Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

He said as much now.

Thom fired back, ‘I read about it in a study.’

‘Anyway, I was referring to coffee . Besides, what’s the hurry? The pilots’ve gone on to London to ferry those witnesses to Amsterdam. They can’t just turn around and fly us back to America. We’re spending the night in Naples.’

‘We’ll go to the hotel. Maybe later. A glass of wine. Small.’

They had a reservation for a two-bedroom suite at a place Thom had found near the water. ‘Accessible and romantic,’ the aide had said, drawing an eye roll from Rhyme.

Then, looking around him, Rhyme said, ‘Coffee then? I am tired. Look. There’s a café.’ He nodded across the street, Via Medina.

Sachs was watching a low, glistening sports car growl past. Of its make, model and horsepower, Rhyme had no clue. But to catch her attention it must have been quite a machine. Her eyes turned back to Rhyme. She said in an edgy voice, ‘Jurisdictional pissing contests.’

Rhyme smiled. Her mind was still on the case.

She continued, ‘Feds versus state in the US. Here, Italy versus America. It happens everywhere, looks like. This is bullshit, Rhyme.’

‘Is, yes.’

‘You don’t look that upset.’

‘Hm.’

She glanced back at the building. ‘We need to stop this guy. Damn it. Well, we can still help them from New York. I’ll call Rossi when we get back home. He seemed reasonable. More reasonable, at least, than the other one. The prosecutor.’

Rhyme said, ‘I like the name: Dante Spiro. Coffee?’ he repeated.

As they headed for the place, which seemed to specialize in pastry and gelato, Thom said to Rhyme, ‘You’re tired, you should have tiramisu. The dessert, you know. It means “pick me up” in Italian. Like tea in England — gives you energy in the afternoon. Remember, “coffee” here is what we call espresso. Then there’s cappuccino and latte and Americano, which is espresso with hot water, served in a larger cup.’

The hostess found a space for them outside, near a metal divider, separating the tables from the rest of the sidewalk. It was covered with a painted banner, probably red when it was installed, now faded pink. It bore the word Cinzano.

The server, a laconic woman, mid-twenties, in a dark skirt and white blouse, approached and asked for their order in broken English.

Sachs and Thom ordered cappuccino and the aide a vanilla gelato as well. She turned to Rhyme, who said, ‘ Per favore, una grappa grande .’

‘ Sì. ’

She vanished before Thom could protest. Sachs laughed. The aide muttered, ‘You tricked me. It’s an ice cream parlor. Who knew they had a liquor license?’

Rhyme said, ‘I like Italy.’

‘And where did you learn the Italian? How do you even know what grappa is?’

‘Frommer’s guide to Italy,’ Rhyme said. ‘I put my time on the plane to good use. You were sleeping, I noticed.’

‘Which you should have been doing too.’

The beverages came and, with his right hand, Rhyme lifted the glass and sipped. ‘It’s... refreshing. I would say an acquired taste.’

Thom reached for it. ‘If you don’t like it...’

Rhyme moved his hand away. ‘I need a chance to complete my acquisition.’

The server was nearby and had overheard. She said, ‘Ah, we are not having the best grappa here.’ Her tone was apologetic. ‘But go to a bigger restaurant and they will offer more and betterer grappa. Distillato too. It is like grappa. You must have them both. The best are from Barolo, in Piemonte, and Veneto. The north. But that is my opinion. Where is it are you visiting from?’

‘New York.’

‘Ah, New York!’ Eyes shining. ‘The Manhattan?’

‘Yes,’ Sachs said.

‘I will go someday. I have been to Disney with my family. In Florida. Someday I will go to New York. I want to skate on the ice at Rockefeller Center. It is possible doing that all the time?’

‘Only the winter,’ Thom said.

‘ Allora , thank you!’

Rhyme took another sip of grappa. This taste was mellower now but he was now determined to try one of the better varieties. His eyes remained where they had largely been, on the front of police headquarters. He finished the sip and had another.

Thom, clearly enjoying his dessert and coffee, said, with a suspicious look in his eyes, ‘You seem a lot better now. Less tired.’

‘Yes. Miraculous.’

‘Though impatient about something.’

True, he was.

‘About—?’

‘About that,’ Rhyme said as Sachs’s phone hummed.

She frowned. ‘No caller ID.’

‘Answer. We know who it is.’

‘We do?’

‘And on speaker.’

She pressed the screen and said, ‘Hello?’

‘Detective Sachs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, yes. I am Massimo Rossi.’

‘Pay,’ Rhyme said to Thom, finishing the grappa.

‘And, Captain Rhyme?’ Rossi asked.

‘Inspector.’

‘I hoped I might catch you nearby.’

‘A café, across the street. Having some grappa.’

A pause. ‘Well, I must tell you that the Composer’s video has been uploaded. You were correct. Not on YouVid. It was on NowChat.’

‘When?’ Rhyme asked.

‘The time stamp was twenty minutes ago.’

‘Ah.’

Rossi said, ‘Please, Captain Rhyme. I think you are not the sort of man to play games. Clearly not. I have discussed the matter with Prosecutor Spiro and we were, to say the least, impressed at your observations.’

‘Deductions, not observations.’

‘Yes, of course. Allora , we decided we might ask you, changing our ideas, if you would in fact be willing to—’

‘We’ll be in your offices in five minutes.’

At Rhyme’s suggestion — insistent suggestion — the situation room was moved from upstairs to a larger conference room in the basement, near the Scientific Police laboratory.

The lab was efficiently constructed. There was a sterile area, where trace was extracted and analyzed, and a larger section for fingerprints, tread and shoe prints and other work where contamination would not be a risk. The conference room opened onto this latter part of the lab.

Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were here with Rossi and the tall, rangy Ercole Benelli.

Two others were present, uniformed officers, though in blue outfits, different from Ercole’s — the light gray. They were a young patrolman, Giacomo Schiller, and his apparent partner, Daniela Canton. Both blond — she darker than he — they were serious of expression and attentive to Rossi, who spoke to them like a grandfather, kindly but one you made sure to obey. They were, Rossi explained, with the Flying Squad — which corresponded, Rhyme deduced, to the patrol officers assigned to squad cars, Remote Mobile Patrols in NYPD jargon.

Rhyme asked, ‘And Dante Spiro?’

‘ Procuratore Spiro had other matters to attend to.’

So the temperamental man had reluctantly agreed to let the Americans return but wanted nothing to do with them. Fine with Rhyme. He was not quite sure about this Italian arrangement of the district attorney’s active involvement in the investigation. It probably wasn’t a conflict of interest — and Spiro seemed sharp enough. No, Rhyme’s objection could be summed up in a dreaded cliché: too many cooks.

Ercole was setting up the easels and charts, and translating from Italian to English. In the doorway, advising him, was round, no-nonsense Beatrice Renza, a senior analyst in the lab.

Her name, Rhyme learned, was pronounced Bee-a-TREE-chay . Italian took some getting used to, certainly, but was far more melodic than blunt English.

She spoke to Ercole in clipped, rapid Italian and he grimaced and responded testily, apparently to some objection about a translation or characterization of something he was writing. She rolled her eyes, behind elaborate glasses, then stepped forward to take the marker from him and make a correction.