"The party went on and by about four, everyone had left. Dev, my boyfriend, and I were cleaning up. And we heard cries from the roof. I went up and found Frieda beside the wall separating the roofs. She had fallen. She was in a terrible state. Her skirt torn, scrapes on her legs. I helped her up. She was hysterical. She knew she'd been attacked but could remember nothing. Dev called the police and they were here soon."
"Can you show us where that was?"
"Yes."
Natalia took them to spring-loaded stairs that led to a trapdoor in the ceiling of the back hall. Even the stairs--a wire-and-steel contraption, which pulled down from overhead--were stylish. The climb would be a bit risque in a skirt, Sachs thought. Like the hostess, though, she was in pants--jeans in her case, not thousand-dollar leather. On the roof was a wooden deck and several ten-foot-high sheds that may have been holding water tanks or tools. A sitting area, about twelve by twelve feet, contained metal chairs and tables, on which sat ashtrays.
The smoking station.
Sachs supposed that, unable to smoke indoors many places in Italy, nicotine addicts would migrate to places like this: decks and patios. The view was spectacular. You could see the entire expanse of Naples Bay, the misty form of the volcano to one side and, to the other, a massive castle, which was nearby.
Sachs walked from the smoking station around the corner of one of the sheds, secluded from view. There was a bench here, where Garry and Frieda would have settled in for their limonarono--or whatever the gerund of that verb might be.
Natalia said, in a weak voice, "The attack occurred over there." She pointed to the roof of the adjoining building, delineated by yellow police tape. "I will never look at this place again the same way. So pleasant once. And now, so terrible."
They walked to the tape. There was no gap between this building and the one next door; they were separated only by a brick wall, about three feet high. Looking left, Sachs and Ercole could see another cordoned-off area of police tape on the adjoining structure, where the actual crime had occurred. This was out of sight of the smoking station. A logical place for an attack.
"Let's go."
"But the tape!" Ercole whispered.
She smiled at him. Mindful of her joints, Sachs sat on the wall and eased onto the neighboring roof. Ercole sighed then leapt over. Natalia remained on the roof of her building. The pebbles covering the tar paper meant that they could find no footprints, so they didn't worry about booties or rubber bands. Pulling on latex gloves, Sachs took samples of the stones and flecks of tar from the place where the assault had occurred and the route leading to it.
When she was finished, she looked across the street and to the south at a tall building a half block away.
"What is that?"
Ercole noted the modern high-rise. "A hotel. The NV, I believe. A very nice place."
She squinted into the sun. "It looks like that's a parking garage."
"Yes, I think so."
"About level with the roof here. Let's find out if they have a CCTV, and if it's pointed this way."
"Yes, yes, good. Many parking structures have video security. I'll follow up on that."
She nodded and they returned to the smoking station and she performed a similar evidence collection there, as Natalia watched with curiosity. "It is like that show CSI. Isn't it?"
"Very much like that," Sachs said.
In ten minutes they were finished. Sachs and Ercole thanked the young woman. She shook their hands firmly and opened the door for them to leave. "Please, I am sure Garry could not have done this. In my heart I know." Her eyes darkened and she glanced in the direction of the building next door. "Those men, those Serbians, you should look once more at them. I read people very good. I do not trust them at all."
Chapter 30
She is free."
"Free?"
Beatrice Renza continued speaking to Ercole Benelli. "She recently has broken up from a long relationship. But it had been ending for some time."
"Some time?"
"Why are you repeating my statements as questions?"
Honestly. This woman. Ercole's lips grew taut. "I don't understand. Who are you speaking about?"
Though he had an idea. No, he knew exactly.
"Surely you do. Daniela Canton, of course."
He began to repeat the name, as a question, but stopped fast, lest he give the brittle woman more ammunition to fire his way. (Besides, as a police officer, he well knew that repeating questions is virtually an admission of guilt: "Poaching? Me? How can you say that I'm poaching?") Instead, a different inquiry: "Why are you telling me this?"
They stood in the laboratory on the ground floor of the Questura. The situation room for the Composer case was presently devoid of Ercole's colleagues. Only Amelia Sachs, Rhyme and his aide Thom were there--co-conspirators in the Garry Soames matter--so he felt confident in slipping into the lab to ask Beatrice to analyze the evidence they'd collected at the scene of the sexual assault, the roof of Natalia's apartment. Before he had been able to ask her to do this, however, she had regarded him with a tilted head and, perhaps seeing his lengthy glance toward Daniela, up the hall, had fired away.
She is free...
"It was a sad story." Apparently Beatrice had no interest in responding to his question about why she was sharing Daniela's story. She pushed her green-framed glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. "He was a pig," she snapped. "Her former lover."
Ercole was offended, for two reasons: One was this prickly woman's assumption that he had any interest whatsoever in Daniela. The other was his affection for pigs.
Still, interesting: Daniela. Unattached.
"I hadn't wondered about her status."
"No," the lab analyst said, clearly not believing him. Beatrice had a round face, framed by a mass of unruly black hair, presently tucked under a plastic bonnet. She was pretty in a baker's-daughter sort of way, Ercole reflected, though he knew no bakers, nor the offspring of any. Short of stature, she had a figure that could be described as, well, bustily squat. Her feet pointed outward and she tended to waddle when she walked, making a pronounced shuffling sound if she wore booties. Daniela moved through the halls with the grace of...what? Well, Beatrice had brought up the animal metaphor. Daniela moved with the grace of a lean cheetah. A lean and sexy cheetah.
Beatrice was more a sloth or koala bear.
Then, realizing the comparison was unkind and unfair, Ercole blushed in shame.
Pulling gloves on and taking the evidence bags, Beatrice said, "She was with Arci--Arcibaldo--for three years. He was somewhat younger. As you can see, Daniela is thirty-five."
That much? No, he could not see it, not at all. He was surprised. But he was intrigued that she liked younger men. Ercole being thirty.
"He wished to be a race car driver but that was a dream, of course; driving is not in his blood."
Unlike Amelia Sachs's, he thought ruefully, and reminded himself once more to take the Megane in for a checkup. The gearbox did not sound healthy.
Beatrice said, "He merely dabbled at the sport, Arci did. But he was a handsome man."
"Was? Did he die in an accident?"
"No. By 'was' I mean that he is in the past tense to Daniela. As a handsome driver, however mediocre, he had plenty of opportunities for bunga-bunga."
The expression, popularized by a former Italian prime minister, defied exact definition but, then, a likely meaning could be easily ascribed.
Beatrice looked at the bags and set them on examination tables. She noted the chain-of-evidence cards (his name only, not Amelia's) and placed her signature below his. "He worked for a racing team in Modena. Doing basic things, assisting mechanics, shepherding cars here and there. What happened was that he and Daniela returned from Eurovision--"
"She went to Eurovision?"
"That's right." Beatrice gave a dismissing laugh, nearly a snort, and had to reseat her complicated glasses. "If you can believe that."
"You don't care for
it?" Ercole asked her, after a thoughtful pause.
"Who on earth would? It's juvenile."
"Some feel that way, yes," he said quickly.
Based on an Italian festival that started six decades ago, Sanremo, Eurovision was a televised songwriting and -performing contest, countries competing against one another in a theatrical show that was lavishly and gaudily produced. The music was criticized as being bubblegum, with a patriotic topping and political bias. Still, Ercole loved it. He had been six times. He had tickets for the next Grand Final. Two tickets.
Ever hopeful, Ercole Benelli.
"They returned from the show and found police waiting at his flat. He had been selling fuel-system secrets to a competing team. The charges resulted in a fine only but in Italy, of course, people take driving very seriously. I myself was personally offended."
"You like car races?"
She said fervently, "I go to Formula One whenever I can. One day I will own a Maserati, the coupe. Used, of course. It will have to be. A Ferrari...well, that is beyond my dreams, on a Police of State salary. Do you attend?"
"Not often. I can't find the time." In fact, auto racing held no interest for him whatsoever. "I enjoyed the movie Rush." He couldn't remember the drivers' names. And one was Italian.
"Ah, brilliant, wasn't it? Niki Lauda, an artist! He drove for Ferrari, of course. I own the DVD. I attend races quite a lot. But they aren't for everybody. You must wear sound protection, if you go. I take my earmuffs, the ones I use on the police pistol range. They also help me get good seats. People see Police of State printed on the cups and they make way for me."
For some reason he said, "I race pigeons."
"The birds?"
He said, "Of course the birds."
What other kind of pigeons were there?
"I have never heard of that. In any event, though Arci's offense was not serious, Daniela could hardly have a boyfriend who committed a crime."
"And one who was guilty, as well, of bunga-bunga when he was away at races."
"Exactly."
"Poor thing. She must have been devastated."
Beatrice clicked her tongue, the way a disapproving nun might do in class. "I wouldn't call her a thing. It's offensive. But, yes, of course she was upset." Beatrice looked into the other room, toward the woman who was a foot taller, seven kilos lighter and had the face of an angelic cheetah. She said kindly, "Even the beautiful can suffer from heartbreak. No one is immune. So, I say to you simply that she is available, if you wish to speak to her on the matter."
Utterly flustered, he blurted, "No, no, no. I have no interest in her in that way, none whatsoever. I'm merely curious. It's my nature. I am curious about everyone. I am curious about people from different regions. People of different ages. People of different races, different colors. I am curious about men, about women, black, white, brown..." He struggled to find something more to say.
Beatrice helped out: "Children, of any complexion?"
Ercole blinked, then realized she was making a joke. He laughed at her dry delivery, though uncomfortably. She gave no response, other than to study the bags.
"So. What do we have here?" She was holding the card. "'From the smoking station.' What is that?"
"The location of a possible witness to a crime. Or a perpetrator."
She read another card. "'The attack site.'"
He stepped forward, to tell her what it contained, but she waved him back, past a yellow line. "No, no, no. You are not gowned. Get back!"
He sighed and stepped away. "It's pebbles--"
"From a rooftop. Obviously."
He then asked, "And can you see if the NV Hotel in Vomero has a CCTV pointed northeast, from the top level of their parking garage?"
Beatrice frowned. "Me? It would be the Postal Police who could check that."
"I don't know anyone there." He tapped his Forestry Corps badge.
"I suppose I could. What case is this?"
He said, "An independent investigation."
"Well, Ercole Benelli, you come to the Police of State like a newborn hatchling from the Forestry Corps and leap into the role of investigator, fully formed. With a case of your own. You are the new Montalbano." The beloved Sicilian detective in the murder mystery series by Andrea Camilleri. "So understandably you do not know the procedures here. An evidence analysis request like this must reference a case number or at least the name of a suspect."
"We don't know his identity." This much was true. If the claim of Garry Soames's lawyer--and Garry himself--could be believed, someone else had raped the woman on the rooftop, a person unknown.
Ah. Perfect.
"Put down Unsub Number One."
"What does that refer to? 'Unsub'? I've never heard that."
"English. 'Unknown subject.' It's a term the American police use when referring to a suspect whose name they have not learned."
Beatrice looked him up and down. "If you are taken with American expressions I think you are maybe more Columbo than Montalbano."
Was this an insult? Columbo was that bumbling, disheveled detective, wasn't he? Still, he was the hero of the show.
"As for the forensic results, should I contact you or Inspector Rossi or Prosecutor Spiro? Or another prosecutor?"
"Me, please."
"Fine. Does this have priority over the Composer? I'm nearly finished with the analysis of the evidence you found outside D'Abruzzo."
"That should be first. The Composer may be set to strike again, though perhaps if you could call about the CCTV on the NV Hotel? I am interested in any tapes the night of the twentieth, midnight to four a.m."
"Midnight to four a.m. of the twentieth? Or the twenty-first of September?"
"Well, I suppose the twenty-first."
"So, what you really mean is the 'morning' of the twenty-first. You misspoke when you said 'night'?"
He sighed. "Yes."
"All right." She picked up a phone, and Ercole walked into the situation room, nodding to Captain Rhyme and Thom. Detective Sachs looked up at him, questioningly.
He whispered, "She will review it. And now she is calling the hotel. About the CCTV."
"Good," Rhyme said.
A moment later Beatrice stepped into the situation room. She nodded to those inside and said in Italian, "No, Ercole. The NV Hotel does have a camera but unfortunately it seemed not to be working at the time of the attack. There is nothing on the disk."
"Thank you for checking that."
She said, "Surely." Then seemed to look him over as she turned and left. He glanced down at his uniform. Was he as rumpled as Columbo? He brushed at some dust on his jacket sleeve.
"Ercole?" Captain Rhyme asked.
"Ah, yes. Sorry." And he told them about the CCTV.
"Always the way, isn't it?" Captain Rhyme asked in a voice that didn't seem surprised. "Put that on our portable chart."
"Our portable chart?"
Thom handed him the yellow pad on which Sachs, at the cafe, had transcribed his translation of the evidence of the Soames case from the report provided by Elena Cinelli, Garry's lawyer. He made a notation of the lack of video camera and slipped it under a stack of files on the table, out of sight. Well hidden. The last thing Ercole wanted was for Prosecutor Spiro to see it.
Captain Rhyme said, "We still need a search at Garry Soames's apartment. To see if there's any evidence of somebody planting the drugs."
Ercole's heart sank. But Captain Rhyme continued, "We'll wait on that, though. We should have the evidence analysis from your trip out to the country soon. Happy to do the consulate a favor, but, like I told them, the Composer has priority."
Relief coursing through him, Ercole nodded. "Yes, yes, Capitano. A good plan."
Then Ercole saw motion from the hallway and noted Daniela standing nearby, head down, playing with a braid absently with one hand as she read from a thick folder held in the other.
She's free...
For a solid sixty seconds Ercole Benelli wondered if
there was some way he could credibly engage her in a conversation about police procedures and then smoothly--and cleverly--segue into the topic of his love for Eurovision.
He concluded that there was not.
But that didn't stop him from excusing himself and stepping into the hallway. He nodded hello to Daniela and said, with a shy smile, that he'd heard she liked the contest and, he was just curious, not that it was important, what did she think of the Moldavian entry last year, which he considered to be the best competition song to come along in years?
Ercole was surprised, to say the least, when she agreed.
Chapter 31
Now, move.
Get going!
Huddling in his musty bedroom in this musty house, Stefan forced himself to rise and, as always, first thing, don latex gloves. Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin... He wiped his brow and neck, slipped the tissue into his pocket for later disposal. Then he slipped a pill into his mouth. Olanzapine. Ten mg. After much trial and error, doctors had determined that the drug made him as normal as he could be. Or, as he'd heard it described, behind his back: rendering him less fucking schizoid than anything else could. (For Stefan, treatment and maintenance were pretty much limited to drugs; psychotherapy was useless for someone who was far more interested in the sound of words than the content. "So tell me your feelings when you walked into the cellar, Stefan, on that day in April and saw what you saw" was nothing more than a series of spoken tones that, depending on the doctor's voice, could be ecstatically beautiful, could downright thrill him or could induce a bout of anxiety thanks to the shrink's vocal fry.)
Olanzapine. The "atypical"--or second-generation--antipsychotic worked well enough. But today, he was struggling. The Black Screams were nipping at the edges of his mind. And the desperation swelled. He had to move, move, move along the stations of his own cross, en route to Harmony.
Shaky-hand, sweaty-skin.
Had he been a drinking man, he would have taken a shot of something.
The Burial Hour Page 19