Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Daniela left the room, Ercole’s gaze following like a puppy, and then he turned back.

Sachs said, ‘So, the Composer is driving around the countryside, looking for a potential target. He sees Maziq and decides to kidnap him. But why, though? Why him?’

‘I have a thought,’ Ercole said, speaking hesitantly.

Rossi asked, ‘And what might that be?’

A glance at Spiro. ‘It takes into account your interest in patterns, Procuratore .’

‘How?’ the prosecutor muttered.

‘We’ve found the drugs, the evidence of electroconvulsive treatment. We know the Composer’s psychotic. Schizophrenia is one of the common forms of psychosis. These patients truly believe they are doing good — sometimes the work of God or alien beings or mythological figures. Now, on the surface, Maziq and Robert Ellis are very different. A refugee in Italy and a businessman in New York. But the Composer might have become convinced that they are reincarnations of some evil figures.’

Spiro asked, ‘Mussolini? Billy the Kid? Hitler?’

‘Yes, yes, just so. He is justified in killing them to rid the world of their evil. Or to get revenge on behalf of a deity or spirit.’

‘And the music? The video?’

‘Perhaps so other demons or villains will see. And flee back to hell.’

‘If they have good Internet servers,’ Spiro muttered. ‘You must have much free time in Forestry, Ercole, to study such subjects.’

He blushed and responded, ‘ Procuratore , this particular fact about criminal psychosis I learned last night. Doing some, come si dice? ’ A frown. ‘Doing homework.’

‘Mythological figures enlisting the Composer to rid the world of evil.’ Spiro frowned, gazing at the newsprint sheet. ‘I think we have not yet stumbled upon a pattern that satisfies me.’ He regarded his elaborate watch. ‘I have a call to Rome I must make.’

Without another word he turned and left the situation room, pulling a cheroot from his pocket.

Rhyme’s phone hummed with a text. He assumed it was Thom, who had taken a few hours off and was seeing the sights in Naples. But he saw immediately that he was wrong. The text was lengthy and, after reading it, he nodded to Sachs. She took the phone and frowned.

‘What do you think of this, Rhyme?’

‘What do I think?’ He scowled. ‘I think: Why the hell now?’

Greeting Lincoln Rhyme proved troublesome for some people.

Such as Charlotte McKenzie.

Should you offer a hand and risk embarrassing a ‘patient’ unable to reciprocate? Should you not, and embarrass anyway by suggesting you don’t want to touch a person who’s different?

Rhyme could not have cared less, so he had no reaction when, after an awkward glance at the chair, the woman simply nodded and said with a stilted smile that they should keep their distance; she had a cold.

This was a common excuse.

Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were meeting with McKenzie in the US consulate, a white, functional five-story shoe box of a building, near Naples Bay. They’d showed their passports to the US Marines downstairs and been ushered up to the top floor.

‘Mr Rhyme,’ the woman said. ‘Captain?’

‘Lincoln.’

‘Yes. Lincoln.’ McKenzie was about fifty-five, with a doughy, grandmotherly face, powdered but otherwise largely makeup-free. Her light hair was short, in the style he believed favored by some famous British actress whose name he could not recall.

McKenzie opened a file folder. ‘Thank you so much for seeing me. Let me explain. I’m a legal liaison officer with the State Department. We work with citizens who’ve run into legal problems in foreign countries. I’m based in Rome but a situation’s come up in Naples and I flew down here to look into it. I’m hoping you might be able to help.’

‘How did you know we were here?’ Sachs asked.

‘That case, the serial killer? An FBI update went to the embassy and all the consular offices. What’s his name, the killer?’ she asked.

‘We don’t know. We’re calling him the Composer.’

She offered a concerned furrow of brow. ‘That’s right. Bizarre. Kidnapping and that music video. But you saved the victim yesterday, I read. Is he all right?’

‘Yes,’ Rhyme said quickly, preempting Sachs and Thom, who might be inclined to explain further.

‘How’s it working out with the Police of State? Or is it Carabinieri?’

‘Police of State. Working well enough.’ Rhyme fell silent and only the lack of a timepiece prevented him from glancing at a wristwatch. He had to convey impatience by a studied lack of interest. But this he was very good at.

McKenzie may have noticed. She got to it. ‘Well, I’m sure you’re pressed. So thanks for coming in. Your reputation is significant, Lincoln. You’re maybe the best forensic officer in the US.’

US only? he thought, unreasonably offended. He said nothing but offered a cool smile.

She said, ‘Here’s our problem. An American student attending Federico the Second, the University of Naples, has been arrested for sexual assault. His name’s Garry Soames. He and the victim — she’s known in the police reports as Frieda S. — were at a party here in town. She’s a first-term student from Amsterdam. At some point she passed out and was assaulted.’ McKenzie looked up, to the doorway. ‘Ah, here. Elena will be able to tell us more.’

Two others entered the office. The first was a woman in her forties, of athletic build, her hair pinned into a bun, taut, though errant strands escaped. She wore glasses with complex metal-and-tortoiseshell frames, the sort you’d see in upscale fashion mags. (He thought of Beatrice Renza’s eyewear.) Her outfit was a charcoal-gray pin-striped suit with a dark-blue blouse, open at the neck. Beside her was a short, slim man, in a conservative suit, also gray, though lighter. He had thinning blondish hair. He might have been thirty or fifty. His skin was so pale Rhyme thought at first he was a person with albinism, though, no, it seemed that he just didn’t get outside very much.

‘This is Elena Cinelli,’ McKenzie said.

In slightly accented English the woman said, ‘I’m an Italian attorney. I specialize in defending foreigners who’ve been accused of crimes here. Charlotte contacted me about Garry’s situation. His family has retained me.’

The pale man said, ‘Captain Rhyme, Detective Sachs. I’m Daryl Mulbry. I’m with the community and public relations office here at the consulate.’ The inflected tones situated his roots somewhere in the Carolinas, or possibly Tennessee. Seeing that Rhyme’s right arm functioned, Mulbry extended his hand and they shook. (Rhyme now tempered his criticism of Charlotte McKenzie, who was dabbing her nose and then fighting down a sneeze; apparently she did have a reason for not shaking anyone’s hand — gimps included.)

Mulbry greeted Thom too. And he lifted an eyebrow to McKenzie — apparently at her win on getting Rhyme into the office, undoubtedly to pitch a request his way.

We’ll see about that.

‘Please,’ McKenzie said, gesturing to a coffee table. Rhyme wheeled close and everyone else sat around it. ‘I was just filling in our visitors about the arrest. You can explain, Signorina Cinelli, better than I could.’

Cinelli reiterated some of what McKenzie had said, then: ‘Garry and the victim were drinking quite a bit and becoming romantic and — to seek privacy — went upstairs to the roof. The victim says she remembers going up there but soon passed out. The next thing she recalls, it is waking hours later on the roof of an adjoining building, having been sexually assaulted. Garry admits they were up there but when Frieda grew tired he left her and returned downstairs. There were, from time to time, others on the roof — at a place where people were smoking — but the adjoining roof, where the attack occurred, is not visible from there. No one saw or heard the actual attack.’