Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

She pointed. They were looking at the tire treads of a car with a large wheelbase. The markings seemed similar to those of the Michelins from the bus-stop kidnapping. The vehicle had pulled into the back of the vacant lot and parked. The ground here was sparse grass and dank earth, and it was easy to see where the driver had gotten out and walked to the passenger’s side — which faced the line of trees and bushes and, beyond, the very table where Maziq and his unpleasant companion had sat. It appeared that the Composer had opened the passenger’s door and sat, facing outward, toward the diners, the door open.

‘He liked the looks of his prey,’ Ercole said. ‘He sat here and spied on Maziq.’

‘So it seems,’ she said, walking up to the trees, through which she could see the tortellini restaurant clearly.

She pulled on latex gloves and told Ercole to do the same, which he did. She handed him rubber bands but he shook his head and produced a handful from his pocket. She smiled at his foresight.

‘Take pictures of the impressions — shoes and tread marks.’

He did so, shooting from a number of different angles.

‘Beatrice Renza? Is she good?’

‘As a forensic officer? I never met her until the other day. Again, I am new to the Police of State. But Beatrice seems good, yes. Though she is aloof. And... Is it a word: attitudinal?’

‘Yep.’

‘Not like Daniela,’ Ercole said wistfully.

‘You think photos will be enough for her to type the tread marks, or should we call a forensic team in?’

‘I think the photos will do for her. She will browbeat them into submission.’

Sachs laughed. ‘And scoop up samples of the dirt where he stood and sat.’

‘Yes, I will.’

She handed him some empty bags. But he had already produced some of his own from his uniform pocket.

She squinted back toward the restaurant. ‘And something else?’

‘What, Detective? Amelia.’

She said, ‘You’re a Forestry officer. Do you by any chance have a saw in the trunk of your car?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have three.’

‘ Cos’è quello? ’ Dante Spiro muttered.

Rhyme could translate that one for himself. In fact, he was wondering the same thing.

Ercole, who was carting in the — presumably — item of evidence, answered, ‘It’s St John’s bread. You might know it as a carob tree. Ceratonia siliqua .’ The object was foliage, about five feet tall, four branches joined to a single trunk. It had been sawn off at the base.

In gloved hands Ercole also carried a large plastic bag containing smaller bags, filled with dirt and grass.

They were in the situation room once more. Sachs accompanied Ercole. Massimo Rossi and earnest, unsmiling forensic officer Beatrice Renza were present too. Though it was an odd piece of evidence, the woman regarded the large foliage with the same clinical detachment as she might a bullet casing or latent friction ridge lift.

Rhyme noted that Sachs’s hands were glove-free — in keeping with her limited role as translator. Or the appearance of her limited role.

Ercole continued enthusiastically, ‘It is quite an interesting plant. Of course, the beans are used to make carob powder, like chocolate. The name “carob,” I find most interesting, is the source for the word “carat,” as per the measuring unit for diamonds.’

‘Forestry Officer, I do not care about its esteemed place in the pantheon of plants,’ Spiro growled. ‘Could you be more responsive to my question?’ He slipped into his pocket the slim book he’d been jotting notes in, the book he was never without.

Ercole regarded the book with concern once again, it seemed, and answered quickly, ‘I found a place where the Composer was spying on Ali Maziq and the man he had dinner with.’

‘You found him, this Arabic speaker?’ Spiro asked.

‘No. But I learned he’s Italian, though most likely not Campanian,’ Ercole continued, with a glance toward Beatrice. ‘The pictures I uploaded?’

The forensic officer answered, ‘I will say that the shoe prints were not dissimilar to those left by the kidnapper in New York and at the bus stop where Maziq was kidnapped. Converse Cons, most likely. And the tire treads too are indicative of the same model as at the bus stop. The Michelins.’

Spoken like a true criminalist, though under these circumstances Rhyme would not have objected to a bolder conclusion, like: Sì , it was his shoes and his car.

Rossi asked the location of the restaurant exactly and Ercole answered. Rossi walked to a map and marked it. He said, ‘There are not bus routes there. So, following dinner, the colleague, or someone else, would have driven Maziq to the bus stop. The Composer followed.’

Ercole explained that the vehicle had driven past the restaurant and slowed, probably as he saw Maziq and his colleague dining outside. He then drove around the corner, parked and spied on them. ‘I took samples of the dirt and grass from where he stood and sat.’ He nodded down at the bags and handed them to Beatrice, who took them in her gloved hands.

They had a brief conversation in Italian, a small argument clearly, which ended with Beatrice shaking her head and Ercole grimacing. She stepped into the lab.

Speaking through the branches, his face only partly visible, Ercole continued, ‘And from the footprints, it seems that he walked to the bushes to get a good look at the restaurant. I am hoping he pushed them aside to see Maziq.’

Rossi pulled out his phone. ‘I will call an officer guarding Ali Maziq. We perhaps can find if what you learned helps out his memory.’ He placed the call and, head down, had a conversation.

Gesturing to the large, bushy branch Ercole held in front of him, Spiro said, ‘Do something with that, Forestry Officer. It is as if I am speaking to a tree.’

‘Of course, Procuratore .’ He took them into the lab and returned with some notes that, he explained, Beatrice had given him. Apparently concerned that his handwriting was not in vogue, here in the Questura, Ercole dictated; Sachs wrote.

Rossi disconnected his call and looked over the chart. His face bore a wry smile. ‘No, Signor Maziq still remembers nothing of the day or so before the kidnapping. Or claims he doesn’t. But I think perhaps it is less due to the Composer’s drugs and the suffocation than to a typical criminal’s amnesia.’

‘How’s that?’ Rhyme asked.

‘As I mentioned, leaving a refugee camp briefly is not considered a serious offense. But leaving the country of first landfall is. And that’s what Maziq was trying to do, it appears.’

Spiro added, ‘Yes, now, the phone calls on Maziq’s mobile to and from Bolzano make sense. That is in the South Tyrol — very far north in Italy, close to the Austrian border. And about six hours on Trenitalia from here. It would be a good way station for an immigrant desiring to slip out of Italy and into northern European cities, where there are better opportunities for refugees than Italy. This man he dined with? Another human smuggler arranging to spirit Maziq out of the country, north. For a substantial fee, of course. This is a serious crime and, accordingly, he remembers nothing of it.’

Rhyme noted Ercole’s face brighten as he glanced toward the doorway. The blond Flying Squad officer Daniela Canton walked briskly into the room, her posture perfect.

‘Officer,’ Spiro said.

She spoke to those assembled in Italian and Ercole translated for the Americans. ‘She and Giacomo have canvassed for witnesses and looked for CCTVs around the site of the kidnapping, Viale Margherita. They found nothing. One person thinks he saw a black car late at night but nothing else about it. And the tabaccaio where the Composer purchased the Nokia — the one to alert him that the aqueduct facility had been breached? No camera and the clerks have no memory of who it might have been.’