Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘Any weapons?’

‘Not that I could see.’

Ercole shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Jesus Christ. Why now? A glance at Albini, his face pouting innocence.

Well, he couldn’t ignore an assault. A robbery? he wondered. A husband attacking his wife’s lover?

A psycho, killing for pleasure?

The Monster of Florence’s cousin?

He scratched his chin and considered his options. All right. He would cuff Albini and leave him in the back of the Poker, then return.

But the counterfeiter had sensed a good opportunity. He sprinted to the truck and leapt into the seat calling, ‘Farewell, Officer Benelli!’

‘No!’

The engine started and the tiny vehicle puttered past Ercole and the bicyclist.

The officer raised the pistol.

Through the open window Albini shouted, ‘Ah, would you shoot me over a truffle? I do not think you will. Farewell, Mr Pig Cop, Mr Cow Cop, Guardian of the Endangered Muskrat! Farewell!’

Ercole’s face burned with anger and shame. He shoved his pistol back into the holster and began trotting toward the Ford. He called over his shoulder to the bicyclist, ‘Come, get in my truck. Show me exactly. Hurry, man. Hurry!’

The vehicles began to arrive at the bus stop.

Two officers from the Naples Flying Squad — in a blue Police of State Alfa Romeo — as well as several in a local comune police Fiat from the closest village. The Police of State officers climbed out and one, a blond woman with her hair in a tight bun, nodded to Ercole.

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 cards 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.