Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘Yes, Inspector.’

He took the sheets of paper from Rossi and began to transcribe the information. Blushing, he noted that Rossi, whom one would have taken to be an old-time investigator, had printed out his notes via computer.

‘I have heard nothing from the Americans,’ Rossi said. ‘You?’

‘No. But when I contacted them, they promised to get back to us as soon as possible with full details and evidence reports. The woman I spoke with, a detective who ran the case for the New York Police Department, was quite relieved we had found the man. They were very upset he escaped their jurisdiction.’

‘Did she have any thoughts as to why he came here?’

‘No, sir.’

Rossi said, in a musing tone, ‘I read the other day that the Americans are worried about their exports. The economy, jobs, you understand. But exporting serial killers? They should stick with pop musicians, soft drinks and computer-generated Hollywood movies.’

Ercole didn’t know whether to laugh or not. He smiled. Rossi did, as well, and read texts. The young officer moved slowly in front of the easel as he transcribed the notes and pinned up photos. A gangly man, he was far more comfortable in the woods and on rock faces than in restaurants, shops and living rooms (hence, his favorite ‘perch’ in the city: the table and chair outside his pigeon coop on the apartment building’s roof). His parts — arms, legs, elbows, knees, all of which hummed like a tuned machine out of doors — grew awkward and rebellious in places like this.

He now backed up to examine the chart and bumped into Silvio De Carlo, Rossi’s assistant, who had stepped unseen into the room to hand a file to Rossi. The handsome, perfectly assembled young officer didn’t glare but — this was worse — offered a patient smile as if Ercole were a child who had accidentally left a blackberry gelato stain on someone’s laundered sleeve.

De Carlo, he was sure, would resent this awkward interloper, taking some shine away from his role as Rossi’s favored protégé.

‘The Postal Police are monitoring YouVid?’ Ercole asked Rossi after De Carlo had walked, smoothly and with supreme self-confidence, from the room.

‘Yes, yes. But it’s a chore. Thousands of videos uploaded every hour. People would rather watch such time-wasting things than read or converse.’

Someone else entered the room. Ercole was pleased to see it was the woman Flying Squad officer from last night: Daniela Canton, the stunning blonde. Such a beautiful face, he thought again, elfin. Her eye shadow was that appealing cerulean tint he remembered from last night, a color you didn’t see much in fashion nowadays. It told him that she would be the sort to go her own way, make her own style. He noted too that this was the extent of her makeup. No lipstick or mascara. Her blue blouse fit tightly over her voluptuous figure. The slacks were taut too.

‘Inspector.’ She looked up, with a friendly expression, at Ercole. Apparently the brash offering of his hands last night had not put her off.

‘Officer Canton. What have you learned?’ Rossi asked.

‘Though the case had the earmark of a Camorra snatch, it seems unlikely they were involved. Not according to my contacts.’

Her contacts? Ercole wondered. Daniela was a member of the Flying Squad. One would think Camorra cases were handled by those higher up.

Rossi said, ‘I appreciate your looking. But it didn’t seem likely our gamers were involved.’

Gamers...

The word was a slang reference to the gang, whose name was a blend of Capo , as in ‘head,’ and morra , a street game played in old Naples.

She added, ‘But I cannot say for certain. You know how they operate. So quiet, so secretive.’

‘Of course.’

The Camorra was composed of a number of individual cells, with one group not necessarily knowing what the others were up to.

Then she said, ‘But for what it’s worth, sir, there are rumors of some particularly troublesome ’Ndràngheta gang member who’s come to the Naples area recently. Nothing specific but I thought you should know.’

This caught Rossi’s attention.

Italy was known for several organized crime operations: the Mafia in Sicily, the Camorra in and around Naples, the Sacra Corona Unita in Puglia, the southeast of Italy. But perhaps the most dangerous, and the one with the broadest reach — including such places as Scotland and New York — was the ’Ndràngheta, based in Calabria, a region south of Naples.

‘Curious for one of them to come here.’ The group was a rival to the Camorra.

‘It is, yes, sir.’

‘Can you follow up on that too?’

Daniela said, ‘I’ll try.’ She turned to Ercole and seemed suddenly to remember him, eyeing his gray Forestry Corps uniform. ‘Yes, from last night.’

‘Ercole.’ So her smile a moment ago was not one of recognition.

‘Daniela.’

He didn’t dare offer his hand again. Just a cool-guy nod. A nod worthy of Silvio De Carlo.

Silence for a moment.

Ercole blurted, ‘You would like a water?’

And as if she didn’t know what mineral water might be, he gestured toward the inspector’s San Pellegrino, which stood open on the edge of the table.

And struck it, sending the liter bottle cartwheeling to the floor. Being carbonated, it spurted most of the contents across the pale tile in seconds.

‘Oh, no, oh, I’m so sorry...’

Rossi gave a chuckle. Daniela tilted a perplexed look toward Ercole, who crouched and began mopping furiously with paper towels he pulled from a roll in the corner of the room.

‘I...’ the blushing man stammered. ‘What have I done? I’m sorry, Inspector. Did I get any on you, Officer Canton?’

Daniela said, ‘It’s no harm.’

Ercole continued to mop.

Daniela left the situation room.

As Ercole’s eyes followed her, from his kneeling position on the floor, he noted someone else appear in the doorway. It was Dante Spiro, the prosecutor.

The man was looking past Ercole, as if the young officer were not even present. He greeted Rossi and examined the board. He absently slipped into his side pocket the leather book Ercole recognized from last night. He put away a pen too. He’d been jotting something in the volume.

Today Spiro wore black slacks and a tight brown jacket with a yellow pocket square, a white shirt. No tie. He set a briefcase on a desk in the corner, which apparently he had commandeered as his own, and Ercole guessed he would be a frequent visitor. The man’s office — Procura della Repubblica Presso il Tribunale di Napoli — was on the Via Costantino Grimaldi, across the street from the criminal courts. It was not far from the Questura here, a ten-minute drive.

‘Prosecutor Spiro,’ he said, still mopping.

A glance at Ercole, then a frown, wondering, clearly, who he was.

‘Anything more, Massimo?’ Spiro asked Rossi.

‘Beatrice’s run the evidence. Ercole has written it up, along with his and my notes.’ A nod at the paper on the easel.

‘Who?’

Rossi gestured toward Ercole, who was dropping a soaked paper towel into the trash bin.

‘The Forestry officer from last night.’

‘Oh.’ It was clear that Spiro had mistaken him for a janitor.

‘Sir, I am pleased to see you again.’ Ercole smiled but lost the grin when Spiro ignored him once more.

‘What of the phone card?’ Spiro asked.

‘Postal said they should have information within the hour. And they are still monitoring the websites for video uploads. There has been nothing yet. And Ercole anticipates we should hear more from the Americans soon.’

‘Does he now?’ Spiro asked wryly. He took a cheroot from his pocket and slipped the end into his mouth. He did not light the stick. He gazed at the board.