Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘You are, I am saying, a pretty boy, isn’t it? You are the football player?’

‘Your football or mine?’

Which broke her up.

‘Foot... ball...’ Her mouth on his again. Above them spanned the Neapolitan evening, milky with a million stars. He and this beautiful Dutch girl, blond and tasting of mint, alone in a deserted alcove of the roof.

Her eyelids closing...

And Garry looking down at her, thinking: Sorry, sorry, sorry... It’s out of my hands. I can’t control it.

Now he shuddered and closed his eyes and didn’t want to think about Frieda again.

Garry’s mood grew dark, and he decided that, hell, he’d open up a new grappa when he got home.

Frieda...

Shit.

Approaching the doorway of the old flat. It was a shabby two-story place, on a quiet stretch of road. The building had probably been a single-family at one point but then converted into a two-unit apartment. He lived in the basement.

He paused and found his key. Then Garry was startled by two people walking up to him. He was cautious. He’d been mugged once already. An ambiguous threat; two skinny but mean-eyed men had asked to borrow money. He’d given it up, along with his watch, which they hadn’t asked for but had happily taken.

But then he saw that the two were police officers — middle-aged, stocky both of them, a man and woman, in the blue uniforms of the Police of State.

Still, of course, his guard was up.

‘Yes?’

Speaking good English, the woman asked, ‘You are Garry Soames?’

‘I am.’

‘May I see your passport?’

In Italy, everyone was required to carry — and produce upon demand — a passport or identity card. It rankled the civil libertarian within him but he complied without protest.

She read it. And slipped it into her own pocket.

‘Hey.’

‘You were at a party Monday night, in the flat of Natalia Garelli.’

His memories of just a few moments ago.

‘I... well, yes. I was.’

‘You were there all night?’

‘What’s all night?’

‘When were you there?’

‘I don’t know, from maybe ten until three or so. What’s this all about?’

‘Mr Soames,’ the man said, his accent thicker than his partner’s. ‘We are putting you under arrest for certain events that occurred at that party. I would like you to present your hands.’

‘My—’

Steel cuffs appeared.

He hesitated.

The male cop: ‘Please, sir. I would recommend you do this.’

The woman lifted the backpack off his shoulder and began to look through it.

‘You can’t do that!’

She ignored him and continued to rummage.

The man cuffed him.

The woman completed the search of his bag and said nothing. The man searched his pockets, taking his wallet and leaving everything else. He found three unopened condoms and held them up. The two officers shared a look. Everything the man took he placed in an evidence bag.

Each taking an arm, they led him up the street to an unmarked car.

‘What’s this all about?’ he repeated stridently. They were silent. ‘I haven’t done anything!’ He switched to Italian and said, in a desperate voice, ‘ Non ho fatto niente di sbagliato! ’

Still no response. He snapped, ‘ Qual è il crimine? ’

‘The charge is battery and rape. It is my duty to inform you that, as you are now under arrest, you have the right to an attorney and an interpreter. Signor, please, get into the car.’

Rhyme and Sachs examined the evidence chart that Beatrice and Ercole had assembled.

Rossi and Spiro stood behind them, also scanning, scanning, scanning.

Beatrice had done a solid job, isolating and identifying the materials.

‘Do you have a geological database?’ Rhyme asked Rossi. ‘Where we can narrow the source of that clay-based soil?’

Rossi summoned the woman from the crime lab.

When posed the question, Beatrice answered. The inspector’s translation: ‘She has compared the soil with a number of samples but it is common with those found in hundreds of areas and can’t be narrowed down more.’

Rhyme asked, ‘Can we canvass stores that would sell duct tape, wooden rods and buckets?’

Rossi and Spiro regarded each other with amusement. It was for Rossi to say, ‘That is beyond our resources.’

‘Well, at least can we see if the tobacco store where he bought the phone has a video camera?’

The inspector said, ‘Daniela and Giacomo have that assignment, yes.’

Ercole Benelli appeared in the doorway and entered cautiously, almost as if worried he’d be physically assaulted by Dante Spiro.

‘Sir, no, Ali Maziq has not had electroconvulsive treatment. He does not know what that is. And he has taken no medication. Well, I am not accurate. He takes Tylenol for his pains.’

‘That’s not relevant, Forestry Officer.’

‘No, of course, Procuratore .’

Spiro said, ‘Electroconvulsive, antipsychotic drugs, anti-anxiety drugs. So the Composer was surely a patient at some mental facility recently. Have you searched mental hospitals?’

Rhyme wondered if the question was calculated to be a barb to counter what he might perceive as Rhyme’s criticism of the Italians’ inability to search for the sources for the wooden rod, tape and bucket, which it was not.

‘There are too many hospitals and doctors to check. And the theft of a small amount of the sedative wouldn’t be reported in the national database. Our NCIC shows no similar crimes. Ever.’

Beyond our resources...

Spiro regarded the evidence chart. ‘And no clue as to where he’s holed up.’

Surprised at the old-time American expression.

‘Holed up?’ Ercole asked tentatively.

‘Where he’s staying. Where he took the victim right after the kidnapping.’

‘It wasn’t there, at the aqueduct?’

‘No,’ Spiro said and offered nothing more.

Rhyme explained, ‘He hadn’t peed. Or defecated.’ He knew this because either Sachs or the medical team would have observed and reported if he’d done so. ‘The Composer has a base of operation in or near Naples. He videoed Maziq in the aqueduct reservoir room but he assembled and uploaded the video from somewhere else. Maybe something there will tell us where. Maybe not.’ A nod toward the chart.

Rossi answered his mobile and had a conversation. After he disconnected, he said, ‘That was my colleague with the Postal Police. They have completed the analysis of Maziq’s phone card. They have significantly narrowed the area where he made calls within the hour before he was kidnapped at the bus stop. They center on a cellular phone tower about ten kilometers northeast of the town of D’Abruzzo.’

Spiro said to Rossi, ‘I know nothing about the area. Why would the Composer be hunting that far from downtown? Allora . Can your officers get out there, Massimo? Tomorrow?’

‘Possibly. Not, however, until later. Daniela and Giacomo will be canvassing here. Why don’t we send Ercole?’

‘Him?’ Spiro looked his way. ‘Have you ever canvassed before?’

‘I’ve interviewed suspects and witnesses. Many times.’

Rhyme wondered if the prosecutor would make some cruel comment about canvassing wildlife. But the man merely shrugged. ‘Yes, all right.’

‘I will do it, sì. ’ Ercole paused, glancing to the room where Maziq had been interviewed. ‘Can you assign an Arabic speaker to come with me? Perhaps the officer who spoke with him earlier?’

Rossi asked, ‘Arabic, why?’

‘Because of what you said, Procuratore .’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, just now. Why would he go all that distance if there was not a Muslim community there? He doesn’t speak Italian. I would guess he met with an Arabic speaker.’