"They paid with a credit card?" Sachs asked, hoping.
"No," the waitress responded. "Euros. And they gave no tip, of course." A sour pout.
Sachs asked how they had arrived but the server wasn't sure. They had just walked in, from up the road.
Sachs inquired, "Did anyone seem to be interested in them? Anyone in a black car?"
She understood the English. "Da! I mean to say, yes." Her eyes widened. "Fascinated that you would be speaking of that."
She returned to Italian.
Ercole said, "Halfway through the meal a large black or dark-blue car drove by and slowed suddenly, as if the driver took an interest in the restaurant. She was thinking that she might be having rich tourists as customers. But no. He drove on."
"The driver might have seen them?"
"Yes," the waitress said. "Possible. The two men I am been talking about, they were outside. That tavola, table, there."
Sachs looked up and down the quiet street. On the other side of the road was a tree-filled lot and, behind that, farmland. "You said they fell silent but did you hear them say anything?"
After a conversation with the waitress, Ercole explained, "She did hear them mention Trenitalia--the national train service. She believed the Italian said 'you,' meaning Maziq, would have a six-hour trip and Maziq seemed discouraged by that. Six hours--that means he would be going north." He smiled. "We are not such a big country. They could almost be at the northern border in that time."
The woman had nothing more to add and seemed disappointed that they didn't want a second lunch. The tortellini was the best in southern Italy, she promised.
So, the Composer was cruising the streets looking for a likely target--an immigrant, possibly. And he had seen Maziq. What then? She scanned the hazy street, dead quiet. And then gestured for Ercole to follow her. They crossed the road and ducked through the stand of trees and bushes bordering the empty lot opposite the restaurant.
She pointed. They were looking at the tire treads of a car with a large wheelbase. The markings seemed similar to those of the Michelins from the bus-stop kidnapping. The vehicle had pulled into the back of the vacant lot and parked. The ground here was sparse grass and dank earth, and it was easy to see where the driver had gotten out and walked to the passenger's side--which faced the line of trees and bushes and, beyond, the very table where Maziq and his unpleasant companion had sat. It appeared that the Composer had opened the passenger's door and sat, facing outward, toward the diners, the door open.
"He liked the looks of his prey," Ercole said. "He sat here and spied on Maziq."
"So it seems," she said, walking up to the trees, through which she could see the tortellini restaurant clearly.
She pulled on latex gloves and told Ercole to do the same, which he did. She handed him rubber bands but he shook his head and produced a handful from his pocket. She smiled at his foresight.
"Take pictures of the impressions--shoes and tread marks."
He did so, shooting from a number of different angles.
"Beatrice Renza? Is she good?"
"As a forensic officer? I never met her until the other day. Again, I am new to the Police of State. But Beatrice seems good, yes. Though she is aloof. And...Is it a word: attitudinal?"
"Yep."
"Not like Daniela," Ercole said wistfully.
"You think photos will be enough for her to type the tread marks, or should we call a forensic team in?"
"I think the photos will do for her. She will browbeat them into submission."
Sachs laughed. "And scoop up samples of the dirt where he stood and sat."
"Yes, I will."
She handed him some empty bags. But he had already produced some of his own from his uniform pocket.
She squinted back toward the restaurant. "And something else?"
"What, Detective? Amelia."
She said, "You're a Forestry officer. Do you by any chance have a saw in the trunk of your car?"
"As a matter of fact, I have three."
Chapter 25
Cos'e quello?"
Rhyme could translate that one for himself. In fact, he was wondering the same thing.
Ercole, who was carting in the--presumably--item of evidence, answered, "It's St. John's bread. You might know it as a carob tree. Ceratonia siliqua." The object was foliage, about five feet tall, four branches joined to a single trunk. It had been sawn off at the base.
In gloved hands Ercole also carried a large plastic bag containing smaller bags, filled with dirt and grass.
They were in the situation room once more. Sachs accompanied Ercole. Massimo Rossi and earnest, unsmiling forensic officer Beatrice Renza were present too. Though it was an odd piece of evidence, the woman regarded the large foliage with the same clinical detachment as she might a bullet casing or latent friction ridge lift.
Rhyme noted that Sachs's hands were glove-free--in keeping with her limited role as translator. Or the appearance of her limited role.
Ercole continued enthusiastically, "It is quite an interesting plant. Of course, the beans are used to make carob powder, like chocolate. The name 'carob,' I find most interesting, is the source for the word 'carat,' as per the measuring unit for diamonds."
"Forestry Officer, I do not care about its esteemed place in the pantheon of plants," Spiro growled. "Could you be more responsive to my question?" He slipped into his pocket the slim book he'd been jotting notes in, the book he was never without.
Ercole regarded the book with concern once again, it seemed, and answered quickly, "I found a place where the Composer was spying on Ali Maziq and the man he had dinner with."
"You found him, this Arabic speaker?" Spiro asked.
"No. But I learned he's Italian, though most likely not Campanian," Ercole continued, with a glance toward Beatrice. "The pictures I uploaded?"
The forensic officer answered, "I will say that the shoe prints were not dissimilar to those left by the kidnapper in New York and at the bus stop where Maziq was kidnapped. Converse Cons, most likely. And the tire treads too are indicative of the same model as at the bus stop. The Michelins."
Spoken like a true criminalist, though under these circumstances Rhyme would not have objected to a bolder conclusion, like: Si, it was his shoes and his car.
Rossi asked the location of the restaurant exactly and Ercole answered. Rossi walked to a map and marked it. He said, "There are not bus routes there. So, following dinner, the colleague, or someone else, would have driven Maziq to the bus stop. The Composer followed."
Ercole explained that the vehicle had driven past the restaurant and slowed, probably as he saw Maziq and his colleague dining outside. He then drove around the corner, parked and spied on them. "I took samples of the dirt and grass from where he stood and sat." He nodded down at the bags and handed them to Beatrice, who took them in her gloved hands.
They had a brief conversation in Italian, a small argument clearly, which ended with Beatrice shaking her head and Ercole grimacing. She stepped into the lab.
Speaking through the branches, his face only partly visible, Ercole continued, "And from the footprints, it seems that he walked to the bushes to get a good look at the restaurant. I am hoping he pushed them aside to see Maziq."
Rossi pulled out his phone. "I will call an officer guarding Ali Maziq. We perhaps can find if what you learned helps out his memory." He placed the call and, head down, had a conversation.
Gesturing to the large, bushy branch Ercole held in front of him, Spiro said, "Do something with that, Forestry Officer. It is as if I am speaking to a tree."
"Of course, Procuratore." He took it into the lab and returned with some notes that, he explained, Beatrice had given him. Apparently concerned that his handwriting was not in vogue, here in the Questura, Ercole dictated; Sachs wrote.
Vantage Point Across Road from Ristorante San Giancarlo, 13km from D'Abruzzo
--Ali Maziq, Composer kidnap victim, met with colleague, 1 hour prior to kid
napping.
--Companion: --ID unknown.
--Italian most likely. Not from Campania. Large. Dark-complexioned. Black hair. Wearing dark suit, dusty. Smoked foul cigarettes. Described as surly.
--English was spoken. But they tried not to speak in front of the waitress. --Reference to Trenitalia journey, six hours.
--Dark car (black, blue) drove past at some point. Slowed, possibly to examine Maziq and Companion.
--Shoe prints at vantage point: Converse Cons, Size 45, same as at other scenes.
--Michelin 205/55R16 91H tread marks found in vantage point.
--Trace recovered at vantage point. --Presently being analyzed.
--Branches recovered at vantage point. --Presently being examined for trace and fingerprints.
Rossi disconnected his call and looked over the chart. His face bore a wry smile. "No, Signor Maziq still remembers nothing of the day or so before the kidnapping. Or claims he doesn't. But I think perhaps it is less due to the Composer's drugs and the suffocation than to a typical criminal's amnesia."
"How's that?" Rhyme asked.
"As I mentioned, leaving a refugee camp briefly is not considered a serious offense. But leaving the country of first landfall is. And that's what Maziq was trying to do, it appears."
Spiro added, "Yes, now the phone calls on Maziq's mobile to and from Bolzano make sense. That is in the South Tyrol--very far north in Italy, close to the Austrian border. And about six hours on Trenitalia from here. It would be a good way station for an immigrant desiring to slip out of Italy and into northern European cities, where there are better opportunities for refugees than Italy. This man he dined with? Another human smuggler arranging to spirit Maziq out of the country, north. For a substantial fee, of course. This is a serious crime and, accordingly, he remembers nothing of it."
Rhyme noted Ercole's face brighten as he glanced toward the doorway. The blond Flying Squad officer Daniela Canton walked briskly into the room, her posture perfect.
"Officer," Spiro said.
She spoke to those assembled in Italian and Ercole translated for the Americans. "She and Giacomo have canvassed for witnesses and looked for CCTVs around the site of the kidnapping, Viale Margherita. They found nothing. One person thinks he saw a black car late at night but nothing else about it. And the tabaccaio where the Composer purchased the Nokia--the one to alert him that the aqueduct facility had been breached? No camera and the clerks have no memory of who it might have been."
Daniela left the room, Ercole's gaze following like a puppy, and then he turned back.
Sachs said, "So, the Composer is driving around the countryside, looking for a potential target. He sees Maziq and decides to kidnap him. But why, though? Why him?"
"I have a thought," Ercole said, speaking hesitantly.
Rossi asked, "And what might that be?"
A glance at Spiro. "It takes into account your interest in patterns, Procuratore."
"How?" the prosecutor muttered.
"We've found the drugs, the evidence of electroconvulsive treatment. We know the Composer's psychotic. Schizophrenia is one of the common forms of psychosis. These patients truly believe they are doing good--sometimes the work of God or alien beings or mythological figures. Now, on the surface, Maziq and Robert Ellis are very different. A refugee in Italy and a businessman in New York. But the Composer might have become convinced that they are reincarnations of some evil figures."
Spiro asked, "Mussolini? Billy the Kid? Hitler?"
"Yes, yes, just so. He is justified in killing them to rid the world of their evil. Or to get revenge on behalf of a deity or spirit."
"And the music? The video?"
"Perhaps so other demons or villains will see. And flee back to hell."
"If they have good Internet servers," Spiro muttered. "You must have much free time in Forestry, Ercole, to study such subjects."
He blushed and responded, "Procuratore, this particular fact about criminal psychosis I learned last night. Doing some, come si dice?" A frown. "Doing homework."
"Mythological figures enlisting the Composer to rid the world of evil." Spiro frowned, gazing at the newsprint sheet. "I think we have not yet stumbled upon a pattern that satisfies me." He regarded his elaborate watch. "I have a call to Rome I must make."
Without another word he turned and left the situation room, pulling a cheroot from his pocket.
Rhyme's phone hummed with a text. He assumed it was Thom, who had taken a few hours off and was seeing the sights in Naples. But he saw immediately that he was wrong. The text was lengthy and, after reading it, he nodded to Sachs. She took the phone and frowned.
"What do you think of this, Rhyme?"
"What do I think?" He scowled. "I think: Why the hell now?"
Chapter 26
Greeting Lincoln Rhyme proved troublesome for some people.
Such as Charlotte McKenzie.
Should you offer a hand and risk embarrassing a "patient" unable to reciprocate? Should you not, and embarrass anyway by suggesting you don't want to touch a person who's different?
Rhyme could not have cared less, so he had no reaction when, after an awkward glance at the chair, the woman simply nodded and said with a stilted smile that they should keep their distance; she had a cold.
This was a common excuse.
Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were meeting with McKenzie in the U.S. consulate, a white, functional five-story shoe box of a building, near Naples Bay. They'd showed their passports to the U.S. Marines downstairs and been ushered up to the top floor.
"Mr. Rhyme," the woman said. "Captain?"
"Lincoln."
"Yes. Lincoln." McKenzie was about fifty-five, with a doughy, grandmotherly face, powdered but otherwise largely makeup-free. Her light hair was short, in the style he believed favored by some famous British actress whose name he could not recall.
McKenzie opened a file folder. "Thank you so much for seeing me. Let me explain. I'm a legal liaison officer with the State Department. We work with citizens who've run into legal problems in foreign countries. I'm based in Rome but a situation's come up in Naples and I flew down here to look into it. I'm hoping you might be able to help."
"How did you know we were here?" Sachs asked.
"That case, the serial killer? An FBI update went to the embassy and all the consular offices. What's his name, the killer?" she asked.
"We don't know. We're calling him the Composer."
She offered a concerned furrow of brow. "That's right. Bizarre. Kidnapping and that music video. But you saved the victim yesterday, I read. Is he all right?"
"Yes," Rhyme said quickly, preempting Sachs and Thom, who might be inclined to explain further.
"How's it working out with the Police of State? Or is it Carabinieri?"
"Police of State. Working well enough." Rhyme fell silent and only the lack of a timepiece prevented him from glancing at a wristwatch. He had to convey impatience by a studied lack of interest. But this he was very good at.
McKenzie may have noticed. She got to it. "Well, I'm sure you're pressed. So thanks for coming in. Your reputation is significant, Lincoln. You're maybe the best forensic officer in the U.S."
U.S. only? he thought, unreasonably offended. He said nothing but offered a cool smile.
She said, "Here's our problem. An American student attending Federico the Second, the University of Naples, has been arrested for sexual assault. His name's Garry Soames. He and the victim--she's known in the police documents as Frieda S.--were at a party here in town. She's a first-term student from Amsterdam. At some point she passed out and was assaulted." McKenzie looked up, to the doorway. "Ah, here. Elena will be able to tell us more."
Two others entered the office. The first was a woman in her forties, of athletic build, her hair pinned into a bun, taut, though errant strands escaped. She wore glasses with complex metal-and-tortoiseshell frames, the sort you'd see in upscale fashion mags. (He thought of Beatrice Renza's eyewear.) Her outfit was a
charcoal-gray pin-striped suit with a dark-blue blouse, open at the neck. Beside her was a short, slim man, in a conservative suit, also gray, though lighter. He had thinning blondish hair. He might have been thirty or fifty. His skin was so pale Rhyme thought at first he was a person with albinism, though, no, it seemed that he just didn't get outside very much.
"This is Elena Cinelli," McKenzie said.
In slightly accented English the woman said, "I'm an Italian attorney. I specialize in defending foreigners who've been accused of crimes here. Charlotte contacted me about Garry's situation. His family has retained me."
The pale man said, "Captain Rhyme, Detective Sachs. I'm Daryl Mulbry. I'm with the community and public relations office here at the consulate." The inflected tones situated his roots somewhere in the Carolinas, or possibly Tennessee. Seeing that Rhyme's right arm functioned, Mulbry extended his hand and they shook. (Rhyme now tempered his criticism of Charlotte McKenzie, who was dabbing her nose and then fighting down a sneeze; apparently she did have a reason for not shaking anyone's hand--gimps included.)
Mulbry greeted Thom too. And he lifted an eyebrow to McKenzie--apparently at her win on getting Rhyme into the office, undoubtedly to pitch a request his way.
We'll see about that.
"Please," McKenzie said, gesturing to a coffee table. Rhyme wheeled close and everyone else sat around it. "I was just filling in our visitors about the arrest. You can explain, Signorina Cinelli, better than I could."
Cinelli reiterated some of what McKenzie had said, then: "Garry and the victim were drinking quite a bit and becoming romantic and--to seek privacy--went upstairs to the roof. The victim says she remembers going up there but soon passed out. The next thing she recalls, it is waking hours later on the roof of an adjoining building, having been sexually assaulted. Garry admits they were up there but when Frieda grew tired he left her and returned downstairs. There were, from time to time, others on the roof--at a place where people were smoking--but the adjoining roof, where the attack occurred, is not visible from there. No one saw or heard the actual attack."
The Burial Hour Page 16