver paid him, or anyone else on the crowded road, any mind.
The meds humming through his system, and his muse, Euterpe, hovering in his heart, helped, but still he remained unsteady. Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin.
As for his most recent participant in the composer's art, Ali Maziq, he thought nothing at all. The skinny little creature no longer existed to Stefan. He'd played his part in Stefan's journey to Harmony--and a fine contribution he had been.
He hummed a bit of "The Waltz of the Flowers."
Gasp, two, three, gasp, two, three...
The car rose to the crest of a hill and he pulled onto the weedy shoulder and stopped. He gazed over the fields of Capodichino. This district, now a suburb of Naples, had been the site of a heroic battle: the Neapolitans against the Nazi occupiers on the third day of the famed--and successful--uprising known as the Four Days of Naples in 1943.
These fields were home to Naples airport and a number of businesses, small factories and warehouses. Modest residences too.
And here you would find something else, something that insistently drew the gaze of any passerby: the Capodichino Reception Center, one of the largest refugee camps in Italy. It was many acres in size and filled with orderly rows of blue plasticized tents, Ministero dell'Interno emblazoned in stark white letters on the roofs.
The camp was surrounded by an eight-foot fence topped with barbed wire, though it was flimsy and little-patrolled, Stefan noted. Even now, so late, the place was bustling. Many, many people milled about, or sat or squatted. He had heard that all the camps in Italy were vastly overcrowded, security inadequate.
All of which was great for Stefan, of course. A chaotic hunting ground is a good hunting ground.
Having verified that there were few guards, in vehicles or on foot, patrolling the roads surrounding the camp, he now pulled back onto the road and maneuvered his old Mercedes forward. He parked not far away from the main entrance, climbed out. He walked closer, mixing with a cluster of lethargic reporters, probably backgrounding human interest pieces. Protesters too. Most placards he didn't understand but several were in English.
Go Back Home!
Scanning the camp: It was even more crowded than when he'd first been here, just recently. But otherwise, little had changed: Men in taqiyah or kufi skullcaps. Nearly all the women were in hijabs or wearing other head coverings. A few of the arrivals had suitcases but most carried cloth or plastic bags, filled with their only remaining possessions in the world. Some clutched the thick quilted blankets they would have been given by the Italian navy, after their human smugglers' boats had been interdicted--or after they'd been fished from the Mediterranean. A few still held orange life vests, also given out by the military and NGOs and, occasionally, the smugglers themselves (at least those worried that drowned customers were bad for business).
Many of the refugees were families. The second-most populous group seemed to be single men. There were hundreds upon hundreds of children. Some playing, cheerful. Most sullen, bewildered.
And exhausted.
The soldiers and police officers were plentiful and, given the many different uniforms, must have come from a number of branches of government. They seemed weary and stern but appeared to treat the refugees well. None of them paid the least attention to Stefan, just like the other day.
Chaos.
Hunting ground...
Something caught his eye. Stefan could see a man slipping out at the far end of the fence, through a slit cut vertically in the link. Was he escaping? But, watching, he noticed the man stroll nonchalantly up to one of a dozen vendors ringing the camp, selling food, clothing and personal items. He made a purchase and then returned.
&nb
sp; Yes, the camp security was porous.
Stefan bought food from one of these stands, a Middle Eastern dish. It was tasty but he had little appetite. He simply wanted some calories for the energy. He ate as he walked up and down the roadway along the camp. He then returned to the main gate.
Soon a large panel truck arrived, its precious cargo yet more refugees, with varying degrees of dark skin and wearing garb typical of North Africa, he supposed. Some too, he guessed, would be from Syria, though the journey over so many kilometers of rough sea--to the western shore of Italy--seemed unimaginable.
He heard, in his mind's ear, the creak of boards of the frail ships, the thump of the Zodiac boat pontoons, the unsteady stutter of struggling motors, the cries of babies, the slap of waves, the call of birds, the hiss and flutter of wind. Eyes closed, shivering as he was momentarily overwhelmed by hearing sounds he could not hear. He calmed and wiped the sweat, putting away the tissue. See, he thought to Her, I'm being careful.
Always, for his muse.
The thirty-odd refugees disembarked from the newly arrived truck and stood near the entrance to the camp, under the eyes of two guards. No machine guns. Just white leather holsters containing pistols on lanyards. They were directing the arrivees into a processing station--a long, low table where four aid workers sat, over clipboards and laptops.
Stefan moved closer yet. It was so crowded that no one paid him any mind. He was near to a couple who stood sullen and exhausted looking--nearly as tired as the two-year-old child asleep in the mother's arms. They stepped to the table and the husband--they wore wedding rings--said, "Khaled Jabril." A nod to his wife. "Fatima." Then he brushed the child's hair. "Muna."
"I'm Rania Tasso," said the woman they stood before. Heads nodded, but no hands were shaken.
Khaled was dressed Western--jeans and a counterfeit Hugo Boss T-shirt. Fatima was scarfed and wore a long-sleeve tunic, but was also in jeans. They both had running shoes. The little girl was in a costume, yellow. Some Disney character.
The woman reviewing their passports, Rania, had dark-red hair, done in a double braid, down to the small of her back. The radio on her hip and badge dangling from her neck meant she was an employee of the organization. After some minutes of watching her, Stefan decided she was very senior, perhaps the director of the camp. She was attractive. Her nose was Romanesque and her skin an olive shade that suggested her Italian ancestry was mixed with Greek or perhaps Tunisian.
The refugees answered questions. And, oh my, Stefan did not like Fatima's voice one bit. "Vocal fry," the tone was called--a condition afflicting more women than men, he believed. A rasping, growling quality to the voice.
The Burial Hour Page 14