Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Another step to Harmony.

To Heaven.

Religion and music have been forever intertwined. Songs in praise of the Lord. The Levites carrying the Ark of the Covenant on their shoulders amid songs and the music of cymbals, lyres and harps. David appointing four thousand righteous to be the musical voice of the temple he had hoped to build. The Psalms, of course — 150 of them.

Then that trumpet at Jericho.

Stefan had never attended church as an adult but had spent many, many hours of his early adolescence in Sunday school and vacation Bible study, deposited there by a mother who was savvy about finding convenient places to stash the boy for an afternoon here or a late morning there, sometimes a whole weekend. She probably recognized he was about to tumble into madness (bit of that herself) and she might have to keep him home, so Abigail rarely missed a chance to get him tucked away in finger-paint-scented basements or retreat tents before her male friends came a-calling.

The Sunday school days were before the Black Screams had begun in earnest, and young Stefan was as content as a boy might be, sitting among the other oblivious youngsters soaking up a bit of the old theo, dining on cookies and juice, listening to tweedy teachers recite lesson plans with the devotion of, well, the devout.

The words were mostly crap, he knew that even then, but one story stuck: how, when God (for no reason that made sense) sent evil spirits to torment the first king of Israel, Saul, only music could comfort him. Music from David’s harp.

Just like for Stefan, only music or sounds could soothe, and keep the Black Screams away.

Driving carefully, Stefan found his phone and went to his playlist. He now chose not pure sounds from his collection but a melody, ‘Greensleeves,’ not technically a waltz, though written in six-eight time, which was essentially the same. (And, rumor was, written by Henry VIII.)

‘Greensleeves’... A sorrowful love ballad — a man abandoned by his muse — had a second life: It was borrowed by the church as the Christmas carol ‘What Child Is This?’

The world loved this song, absolutely loved it.

What, he wondered, was there about this particular melody that had persisted for so many years? Why did this configuration of notes, set to this tempo, continue to touch souls after a thousand years? The tune spoke to us like few others. Stefan had thought long about this question, and had come to no conclusion other than that sound was God, and God was sound.

Harmony.

The sad strains of the music looping through his mind, Stefan decided it set the stage for what was about to happen.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously...

He slowed now and made the turn onto the side road that would take him to the Capodichino Reception Center.

In the situation room beside the Scientific Police’s laboratory on the ground floor of the Questura, Beatrice Renza said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘I am afraid I have created a fail.’ She was not particularly downcast about this glitch, whatever that might be, but it was hard to tell; she seemed to live in a perpetual state of overcast.

She was speaking to Rhyme, Massimo Rossi, Ercole Benelli and Amelia Sachs.

Rossi asked her a question in Italian.

The forensic analyst said in English, ‘I was able only to make reconstruction of a partial fingerprint from the leafs that you’ — a nod to Ercole — ‘recovered. Yes, it was a print on the leaf, yes, I would assume it was left by our furfante , our villain, the Composer, for his footprint was below the place where you sawed the branch off. But it is merely a very minor portion of a friction ridge. It is not enough for the systems to match.’

‘And the trace?’ Rhyme asked.

‘I have had more successfulness there. From the soil in the tread marks of his Converse shoes I have discovered several grains of soil... infused with carbon dioxide, unburned hydrocarbons, oxides of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, kerosene.’

‘Engine exhaust,’ Rhyme said.

‘Yes, exactly as I had considered.’

‘What do the proportions suggest?’

‘Jet aircraft. Because of the levels of kerosene. Not automobiles or trucks. And in addition, I found this: Fibers that are coerente ...’

‘Consistent,’ Ercole said.

‘ Sì , with those in napkins or paper towelettes. And in the trace and in the fibers were substances that are consistent with these foods: sour milk, wheat, potatoes, chili powder, turmeric, tomatoes. And fenugreek. You are familiar?’

‘No.’

Ercole said, ‘Ingredients in Northern African cuisine, most frequently.’

Beatrice said, ‘Yes, yes. With those materials, ingredients , possibly it is being bazin, a bread from Liberia or Tunisia.’ She touched her belly and added, ‘I know food well. All types of food I know, I will say.’ No smile, no embarrassment.

She added, ‘ Allora , I called restaurants in the area of his staking-out, fifteen kilometers around, a circle, from D’Abruzzo, and they are all traditional Italian. There are no establishments of Middle Eastern or North African eating nearby.’ She spoke to Ercole, who translated: ‘So, the Composer had recently been somewhere near cooking of this kind, a restaurant, a family.’

Rhyme scowled.

‘Is something wrong?’ Massimo Rossi asked.

‘The analysis is fine. The problem is I don’t know how to put the evidence in context. You have to know the geography in this business. The landscape, the culture of your crime scenes.’

‘ Sì , this is true,’ Beatrice said.

‘ Allora ,’ Rossi said. ‘Perhaps, Captain Rhyme, I can be of help. We had an incident not long ago. Refugees from Africa refused to eat Italian pasta. True, it was simple, with only pomodoro — tomato — sauce.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I prefer ragù or pesto. But, my story is this: The refugees complained, can you believe that? And they insisted on native food. My feeling is, your expression in English, beggars cannot be choosers, but many people took their protests to heart and an effort was made to give the refugees traditional Libyan and North African food. But the refugee camps and facilities are not always able to do so. So, near the camps are many vendors selling Libyan and Tunisian ingredients and fully cooked food.’

‘That must cover much land.’

Rossi suddenly smiled. ‘It does, except for—’

Rhyme interrupted: ‘The jet exhaust.’

‘Exactly! The biggest camp in Campania is the Capodichino Reception Center located near the airport. And there are North African food vendors there.’

‘Refugees,’ Ercole said. ‘Like Ali Maziq.’ To Rossi: ‘Could this be the pattern Procuratore Spiro was thinking of?’

‘I would say we don’t know enough yet. The Composer might have in mind as his next victim another refugee. But it might also be someone connected with the place. An employee.’

Sachs said, ‘Send Michelangelo and the tac team to the camp. And tell the security people there. And I’m going too.’

Rossi looked her way with a wary smile.

‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘Spiro won’t be happy. But I’ll deal with him later.’ She looked him over. ‘Are you going to stop me, Inspector?’

Rossi made a show of turning his back to her and staring at the evidence chart. He said, to no one in particular, ‘I wonder where Detective Sachs has gotten herself to. The last I saw of her, she was at the Questura. And now, gone. I would guess she is off to see the sights of Naples. The ruins of Pompeii, very likely.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered to Rossi.