Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Had someone found the body of the Libyan?

‘Excuse me.’ He turned from Daniela.

‘Ercole,’ she said.

He paused and looked back.

She pointed at the floor. He had dropped the paper towels.

‘Oh.’ He bent and retrieved them then ran up the hall to Rossi.

The inspector said, ‘It seems the information you requested from America about the kidnapping has arrived.’

Ercole was confused; the expression on Rossi’s face was even more troubled than a moment ago. ‘And isn’t that good for us, sir?’

‘It most certainly is not . Come with me.’

Lincoln Rhyme looked around the well-worn lobby of Naples police headquarters.

Though he’d never been here, the building was infinitely familiar; law enforcement doesn’t need translation.

People came and went, officers in several, no, many , different styles of uniforms — most of which were spiffier and more regal than the US equivalent. Some plainclothes officers, wearing badges on hips or lanyards. And civilians too. Victims, witnesses, attorneys.

Busy. Like Naples outside, Naples inside was hectic.

He studied the architecture once more.

Thom said to Rhyme and Sachs, ‘Prewar.’

It occurred to Rhyme that in Italy the phrase would, in most people’s minds, refer to the Second World War. Unlike America for the past eighty years, Italy had not regularly dotted the globe with tanks and infantry and drones.

Thom followed his boss’s eyes and said, ‘Fascist era. You know that Italy was the birthplace of fascism? World War One. Then Mussolini took up the standard.’

Rhyme had not known that. But, then, by his own admission, he knew very little that was not related to criminalistics. If a fact didn’t help him solve a case, it was a nonfact. He did, however, know the origin of the word. He shared this now. ‘The word “fascist” comes from “fasces.” The ceremonial bundle of sticks carried by bodyguards to signify power in Roman officials.’

‘As in speak softly, and carry a big one?’ Sachs asked.

Clever. But Lincoln Rhyme was not in the mood for clever. He was in the mood to get on with the unusual, and infuriating, case against the Composer.

Ah, at last.

Two men, focusing on the Americans, appeared in the hallway, one in his fifties, rumpled and solidly built, sporting a mustache. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie. With him was a tall younger man, around thirty, in a gray uniform with insignia on the breast and shoulder. They shared a glance and moved quickly toward the trio.

‘You are Lincoln Rhyme,’ said the older. His English was heavily accented but clear.

‘And this is Detective Amelia Sachs. And Thom Reston.’

As planned, she proffered her gold badge. Not as imposing as fasces, it was nonetheless some indicia of authority.

Even in the short period he’d been in Italy — about three hours — Rhyme had noted a great deal of hugging and cheek kissing. Man-woman, woman-woman, man-man. Now, not even a hand was offered — at least not by the older cop, the one in charge, of course. He merely nodded, his face stiff with wariness. The younger stepped forward, palm out, but, seeing his superior’s reticence, eased back quickly.

‘I am Inspector Massimo Rossi. The Police of State. You are coming from New York here, all the way?’

‘Yes.’

The young man’s eyes radiated awe, as if he were seeing a living unicorn. ‘I am Ercole Benelli.’

Curious name, pronounced AIR-colay .

He continued. ‘I am honored to meet such an esteemed figure as you. And to meet you in person, Signorina Sachs.’ His English was better and less accented than Rossi’s. Generational, probably. Rhyme suspected YouTube and American TV occupied more of the younger officer’s time.

Rossi said, ‘Let us go upstairs.’ He added, as if he needed to, ‘For the moment.’

They rose in silence to the third floor — it would be the fourth in America; Rhyme had read in the guidebook on the way here that in Europe the ground floor was counted as zero, not one.

Out of the elevator, as they made their way down a well-lit corridor, Ercole asked, ‘You flew on a commercial flight?’

‘No. I had access to a private jet.’

‘A private jet? From America!’ Ercole whistled.

Thom chuckled. ‘It’s not ours. A lawyer Lincoln helped in a case recently lent it to us. The crew is flying clients of his to depositions around Europe for the next ten days. We were going to use it for other plans but then this arose.’

Greenland, Rhyme thought. Or some other suitable honeymoon site. He didn’t, however, share this with the police officer.

At the reference to the duration of their visit — ten days, as opposed to one, or a portion of one — Rossi cocked his head and didn’t seem pleased. Rhyme had known from the moment he and Sachs had looked at each other, following Ercole’s email about the Composer’s presence in Italy, and decided to come here, they would not be welcome. So he was pleased that Thom had fired off the ten-day line; nothing wrong with getting the Italians used to the idea that they were not to be scooted away too fast.

Sachs said to Ercole, ‘You speak English well.’

‘Thank you. I have studied from the time I was a ragazzo , a boy. You speak Italian?’

‘No.’

‘But you do! That is Italian for “no.”’

No one smiled and he fell silent, blushing.

Rhyme looked around him, noting again how familiar the place seemed, little different from the Big Building — One Police Plaza, in New York. Harried detectives and uniforms, some joking, some scowling, some bored. Directives from on high posted on bulletin boards and taped directly to the walls. Computers, a year or so past state-of-the-art. Phones ringing — more mobiles in use than landlines.

Only the language was different.

Well, that and another distinction: There were no paper coffee cups, as you’d find littering the desks of American cops. No fast-food bags either. Apparently the Italians avoided this sloppy practice. All to the good. When he’d been head of NYPD forensics, Rhyme had once fired a technician who was examining slides of evidence while he chomped on a Big Mac. ‘Contamination!’ he’d shouted. ‘Get out.’

Rossi led them into a conference room of about ten by twenty feet. It contained a battered table, four chairs, a filing cabinet and a laptop. Against the wall easels held pads of newsprint, covered with handwritten notes and photos. These were just like his own evidence charts, though paper, rather than whiteboards. While there were words he couldn’t make out, many items on the list of physical evidence were understandable.

‘Mr Rhyme,’ Rossi began.

‘Captain,’ Ercole said quickly. ‘He retired as captain from the NYPD.’ Then seemed to decide he should not be correcting his superior. A blush.

Rhyme gave a dismissing gesture with his working arm. ‘No matter.’

‘Forgive me,’ Rossi continued, apparently genuinely troubled by this lapse. ‘Captain Rhyme.’

‘He is now a consultant,’ Ercole added, ‘I have read about him. He often works with Detective Sachs here. That is correct too?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

A cheerleader, like this Ercole, was not a bad idea, Rhyme thought. He was curious about the man. He had both a confidence and a rookie’s air about him. And Rhyme had seen throughout the building no gray uniforms like his. There’s a story here.

Sachs tapped her shoulder bag. ‘We have the results of the evidence analysis at the two crime scenes involving the Composer in New York. Crime scene photos, footprints and so on.’

Rossi said, ‘Yes. We were looking forward to receiving it. Have you gathered any more information since you spoke to Officer Benelli?’