Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Slowly, as if figuring out the scenario, Rossi said, ‘The victim was perhaps fishing for money in anticipation of the bus when the kidnapper took him and he dropped it. How else would it be scattered? Which means he didn’t have a ticket. Perhaps this was an unexpected trip.’

Daniela, nearby, had heard and she said, ‘Or, if he was illegal — a Libyan refugee — he might not have wanted to go to a ticket office.’

‘True.’ Rossi’s glance rose and he broadened his examination. ‘The coins are here. The dinar there, a bit farther away and scattered. Let us assume he had dug out the contents of his pockets and withdrawn the money to count it out. He’s attacked, the coins fall directly to the ground. The lighter dinars are carried in this breeze and float over there. Was there anything lighter yet in his hand that the wind carried?’ Rossi said to Daniela and Giacomo, ‘Search in that direction. We should preserve it now, even before the Scientific Police arrive.’

Ercole watched them pull booties and latex gloves from their pockets, don them and walk through the bushes, both playing Maglite flashlights over the ground.

Another car approached.

This was not a Police of State Flying Squad patrol car or an unmarked but a personal vehicle, a Volvo, black. The driver was a lean, unsmiling man, a dusting of short gray hair on his head. His salt-and-pepper goatee was expertly crafted and ended in a sharp point.

The car nosed to a stop and he climbed out.

Ercole Benelli recognized him too. He’d had no personal contact with the man but he owned a TV.

Dante Spiro, the senior prosecutor in Naples, wore a navy-blue sports coat and blue jeans, both close fitting. A yellow handkerchief blossomed from the breast pocket.

Fashionista...

He was not a tall man, and his deep-brown ankle boots had thick heels that boosted his height a solid inch or two. He had a dour expression and Ercole wondered if that was because he resented being interrupted at dinner, surely with a beautiful woman. Spiro, like Rossi, had had considerable success in prosecuting cases against and winning convictions of high-profile criminals. Once, two associates of a Camorra kingpin he’d put in jail had tried to kill him. He’d personally disarmed one, and had shot the other dead with his thug’s own weapon.

Ercole also recalled some gossip reporter’s comment that Spiro was intent on a career in politics, his eyes ultimately on Rome, though a judgeship at the World Court in The Hague might not be a bad goal either. Belgium, capital of the EU, was another destination perhaps.

Ercole noted a small book in the prosecutor’s right jacket pocket. It appeared to be leather-bound, with gold-edged pages.

A diary? he wondered. He suspected it was not a Bible.

Slipping an unlit cheroot between thin lips, Spiro approached and nodded to Rossi. ‘Massimo.’

The inspector nodded back.

‘Sir,’ Ercole began.

Spiro ignored him and asked Rossi what had happened.

Rossi gave him the details.

‘Kidnapping out here? Curious.’

‘I thought so too.’

‘Sir—’ Ercole began.

Spiro waved a hand to silence him and said to the cyclist, Crovi, ‘The victim? You said North African. Not sub-Saharan?’

Before the man could answer, Ercole said, with a laugh, ‘He would have to be from the north. He had dinars.’

Spiro, eyes on the ground where the struggle occurred, said in a soft voice, ‘Would not an Eskimo visiting Tripoli pay for his supper with Libyan dinars, Forestry Officer? Not in Eskimo money?’

‘Eskimo? Well. I suppose. Yes, true, Prosecutor.’

‘And would not someone from Mali or Congo be more likely to find a meal in Libya by paying with dinars, rather than francs?’

‘I’m sorry. Yes.’

To Crovi: ‘Now. My question. Did the appearance of the victim suggest what part of Africa he was from?’

‘It was not so dark, sir. I would say the features were Arab or tribal. Libyan, Tunisian, Moroccan. North African, I would say that with certainty.’

‘Thank you, Mr Crovi.’ Then Spiro asked, ‘Scientific Police?’

Rossi replied, ‘On the way. Our office.’

‘Yes, probably no need to bother Rome.’

Ercole knew the Naples headquarters of the Police of State had a laboratory on the ground floor. The main crime scene operation was in Rome and the trickier evidentiary analysis was performed there. He had never sent anything to either facility. Fake olive oil and misrepresented truffles were easy to spot.

Yet another vehicle arrived, a dark-blue marked police car with the word Carabinieri on the side.

‘Ah, our friends,’ Rossi said wryly.

Spiro watched, chewing his cheroot. His face was devoid of any emotion.

A tall man in a pristine uniform climbed out of the passenger’s seat. He wore a dark-blue jacket, and black trousers with red stripes down the sides. He surveyed the scene with a military bearing — as was appropriate, of course, since the Carabinieri, though it has jurisdiction over civilian crimes, is part of the Italian army.

Ercole marveled at the uniform and the man’s posture. At his perfect hat, his insignias, his boots. He had always dreamed of being in their ranks, which he considered the elite of Italy’s many police forces. Forestry Corps had been a compromise. Helping his father tend his ill mother, Ercole would not have been able to pursue the rigorous Carabinieri training — even if he’d been accepted into the corps.

A second officer, who’d been driving, lower ranking than the first, joined them.

‘Evening, Captain,’ Rossi called. ‘And Lieutenant.’

The Carabiniere nodded to the inspector and Spiro. The captain said, ‘So, Massimo. What do you have? Anything enticing, anything plump? I see you’re first on the scene.’

Spiro said, ‘Actually, Giuseppe, Forestry was here first.’ Perhaps a joke but he was not smiling. The Carabinieri officer, however, laughed.

Was this a contest to see who would seize control of the case? The Carabiniere might have pushed, and would probably win, having a political edge over the Police of State.

As for Dante Spiro, he might harbor a personal preference for working with the Police of State, on the one hand, or for the Carabinieri, on the other, but for his career it made no difference; the prosecution would be his, no matter which police unit took control.

‘Who was the victim?’ Giuseppe asked.

Rossi said, ‘No identification yet. Some local unfortunate perhaps.’

Or an Eskimo, Ercole thought but, of course, didn’t even consider saying.

Rossi continued, ‘A good case. A press-worthy case. Kidnappings always are. Camorra? Albanians? That Tunisian gang from Scampia?’ He grimaced. ‘I would have liked to find out, firsthand. But here you are. So, good luck to you, Giuseppe. We’ll get back to Naples. Anything you need, please, let us know.’

Rossi was giving away the case so easily? Ercole was surprised. But perhaps the Carabinieri wielded more power than he’d thought. Dante Spiro was looking at his phone.

Giuseppe cocked his head. ‘You’re giving us the case?’

‘Your organization is senior to us. You are senior to me. And it is clearly big. Kidnapping. Those reports you heard on the way over are wrong.’

‘Reports?’

Rossi paused. ‘The initial reports from Dispatch? Personally I think they were trying to downplay the incident.’

‘Massimo,’ Giuseppe said. ‘Please explain?’

‘The youths, of course. That was pure speculation. I think this has to be Camorra. Or at worst Tunisian.’

‘Youths?’ Giuseppe tried again.

‘But it’s not that. I’m sure.’

‘Still, your meaning?’

Rossi frowned. ‘Oh, have you not read? About the initiations?’