The Burial Hour

by Jeffery Deaver

  Beatrice walked into the office. She addressed them, struggling through English. "I am having the results of the tests that have been run. Primo, the soil samples you have gave to me, Ercole, from Garry Soames's apartment, near the break-in. There is not some distinctive profile. If we are locationing some other spot, other shoes, we can link them but now, there is not a thing helpful."

  A nod toward Sachs. Now, rather than trying English, Beatrice spoke to Ercole. He translated, "She is mentioning the trace in the Milan warehouse. Yes, there was soil that could be associated with the soil here in Campania. Because of Vesuvius, of course, we have a great deal of unique volcanic residue. But there is much commerce between Milan and Naples--trucks drive there daily. So the presence of Neapolitan dirt in Milan does not necessarily mean much.

  "But the other trace didn't have any particular connection with Campania or Naples, and is typical of what you would find in a warehouse: diesel fuel, regular petrol..." He asked her to repeat something, which she did. Then he asked her once more. She frowned and repeated slowly, "Molybdenum disulfide and Teflon fluoropolymer."

  He glared her way and said something in Italian. A brief exchange ensued and she said something heatedly. Ercole replied, "How would I know what those are?" Then to the others: "She says it is a grease intended for heavy outdoor equipment, lifters, conveyor belts. And there was jet fuel again. Typical too for warehouses--where the trucks drive to and from airport cargo areas."

  Massimo Rossi took a call. Rhyme could see immediately his dismay.

  "Cristo!" the inspector muttered. "The Composer has struck again. And at Capodichino, the camp, once more."

  "Another murder?"

  "No, a kidnapping. He's left another noose."

  Rhyme said, "Have the Postal Police start monitoring the streaming sites. It's just a matter of time until he uploads a new composition."

  Then a look toward Sachs. She nodded. "Ercole?"

  Sighing, the Forestry officer dug his keys from his pocket, dropped them into her palm, and they jogged out the door.

  Chapter 45

  Amelia Sachs braked the Megane to a hard stop toward the back of the Capodichino Reception Center, guided to the crime scene by the phalanx of Flying Squad cars, lights flashing. The Composer had snatched this victim from the west side of the camp, opposite from where he had slashed to death Malek Dadi.

  She and Ercole Benelli climbed from the small car and strode to a uniformed officer who was directing an underling to string yellow police tape around the perimeter. He seemed not the least surprised to see an American detective with a useless NYPD badge on her hip and a Beretta in her waistband, accompanied by a tall young officer in Forestry Corps grays. Apparently Rossi or Spiro had explained who they were and by what authority they were present.

  After a brief conversation with the officer, in Italian, Ercole said to her, "He is saying that the victim was outside the fence, about there."

  Sachs followed his finger and saw another improvised gate.

  "The kidnapper approached from those bushes and there was a scuffle. In this case, though, he was able to get the hood over the victim's head and vanished. But more interesting and more helpful to us, I think: Someone came to the aid of the victim and fought with the Composer."

  Ah, Sachs thought. Transfer of evidence.

  "Was it a guard? Police? The person who fought?"

  "No. It was the victim's wife."

  "Wife?"

  "Si. They were walking along those trees, the two of them. The Composer hit her, knocked her down. But she rose again and began fighting him. Her name is Fatima Jabril. The man taken was Khaled. They were recent arrivals."

  The Scientific Police van arrived and the two officers exited the vehicle and began to robe. She recognized them from the prior scenes. They exchanged greetings.

  Sachs too pulled on a Tyvek jumpsuit, booties and cap and gloves. Though there was no formal division of labor, the woman SP officer asked, through Ercole, if Sachs would work the main scene--where the struggle had occurred--while they took the secondary scene: the far side of a stand of magnolia and vegetation, where the Composer had parked his car and, presumably, lain in wait for the victim.

  "Si," Sachs said. "Perfetto."

  The woman smiled.

  For a half hour, Sachs walked the grid, using the Italian number cards to mark spots for photography and collection of trace, including the trademark noose. She made one particularly good find in a bush beside a spot where people had clearly grappled: a Converse Con shoe--a low-top model.

  When she was finished, the SP officers entered the scene and collected the trace, the noose and the shoe and then photographed and videoed around the numbers.

  Outside the perimeter, Sachs stripped off the Tyvek and took the bottled water Ercole offered. "Thanks."

  "Prego."

  "I want to talk to the victim's wife," she said and downed the water, then wiped her face with her sleeve. Did it ever cool off here?

  They went to the front of the camp, where--as she'd seen before--buses waited in line to discharge more refugees. They walked through the gate, and an armed soldier led them to a large trailer on which was a sign that read: Direttore.

  Inside the cluttered office, which was--thank you--air-conditioned, a tired-looking brunette sat behind a desk, piled high with papers. She directed them to a door in the back. Sachs knocked and identified herself. She heard, "Come in."

  She and Ercole entered and nodded to Rania Tasso. She was sitting with a dark-complexioned woman and an adorable child, a girl of about two years old. As the woman glanced at Ercole, her eyes widened and she quickly grabbed a cloth that rested on a chair beside her and covered her head.

  Rania said, "This is Fatima Jabril." She added, "She's comfortable being uncovered before kaafir women, like me and you, but not before men."

  "Should I leave?" Ercole asked.

  "No," Rania said. "You can stay."

  Sachs's impression from this exchange was that Rania was respectful of others' customs and beliefs but also insistent that they accept the protocols of their new home.

  "Sit, please."

  Fatima was attractive, with a long, narrow face--swollen and marred by a small bandage--and close-set dark eyes. She wore a long-sleeve, high-necked tunic and jeans, though her nails were polished bright red and she wore modest makeup. Her attention kept returning to her daughter and her eyes, otherwise piercing, softened when she looked at the girl. She asked something urgently in Arabic. Rania said to Sachs and Ercole, "She speaks some English but Arabic is better. She is, of course, worried about her husband. Have you learned anything?"

  "No," Sachs said. "But since the kidnapping was successful, we don't think the man has hurt him, yet. Khaled is his name, right?"

  "Yes." From Fatima herself.

  Rania asked, "You say not killed him yet?"

  "Correct."

  Rania considered this, then translated for Fatima

  Fatima's reaction was both dismay...and anger. Fury. The woman was slim but not small and Sachs imagined that she'd given the Composer a good fright.

  The director turned to Sachs and said, "I know you will want to ask Fatima some questions. But one thing I must tell you first. I have just learned something about Malek Dadi's killing, the refugee who was knifed to death? From what they tell me, this Composer was not responsible for his murder."

  "No?"

  "Several men reported--separately--that they saw the Composer in the bushes. What do you say? Staking out?"

  "Yes."

  "The Composer was staking out the informal gate in the east fence. As soon as Dadi slipped outside, he ran forward. He was holding what might have been a black mask in his hand--the sort he used today on Khaled. But suddenly several other men from the camp hurried after Dadi and jumped on him, to rob him, it seems. He fought back and one of the men slashed him in the throat and took his money. The American, the Composer, actually tried to save him."

  "Tried to save hi
m?" Ercole asked. "This is certain?"

  "Yes. He ran toward the men, shouting, but he was too late. They fled back into the camp. When the Composer saw Dadi lying on the ground, he simply stood over him, looking shocked. Shaking his head. Then he set the noose on the ground and he too fled."

  "All right. That's interesting news, Rania. Thank you. Did they say anything else about him? The identification of the car?"

  "No. It happened very quickly."

  Sachs turned to Fatima. "Please say I'm sorry for her trouble."

  But the woman answered in English. "I am thanks for that."

  "What happened, exactly, please?"

  Fatima gave a fast response, in Arabic, the words edgy and staccato.

  Rania explained, "She and Khaled left Muna, this is her daughter, there, with a neighbor and went outside to meet a man about a job for Khaled after they were granted asylum. The Composer approached them there. He struck Fatima and pushed her down--it's very bad for a non-Muslim to touch, much less strike, a Muslim woman. This shocked and stunned her. Then he slipped a hood over Khaled's head, and immediately Khaled grew groggy. Fatima jumped up and fought. But he hit her again hard and she fell back, dazed. When she climbed to her feet, they were gone and a car was speeding away. She couldn't see what kind it was either. Dark. That was all she said."

  "I kick-ed him and scratch-ed," Fatima said in cumbersome English, speaking slowly as she sought the words. "He was..." She said a word in Arabic to Rania.

  "Surprised," Rania translated. "Unprepared."

  "His shoe came off in the struggle?" Ercole asked.

  "Yes. I pull-ed it. Holding to his leg."

  "Did you see anything unusual about him? Tattoos, scars. His eye color? Clothing?"

  After translation, Rania said, "His sunglasses fell off and his eyes were brown. A round face. She might recognize him again but she is not sure. All Westerners look alike to her. There were scars on his face, from where he had shaved, it seemed. He wore a hat. But she can't recall his other clothing. Except it was dark."

  "She'll be all right?"

  "Yes, our doctors say it was a superficial injury. Nothing broken. A bruise."

  Fatima cast her eyes onto Ercole's gray uniform. Then she turned to Sachs and gazed at her desperately. "Please. Fine-ed Khaled. Fine-ed my husband. It so much is important!"

  "We'll do everything we can."

  Fatima gave a hint of a smile, then grabbed Sachs's hand and pressed it to her cheek. She muttered in Arabic, and Rania translated. "She says, 'Bless you.'"

  Chapter 46

  The injury wasn't bad.

  Stefan had been more shocked than hurt when the woman rose from the ground outside the Capodichino Reception Center and, screaming and flailing, attacked him.

  He walked into his farmhouse now, carting the Browning .270 hunting rifle in his gloved hands. He hung it on hooks above the fireplace and set the box of shells beneath it. Ironic, he thought: using a hunting rifle against Artemis, the goddess of the hunt.

  Well, she would be much less likely to pursue her prey now. Oh, he didn't think she'd give up the search for him. But she'd be scared. She'd be distracted. They all would.

  And that meant they'd make mistakes...and be far less likely to introduce discord into the music of the spheres.

  Sitting now in his hideaway, he examined his stinging arm and leg. Just bruises. No broken skin. Still, he was shaky-hand, sweaty-skin...and a Black Scream was just waiting to burst out.

  He'd lost his shoe. This was more than a little inconvenient, since he only had one pair and was reluctant to buy another, for fear the police would have put out word to retailers to alert them to a rotund white American in stocking feet buying shoes. With his prey safely unconscious in the trunk of his Mercedes, he'd driven past one of the beaches outside Naples and, when he was sure no one was looking, and there were no CCTVs, he'd snatched a pair of old running shoes a swimmer had left near the road. They fit well enough.

  Then he'd hurried back here.

  Stefan now walked into the darkened den off the living room. The rhythm section of his next composition lay here, on a cot. He gazed down at Khaled Jabril. The man was so scrawny. His wife had been more substantial. A man of narrow face, bushy hair, full beard. His fingernails were long and Stefan wondered what they would sound like if he clicked them together. He recalled a woman patient, in the hospital, one of the hospitals, New Jersey, he believed. She had worn a sweatshirt, pink, stained with a portion of her lunch. She was gazing out the window and clicking her nails. Thumbnail against index finger.

  Click, click, click.

  Again and again and again.

  Another patient was obviously irritated by the noise and kept glaring at the woman angrily but staring at a mental patient to achieve a desired effect is the same as asking a tree for directions. Stefan had not been the least troubled by the sound. He disliked very few sounds--vocal fry was a rare exception.

  Babies crying? So many textures of need, want, sorrow and confusion. Beautiful!

  Pile drivers? The heartbeat of lonely machines.

  Human screams? A tapestry of emotions.

  Fingernails on a blackboard? Now, that was interesting. He had a dozen recordings in his archive. It comes third in the ranking of cringe-worthy sounds, after a fork on a plate and a knife on glass. The revulsion isn't psychological: Some researchers thought people responded as if the sound were a primitive warning cry--it isn't. No, it's purely physical: a reaction to a particular megahertz range, amplified by the peculiar shape of the ear and painfully stabbing the amygdala region of the brain.

  No, very few sounds troubled Stefan, though he would be fast to point out there's a distinction between tone and volume.

  Whatever the sound, crank up the decibels and it can move from unpleasant to painful...even to destructive.

  Stefan knew this firsthand.

  Now, that was a memory he cherished.

  Shaky-hand.

  He wiped sweat and put the tissue away.

  Oh, Euterpe...Calm me down, please!

  Then he saw Khaled's fingers twitch several times. This was not, however, a sign of waking. He would be snoozing for some period of time. Stefan knew his drugs well. Crazy people are savvy pharmacists.

  Stefan relaxed. He now had a task. He sat beside Khaled. He reached down and, on a whim, took the man's hand. He clicked his own fingernails against Khaled's.

  Click, click...

  Delicious.

  From his pocket he took his recorder and undid the man's shirt.

  Now he turned the device on and pressed it against Khaled's chest. The heartbeat was, of course, slow and soft, as with anyone in sleep, but because the room was so quiet the sound was captured clearly and distinctly.

  He had the beat. Now he needed the melody. Scrolling through his library, he found one that practically begged to be the soundtrack of his next video.

  Stefan could think of no other waltz that so perfectly blended music and death.

  Chapter 47

  About time," Rhyme muttered.

  The evidence from the most recent kidnapping had arrived and Ercole was assisting Beatrice in setting it out on the examination tables in the lab. Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were observing from the situation room.

  "His shoe?" Rhyme asked. This discovery surprised, and pleased, him. Shoes are wonderful forensically; not only do they often offer distinctive tread marks to help link a perp to a scene, but the shoe itself can contain a treasure of DNA, fingerprints and, in running shoes like this, trace tucked into the cavities of the sole. Rhyme had once nailed a perp because of the precious way he tied his oxfords.

  Sachs explained how the Composer had lost it in the struggle with the victim's, Khaled's, wife.

  In a gloved hand, Ercole carried the shoe to Rhyme. "A Converse Con, in the proper size."

  Beatrice barked, "Why you have picked it up?"

  He turned and glared at her. "I simply am showing it to Captain Rhyme. He had commented on
it. It's in an evidence bag. And I am wearing gloves."

  "But now we are needing to include another chain-of-custody entry! And everywhere a piece of evidence travels, there can be risk of contaminated."

  True. Rhyme lifted an eyebrow to Ercole, who sighed, set the shoe down on a table and signed the card Beatrice offered.

  Dante Spiro and Massimo Rossi joined them.

  Spiro cast a look Ercole's way. "Now, Forestry Officer, it is safe to say we have the start of a pattern. Will you concede that?"

  "Refugees."

  "Si. That is his preferred target--in Italy, at least. We have three such victims."

  Rossi said, "The director of the camp is convinced that he is targeting asylum-seekers because he believes we will not be so diligent in pursuing the case. Although that is hardly true." He waved at the charts.

  "But," Ercole said, "I am wondering..."

  Spiro said, "How this is in harmony with the businessman in New York?"

  "Correct, Procuratore."

  "There will be a way to incorporate that, I believe. Patterns are not always symmetrical. We are not sure yet. We are, however, advancing."

  Sachs then said, "You mentioned the director, Rania Tasso. One thing she told me that was interesting. I'm not sure what to make of it. She said the Composer didn't kill Malek Dadi. He tried to save him."

  "Is this true?" Rossi asked.

  Spiro was frowning but said nothing.

  "She was sure," Sachs continued.

  "Who then was the killer?"

  "Muggers, thieves. Some refugees in the camp. They got to him before the Composer did and when Dadi fought back, the Composer ran toward them to stop them. But it was too late."

  Ercole said, "Odd. A curious element to his profile."

  Rhyme, however, wasn't interested in profiles. "Two lions going after a gazelle. Neither wants to give up his prey, which is going to end up as a main course one way or the other. Nothing remarkable about that. Let's see what the evidence tells us."

  Rossi placed a call and, after a conversation in Italian, disconnected. "No video yet has been posted online."

  A half hour later Beatrice Renza walked from the sterile portion of the lab and joined them, clipboard in her grip. She handed it to Ercole without comment and picked up a marker. He translated and she wrote.