Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

‘And no idea of her identity at all?’ Rhyme asked.

‘No.’ Ercole continued, ‘The call allowed the inspector to get a warrant to search his flat. That led to the discovery of traces of the date-rape drug on the jacket he’d worn the night of the party and the other articles of clothing.’

Sachs asked, ‘Garry’s story?’

‘He admits that he and Frieda were drinking wine downstairs. And, again, making out. They went upstairs for more privacy. There were people at the smoking station, so they went around the corner to a deserted area and sat down and did more making out. But she grew tired and bored and less interested. About one thirty, he was tired too and he went downstairs and left the party. She was on the bench on the roof, drowsing, when he did.’

‘Tired too,’ Sachs suggested, ‘because he took a sip of her wine, which was spiked. His DNA was on her glass.’

‘Suggesting he didn’t know about the roofie!’ Ercole said, enthusiastic for just a moment, lost in the case. Then he went back to being guilty and nervous.

Rhyme said, ‘One problem with the government’s case: The DNA found in Frieda’s vagina. It wasn’t Garry’s.’ He looked at Ercole uncertainly. He wondered if the graphic aspects of the crime would trouble a young officer who’d never worked an assault before, much less a rape.

The Italian officer glanced at Rhyme and caught his concern. ‘ Capitano Rhyme, last month I ran an undercover operation to arrest men passing off inferior bull semen as that from prize animals. I surreptitiously videoed the collection process. I am someone who has made bull porn, so such matters are not bothering to me, if that’s your question.’

Rhyme nodded in amused concession. He observed that one line in the report was crossed out — bold strokes and a written note beside it. ‘What’s that?’

‘The words translate: “Inappropriate and irrelevant, reprimand the interviewer.”’

‘What’s crossed out?’ Sachs asked.

It took a moment to discern the words beneath the thick marker. ‘It is a note from one of the Flying Squad officers interviewing party attendees. The officer wrote that the victim was considered by some at the party to be quite the flirt.’

‘Ah. That offended the inspector,’ Sachs said. ‘Or Spiro. As it should have.’

Blaming women for their own sexual assault was unforgivable... and a lapse that seemed to transcend national barriers.

Sachs said, ‘So what’s the scenario, if he’s innocent?’

Rhyme said, ‘Some man, Mr X, has his eye on Frieda. He gets close and spikes her drink but it’s crowded and dark, so the witness thinks it’s Garry. Before X can move in and get Frieda to a bedroom or a deserted part of the flat, she and Garry go upstairs. X follows and watches them. Frieda starts to go under and Garry gets bored and leaves. When the roof is deserted, Mr X carries Frieda to the roof of the building next door and rapes her.’

Ercole asked, ‘Ah, but the drug residue on Garry’s jacket in his apartment? How is that explained?’

Rhyme responded, ‘One way: being close to the man who did drug her. But remember, read the chart, Ercole, there was drug residue on other clothing too.’

‘Yes, what are the implications of that?’

‘We don’t know yet. It could be that Garry is guilty and frequently carries around date-rape drugs. Or that he is innocent and someone broke in to implicate him, scattering drugs on other items of his clothing, not remembering or knowing what he wore to the party.’

Rhyme stared at the translated document. ‘And something I don’t like. “No Other Evidence Found.” There is always evidence. Ercole, do you know the name “Locard”?’

‘I don’t believe I do.’

‘A French criminalist. He lived a long time ago. He came up with a principle that is still valid. He felt that at every crime scene there is a transfer of evidence from the perpetrator to the victim or to the scene. And from that evidence it is possible, even if very difficult, to determine the perp’s identity or location. He was speaking of trace evidence, of course.’

Ercole, some sixth sense kicking in, it seemed, said quickly, ‘ Allora , I am happy to have helped you. Now I must go. I will see if Beatrice has made some discoveries, as she probably has. Moving us closer to the Composer. Our important case.’ He looked to Sachs for help. None was forthcoming.

Rhyme said, ‘We need another search of Natalia’s apartment, Ercole. Particularly the smoking station. I’ll bet that’s where Mr X was waiting to keep an eye on Frieda. The roof next door too. And we need to examine Garry’s apartment — to see if the drug residue was planted to incriminate Garry... Two simple searches. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Oh, tops.’

Both he and Sachs were staring intently at Ercole Benelli, who had taken to reassembling the file, as if by closing it he’d put this matter to rest forever. Finally, he could avoid them no longer and he looked up. ‘ Quello che chiedete è impossibile. Do you understand? Impossibile! ’

The party where the rape had occurred had been held in an apartment in the Vomero neighborhood of Naples.

The area was atop a high hill that could be reached via funicular or a drive up steep, winding streets. From the crest, you had an Olympus-like view — of the bay, Vesuvius in the distance, and the infinite patchwork of colors and textures and shapes that was Naples.

This was, Sachs’s chauffeur, Ercole Benelli, had told her, considered the nicest part of the city. The Vomero was dotted with Art Nouveau architecture and modern-style offices and residences, while mom-and-pop stores and vintage-clothing shops were found next to the chicest designer retail locations that Italy had to offer... and Italy, of course, had chic down cold.

As they’d begun the drive, after a persuasive argument by Rhyme, Ercole had been sullen. His ‘ impossibile ’ eventually became ‘ forse ’ — perhaps — and then what must have been the Italian equivalent of a grudging, ‘Oh, all right.’ Eventually his easy spirits had returned and as they careened through Neapolitan traffic, Ercole seemed resigned to the risk of being pummeled by Spiro, and he turned tour guide, pelting Sachs with sound bites of the history of the city, present and distant past.

GPS finally got them to Natalia’s apartment, a classic Mediterranean-style structure on a small residential street, Via Carlo Cattaneo. They parked and Ercole led the way. Some children stared at them, enthralled, their attention seized by his uniform and the NYPD gold shield on her hip. Some boys tried to catch a glimpse under their jackets, hoping, she guessed, to spot a weapon. Others were more cautious.

Sachs was startled as a teenager sped past them at a run.

Ercole laughed. ‘ Bene, bene ... It’s all right. In certain other neighborhoods in Naples, he would be going to warn his father or brother there is a cop present. Here, though, he is simply running. To a game or to a girl... or because he wants to be star runner someday. There is crime in Naples, yes. No doubt. Pickpocketing, purse snatching, auto theft. You must be careful in some places. The Camorra are in the suburbs of Secondigliano and Scampia and in the Spanish Quarters in the city. The African gangs closer to Pozzuoli. But here, no.’

Natalia Garelli’s building was in need of paint and plastering on the outside but through spotless glass it appeared the lobby was starkly elegant. Ercole hit the intercom button. A moment later a woman’s voice clattered through the tinny speaker. The front door unlocked and they entered the lobby, dominated by an abstract painting, a swirl. A steel sculpture hung on another wall. An angel? Or a dove? Or purely fanciful? They took the elevator to the top floor, the fifth. There was a single apartment on this story.