Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Several heads turned to see the gorgeous Moto Guzzi Stelvio 1200 NTX bounding along the uneven roadway. Astride was an athletic-looking man, with thick hair, clean-shaven. He wore close-fitting jeans, boots, a black shirt and a leather jacket, dark brown. On his left hip was a badge of the Police of State; on the right, a large Beretta, a Px4.45. No-nonsense, it had been dubbed by officers who carried it, though Ercole had always thought that the concept of nonsense could hardly apply to any firearm.

Ercole watched the man skid to a stop. He was Silvio De Carlo, assistant inspector, young — about Ercole’s age. He strolled up to the inspector and gave a nod that was the equivalent of a salute to a commanding officer. Rossi and De Carlo began discussing the case.

The assistant was the epitome of a young Italian law enforcer — handsome, self-assured, surely smart and quick-witted. Clearly in good shape, too, and probably an ace with that powerful gun of his. Karate or, more likely, some obscure form of martial art figured in his life. Attractive to the ladies — and skilled in those arts, as well.

De Carlo was a citizen of that rarefied world alien to Ercole.

Fashionista...

Then Ercole corrected himself. He was selling De Carlo short. He’d earned his slot with the Police of State, obviously. While, as in any policing organization anywhere in the world, there would be dross at the top — officials coasting on their connections and glad-handing — a young line officer like De Carlo would only have risen on merit.

Well, Ercole decided, he himself had done his job — brought the attack to the attention of the investigators, informed them of the Composer. The truffle counterfeiter was long gone, and it was time to get home to his small flat on the Via Calabritto, in the Chiaia district. The neighborhood was far more chic than Ercole would have liked, but he’d come upon the place for a song and had spent months making it charming and comfortable: crammed full of family heirlooms and artifacts from his parents’ home in the country. Besides, he had the top floor and it was a short climb up from his den to his pigeons. He was already looking forward to a coffee on the roof tonight, gazing over the lights of the city and enjoying his partial view of the park and the bay.

He could already hear the cooing of Isabella and Guillermo and Stanley.

He climbed into the front seat of his Ford. He pulled out his phone and sent several email messages. He was about to replace the unit when it sang with the tone. It was not a reply but instead a text from his superior, wondering how the operation was going.

The operation...

The capture of the truffle counterfeiter.

His heart sinking, Ercole texted he would report later.

He couldn’t discuss his failure now.

The engine engaged, he pulled the seat belt strap around his chest. Did he have any food in the kitchen?

No, he believed not. Nothing that he could whip up quickly.

Perhaps he would have a pizza at one of the places on the Via Partenope. A mineral water.

Then, the short walk home.

A coffee.

His pigeons.

Isabella was nesting...

Ercole jumped at the loud rapping to his left.

He turned fast and saw Rossi’s face, eyes peering at him. The inspector’s head seemed oversize, as if viewed through thick glass or a depth of water. Ercole eased down the window.

‘Inspector.’

‘Did I startle you?’

‘No. Well, yes. I have not forgotten. I will prepare the report for you tomorrow. You will have it in the morning.’

The inspector began to speak but his words were obscured by the growl of the Moto Guzzi engine firing up. De Carlo turned the large machine and sped off, lifting a small rooster tail of stones and dust behind him.

When the sound had faded, Rossi said, ‘My assistant.’

‘Yes, Silvio De Carlo.’

‘I asked him about the noose. And he knew nothing of it. Knew nothing of the case in America, the Composer.’ Rossi chuckled. ‘As I knew nothing about it. And Prosecutor Spiro knew nothing about it. But unlike you, Forestry Officer. Who knew very well about the case.’

‘I read reports, notices. That’s all.’

‘I would like to make some temporary changes in my department.’

Ercole Benelli remained silent.

‘Would you be able to work with me? Be my assistant? For this case only, of course.’

‘ Me? ’

‘Yes. Silvio will take over some of my other investigations. You will assist on the Composer case. I will call your supervisor and have you reassigned. Unless you are involved in a major investigation at the moment.’

It was surely his imagination but Ercole believe a smell wafted past, not unlike the fragrance of truffles.

‘No. I have cases but nothing pressing, nothing that can’t be handled by other officers.’

‘Good. Whom should I call?’

Ercole gave his superior’s name and number. ‘Sir, should I report to you in the morning?’

‘Yes. The Questura. You know it?’

‘I’ve been there, yes.’

Rossi stepped back and looked at the field, then focused on the bus stop. ‘What does your instinct tell you about this man. Do you think the victim is alive?’

‘As long as there’s no video posted, I would say yes. Why should he change his MO because he’s in a different country?’

‘Perhaps you could contact the authorities in America and ask them to send us whatever information they might have about this fellow.’

‘I already have done that, sir.’

The email he had just sent was to the New York Police and copied to Interpol.

‘You have?’

‘Yes. And I’ve taken the liberty of giving them your name.’

Rossi blinked, then smiled. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

See Naples and die.

This was a quote from some poet.

Or someone.

The actual meaning, Stefan knew, was that once you had seen the city and had sampled all it had to offer, your bucket list was complete. There was nothing more to experience in life.

Well, for him it was the perfect quotation. Because after he was finished here — if he was successful, if he pleased Her — he would be going directly to Harmony. His life would be complete.

He was presently in his temporary residence in the region of Campania, home to Naples. It was old — as were many of the structures here. A musty smell permeated the place, mold and rot. And it was cold. But this hardly bothered him. The senses of smell and taste and touch and vision were of little interest to Stefan. His ear was the only important organ.

Stefan was in a dim room, not dissimilar to his lair back in New York. He wore jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt, under a work shirt, dark blue. Both were tight (the meds kept his soul under control and his weight high). On his feet were running shoes. His appearance was different from what it had been in America. He’d shaved his head — common in Italy — and lost the beard and mustache. He needed to remain invisible. He was sure word would spread here, sooner or later, about the kidnapping and his ‘compositions.’

He rose and looked out the window into the blackness.

No police cars.

No prying eyes.

No Artemises. He’d left the red-haired policewoman behind, back in America, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be another one here — or her brother god or god cousin or whoever — looking for him. He had assumed that was the case.

But all he saw was darkness and distant lights of the Italian landscape.

Italy...

What a wonderful place, magical.

The home of Stradivarius stringed instruments, worth millions, occasionally stolen or left in the back of a taxi, generating New York Post headlines about absentminded geniuses. Appropriate at the moment, because he was winding more double-bass strings into another noose for his next composition, which he would start on shortly. Italy was, as a matter of fact, the source for the absolutely best musical strings ever made. Sheep intestine, goat, lovingly stretched and scraped. Stefan actually felt a twinge of guilt that the strings he was using for his adventure had been made in the United States.