Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘No, no, I think not.’

‘It happens more in the north. Not in Campania.’ He gestured toward the scene. ‘That’s why it could not be this.’

The second Carabiniere asked, ‘Inspector, how does this scheme work?’

‘Well, as I have read, it’s university boys. The initiate must drive around, and when he sees someone he approaches on the pretense of asking directions or for change of money. Then when the victim is distracted, he is thrown in the car and driven for many kilometers and released. Pictures are taken and posted anonymously. A prank, yes, but there could be injuries. One boy in Lombardy ended up with a broken thumb.’

‘Broken thumb.’

‘Yes. And upon displaying the pictures, the perpetrators are allowed into the college club.’

‘Club? Not a gang?’

‘No, no, no. But, again, it is the northern regions in which this is happening. Not here.’

‘Perhaps not yet. But kidnapping from a bus stop, way out here, nowhere close to a city center? It makes no sense.’

Then a voice cut through the night: ‘Look, what I have found.’ The Carabinieri lieutenant was pointing to the euros. ‘As he was counting out change for the bus driver.’

Giuseppe walked to the rope Ercole had laid out and looked down. ‘Yes, so perhaps it does fit that category of offense.’

Spiro watched silently.

‘Hm. But a coincidence. Surely.’ Massimo Rossi nodded and stepped toward his automobile.

The Carabiniere turned to his associate and they had a quiet conversation. ‘Ah, Massimo, my colleague has reminded me that we have a drug operation in Positano. You are familiar?’

‘Not aware of that.’

‘No? An interdiction planned for a few days. I think we’ll need to let you have the kidnapping here.’

Rossi looked concerned. ‘But I have no time for this, for a major criminal investigation.’

‘Major, is it? Pesky college boys?’ Giuseppe smiled. ‘I will let you take all the glory, my friend. I will sign the case over to you formally back at the station.’

Rossi sighed. ‘All right. But you do owe me.’

A wink from the senior officer and they turned and left.

Spiro glanced at them departing and said to Rossi, ‘The Positano drug cases? They were dismissed two months ago.’

‘I know. As soon as he mentioned them, I knew I’d won our little contest here.’

Spiro said, with a shrug, ‘Giuseppe’s good. A solid officer. But... I prefer working for you. Army rules add layers.’

Ercole realized he’d just seen a subtle chess game. Massimo Rossi had, for some reason, wanted to keep control of the case. So he had tried reverse psychology, attempting to palm off the case to the Carabiniere, who had immediately become suspicious.

If the Positano case was an illusion, so was the initiation matter.

‘Inspector?’ Daniela Canton asked.

Rossi, Spiro and Ercole joined her.

She was pointing down to a small piece of cardboard. ‘It’s fresh. It’s likely he dropped it with the money. And it blew here. It was beside another dinar bill.’

‘Prepaid phone card. Good.’ Rossi extracted a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placed the card inside. ‘We’ll have Postal analyze it.’ To the uniformed officer he said, ‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Pull back then. We’ll let Scientific Police search more carefully when they get here.’

They returned to the road. Rossi turned to Ercole. ‘Thank you, Officer Benelli. Please write up a statement and then you’re free to go home.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m happy to be of help.’ He nodded to the prosecutor.

Spiro said to Rossi, ‘We, of course, cannot assume that the dinars and phone card are the victim’s. They are, probably, yes. But it could be too that the attacker had been in Libya recently.’

‘No, impossible.’ Ercole Benelli said this softly, almost a whisper. He was staring at the bus-stop bench, an ancient thing, bearing only a fraction of the paint that had been applied years ago.

‘What?’ Spiro snapped, staring, as if seeing Ercole for the first time.

‘There would not have been enough time to go to Libya and arrive here in Italy.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Rossi muttered.

‘He fled America late Monday night and arrived here yesterday. Tuesday.’

Dante Spiro’s voice cut like a blade. ‘Enough riddles. Explain yourself, Forestry Officer!’

‘He’s a kidnapper, though he intends to kill his victim eventually. He goes by the name “The Composer.” He creates music videos of his victims dying.’

The inspector and prosecutor — Daniela too — seemed unable to speak.

‘Look.’ Ercole pointed to the back of the bus-stop bench.

A miniature hangman’s noose hung from a beam.

Ercole Benelli said to the others, ‘In the Europol alerts yesterday. A notice from the US embassy in Brussels. Did you not see it?’

Spiro glared at the young officer and Ercole continued quickly, ‘Well, sir, this man — they know he is a white male, though not his name — he kidnapped a victim in New York and left a noose just like this one, as a token. He tortured him. The man was about to die but was rescued just in time. The perpetrator escaped. The State Department believed he left the country but did not know where he was headed. It seems he’s come to Italy.’

‘A copycat crime, surely.’ Spiro was nodding at the noose.

Ercole said quickly, ‘No, impossible.’

‘Impossible?’ Spiro growled.

The young man blushed and looked down. ‘Ah, sir. I would say unlikely. The fact of the noose hasn’t yet been released to the press. For the very reason of copycat perpetrators. Someone might have seen the video, yes, but Crovi said it was a heavyset white male in a dark outfit. And the noose? The same as the report from the NYPD about the kidnapper there. I think it must be him.’

Rossi gave a chuckle. ‘You’re a Forestry officer. Why were you reading Europol reports?’

‘Interpol too. And our own Police of State and Carabinieri alerts from Rome. I always do. I might use something that I learn in my own work.’

Spiro muttered, ‘At Forestry ? That must happen as often as a pope’s death.’ He kept his eyes on the blackness of the landscape. Then: ‘What else did this report say? The video?’

‘He posted a video of the victim about to be hanged. With music playing. On a site called YouVid.’

‘Terrorist?’ Rossi asked.

‘Apparently not. The report said he is on antipsychotic medication.’

‘Which is obviously not doing a very good job,’ Daniela said.

Rossi said to Spiro, ‘Postal Police. I’ll have them monitor the site and get ready to trace it if he posts.’

‘Postal Police’ was an antiquated name for a state-of-the-art law enforcement division in Italy. They handled all, or most, crimes involving telecommunications and computers.

Spiro said, ‘Any other thoughts?’

Ercole began to speak but the prosecutor interrupted, adding, ‘Massimo?’

‘If he is making a production of the death,’ the inspector said, ‘I won’t spend much time and manpower searching for the body. Only one team. I will send most officers out to canvass and look for CCTVs in the area.’

‘Good.’

Which cheered Ercole, since this was close to what his own suggestion would have been.

Spiro added, ‘I must be getting back to Naples. Good night, Massimo. Call me with any developments. I want all the reports, especially the crime scene data. And we should pursue this lead, if that’s what it is.’ He was now looking at the noose. He shook his head and walked to his car. There, before climbing in, he paused at the driver’s side, pulled the leather-bound book from his pocket and made notations. He replaced the volume, climbed into the Volvo and sped away. As his car drove off, crunching over the gravel on the shoulder, another sound filled the night. The guttural growl of a motorcycle approaching.