Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

Sachs explained how the Composer had lost it in the struggle with the victim’s, Khaled’s, wife.

In a gloved hand, Ercole carried the shoe to Rhyme. ‘A Converse Con, in the proper size.’

Beatrice barked, ‘Why you have picked it up?’

He turned and glared at her. ‘I simply am showing it to Captain Rhyme. He had commented on it. It’s in an evidence bag. And I am wearing gloves.’

‘But now we are needing to include another chain-of-custody entry! And everywhere a piece of evidence travels, there can be risk of contaminated.’

True. Rhyme lifted an eyebrow to Ercole, who sighed, set the shoe down on a table and signed the card Beatrice offered.

Dante Spiro and Massimo Rossi joined them.

Spiro cast a look Ercole’s way. ‘ Now , Forestry Officer, it is safe to say we have the start of a pattern. Will you concede that?’

‘Refugees.’

‘ Sì. That is his preferred target — in Italy, at least. We have three such victims.’

Rossi said, ‘The director of the camp is convinced that he is targeting asylum-seekers because he believes we will not be so diligent in pursuing the case. Although that is hardly true.’ He waved at the charts.

‘But,’ Ercole said, ‘I am wondering...’

Spiro said, ‘How this is in harmony with the businessman in New York?’

‘Correct, Procuratore .’

‘There will be a way to incorporate that, I believe. Patterns are not always symmetrical. We are not sure yet. We are, however, advancing.’

Sachs then said, ‘You mentioned the director, Rania Tasso. One thing she told me that was interesting. I’m not sure what to make of it. She said the Composer didn’t kill Malek Dadi. He tried to save him.’

‘Is this true?’ Rossi asked.

Spiro was frowning but said nothing.

‘She was sure,’ Sachs continued.

‘Who then was the killer?’

‘Muggers, thieves. Some refugees in the camp. They got to him before the Composer did and when Dadi fought back, the Composer ran toward them to stop them. But it was too late.’

Ercole said, ‘Odd. A curious element to his profile.’

Rhyme, however, wasn’t interested in profiles. ‘Two lions going after a gazelle. Neither wants to give up his prey, which is going to end up as a main course one way or the other. Nothing remarkable about that. Let’s see what the evidence tells us.’

Rossi placed a call and, after a conversation in Italian, disconnected. ‘No video yet has been posted online.’

A half hour later Beatrice Renza walked from the sterile portion of the lab and joined them, clipboard in her grip. She handed it to Ercole without comment and picked up a marker. He translated and she wrote.

‘No fingerprints on his shoe?’ Rhyme muttered. ‘What the hell does he do? Wear gloves in his sleep?’ Then, frowning. ‘That entry: the gamma hydroxybutyric. The hell is that doing there?’

Spiro said, ‘Yes, how can that be?’

Ercole had a conversation with Beatrice. He said, ‘It was recovered from soil in the tread of the Composer’s shoe.’

‘Impossible. It’s not from this case. It’s from the Garry Soames case. That’s the date-rape drug. There’s been cross-contamination. Hell.’

Rossi now explained this to Beatrice, who replied in an even tone, not in the least defensive. The inspector said, ‘She says she too was surprised to find the drug on the shoe. She was very careful with the evidence. There was no contamination in the lab. Garry Soames’s clothing was processed in a different part of the lab and by a different examiner.’

All eyes were now on Ercole. Spiro said, ‘You picked it up, Forestry Officer. And you collected the drug trace at Garry Soames’s apartment.’

‘Yes. And I wore gloves. Then and now. And the shoes were in a sealed evidence bag.’

‘Still, there is obvious contamination.’

‘If I am responsible for this, then I’m sorry. But I do not believe I am.’

Beatrice turned her round, stony face his way.

Rhyme saw the dismay in the young man’s eyes. Lesson delivered. ‘It’s not the end of the world, Ercole. The problem will be at trial. A defense lawyer could get the evidence from the shoe thrown out on those grounds. But we can ignore it for the moment. Our goal is to find him. The contamination’ll be the US attorney’s problem at trial in the Southern District.’

Spiro chuckled. ‘You mean, Lincoln, it will be my problem in the Tribunale di Napoli .’

Rhyme shot him a wry look.

The Wolf Tits Rule...

Reading again, Rhyme said, ‘Now, those triacylglycerols, free fatty acids, pigment.’

Ercole said, ‘Beatrice has provided a chemical chart here. Should we write that down?’

Rhyme glanced at the molecular diagram. ‘No, not necessary. We’ve got what we need. Triacylglycerols — or triglycerides.’

‘What are they? Spiro asked.

‘Fat basically. They’re energy reserves for living things. Molecules that contain glycol and three fatty acid chains. Hence, tri -glyceride. They’re found in both plants and animals. But animal fats tend to be saturated.’

‘What does that mean?’ Rossi made this inquiry.

‘In a nutshell, saturated fats — the bad ones, if you listen to the health-minded — are so named because their carbon chains are saturated with hydrogen. This makes them more solid than unsaturated fats, which have less hydrogen.’ He nodded at the diagram. ‘These are missing some hydrogen and therefore it is a plant fat.’

‘But what kind?’ Ercole asked.

‘The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.’

‘The... what? I am not understanding,’ Beatrice said.

‘American cultural reference from a long time ago, fifty, sixty years or so.’

The officer translated for Beatrice, who gave a rare smile and said something, which Ercole translated: ‘She said that is not so “long ago,” compared with cultural references in Italy.’

Sachs laughed.

Rhyme said, ‘We need to find out what plant. Is there a database of plants in the Scientific Police?’

Beatrice’s response was that there was one in Rome. She would go online and search it. She typed and spoke to herself as she did so. ‘ Allora. A triglyceride molecule, unsaturated, una hydrocarbon chain, twenty-two carbon atoms in way of length. Dark green, the pigment. What plant, what plant...?’ Finally she nodded. ‘ Bene. I have gotten it. But helpful, I am not thinking so much. It is olive oil.’

Rhyme sighed, then glanced at Rossi. ‘How much olive oil would you say is produced in Italy?’

The inspector, in turn, handed off to Ercole. This would be, of course, his area of expertise. The young officer answered, ‘About four hundred and fifty thousand tons every year. We’re the world’s second largest producer.’ He grimaced and added defensively, ‘But we are closing in on Spain.’

How helpful is this ? Rhyme thought, irritated. It could have come from anywhere in the country. ‘Hell.’

This was the most frustrating occurrence in forensic work, struggling to discover a clue, only to learn that while it probably did have some connection with the perpetrator, the substance was so common that it was useless forensically.

Then Ercole said something to Beatrice and she stepped away, returning a moment later with some photographs.

He studied them carefully.

‘What, Ercole, you see something?’ Rhyme asked.

‘I believe I do, Capitano .’

‘And?’