The gut strings, larger versions of the calling card the schoolgirl had found, were for an upright bass. Rhyme had little hope that they'd find a clerk who'd remember a purchaser like the Composer, given their skimpy description of him...and the fact that there were thousands of musicians in the area who'd use such strings.
To break into the factory, the Composer had sliced through the chain at the gate with a bolt cutter and replaced it with his own. Both the lock and chain were generic.
The battery-powered router and Wi-Fi-enabled webcam--which had apparently alerted him to the police's arrival--were similarly untraceable.
A canvass by dozens of officers found no witnesses to follow up on the boy who'd reported that somebody resembling the Composer had fled the plant around the time of the fire.
After the information went up on the board, Rhyme wheeled in front of it.
Sachs too gazed. She called up a map of the area on one of the big-screen monitors. She tapped the place to the north of the factory, about where he'd escaped, and said absently, "Where the hell're you going?"
Sellitto, also looking over the chart, said, "He's got a car. He can drive home. He can drive to a subway and take the train, leave the car on the street. He can--"
Rhyme had a fast thought. "Sachs!"
She, Sellitto and Cooper were looking toward him. They seemed alarmed. Maybe it was his angered expression.
"What, Rhyme?"
"What you just asked."
"Where he lives."
"No, you didn't ask that. You asked where he was going?"
"Well, I meant, where's his home."
"Forget that." He scanned the chart. "Those scraps of paper you found? The photo paper?
"Right."
"Play jigsaw puzzle with them. See how they fit together."
After pulling on gloves she opened the plastic evidence envelope and arranged the slips. "They make a frame, see? Something was cut out of the middle. A perfect square."
Rhyme then consulted his computer. He asked, "One that measures fifty-one centimeters by fifty-one, by any chance?"
Sachs applied a ruler. She laughed. "Exactly."
Sellitto grunted, "How the hell'd you know that, Linc?"
"Goddamn it." He nodded at the burned triangle of paper, containing the mysterious code.
CASH T
EXCHA
CONVER
TRANSAC
More typing. Rhyme reviewed the screen and said, "Try this: 'Cash Tendered. Exchange Rate. Converted Amount. Transaction Amount.'" He nodded at the screen. "I found a receipt from a currency exchange. That's what it is. And the square cut out of the glossy paper. It's the size--"
Sellitto filled in, "A passport photo. Oh, hell."
"Exactly," Rhyme said, exhaling slowly. "Call Washington."
"DC?" Cooper asked.
"Of course DC. I hardly want a cup of Starbucks or a Microsoft Windows upgrade, now, do I? Tell the State Department to alert the embassies that the Composer's headed out of the country. Dellray too. Get him on the wire to the FBI offices abroad." Another scowl. "Don't know what good it'll do. No solid description or other info to give Passport Control." He shook his head in dismay. "And if he's as smart as he seems to be, he's not wasting any time. He's probably halfway to London or Rio by now."
Wednesday, September 22
II
In the Field of Truffles
Chapter 9
Could this be the place, could this be the moment he'd been waiting for?
Hoping for?
Finally, was he about to capture the devil he'd been after for months?
Ercole Benelli rolled down the window of his police vehicle, a dusty Ford SUV. American cars were common in Italy, though you didn't see many big off-roaders like this. But the nature of his work necessitated four-wheel drive and serious suspension. A bigger engine would have been nice, though Ercole had learned that budget was budget and he was thankful for what he could get. He peered through the flagging leaves of a stately magnolia, dominating this little-used country road, twenty kilometers northwest of Naples.
Youthful and taut of body, lean of face, tall and thinner than his mother had liked, Ercole played his Bausch + Lombs over the field that separated him from the abandoned structure one hundred meters away. The hour was dusk but there was enough light to see by, without using night-vision glasses. The land here was messy, carpeted with weeds and stray and struggling vegetables gone to seed. Sitting every ten meters or so, like huge, discarded toys, were parts of old machines, sheet-metal ducts and vehicle exoskeletons, which the thirty-year-old Ercole believed resembled sculpture he had once seen in an exhibit at the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris on a long holiday weekend with his girlfriend at the time. Ercole hadn't appreciated the art. No, he had appreciated it. He hadn't liked it (she had, however--and passionately and tearfully--which explained much about the short life span of the romance).
He climbed from the truck, studying the building across the field again, carefully. He was squinting, though that didn't seem to improve his vision much in the autumn dusk. He kept low; his uniform and brimmed cap, boasting on the crown a fierce eagle, were gray, in contrast with the pale-buff surroundings. With the sky still illuminated he had to make sure he would not be seen.
Thinking again: Could this be his chance to snare the prey?
Was the perp inside?
Well, for certain, someone was. Ercole could see a lamp within the farmhouse, and a presence was revealed from the motion of shadow. And it was not an animal. All species have distinctive locomotion, and Ercole knew nonhuman movements very well; these shadows were from a Homo sapiens--unsuspecting, unconcerned--as he walked around the interior of the place. And, though the light was fading, he could still make out in the grass and a stand of old wheat what appeared to be the tread marks of a truck. Some of the vegetation had returned to near upright, suggesting to Ercole that Antonio Albini--if indeed the suspect, the devil, this was--had been inside for some time. The officer guessed that he had driven into the farmhouse before first light and, after a long day of unconscionable industry, planned to slip away when dusk bathed the soft hills here in deepening blue light.
Which meant soon.
Albini's modus operandi was to find such abandoned locales for his crimes but to travel to and from them only in the dark, to avoid being seen. The mastermind usually checked out his lairs ahead of time, and Ercole's exhaustive detective work had found a witness up the road, a farmworker, who'd reported that someone fitting Albini's description had examined this building two weeks ago.
"He was behaving in most suspicious ways," the grizzled man had said. "I'm certain of it." Though Ercole guessed that the conclusion was only because the worker has been speaking to a police officer. It was how he himself might have spoken to a cop when he was young and hanging out in the Spaccanapoli, or a nearby Neapolitan square, and a Carabinieri or Police of State officer would ask him, in a bored voice, if he'd seen what street thug had made off with a purse or had cleverly lifted an Omega off a careless wrist.
Whether the intruder had acted suspiciously or not, though, the farmworker's observation was enough to follow up on, and Ercole had spent much time conducting surveillance of the farmhouse. His supervisor thought long shots like this should not take as much time as Ercole allotted to them. Still, he could behave no differently. He pursued Albini the way he would have sought the notorious serial murderer, or murderers, known as the Monster of Florence, had he been an officer in Tuscany many years ago.
Albini's crimes would not go unpunished.
Another flicker of shadow.
Now a frog called, hoping to impress a mate.
Now a tall stand of neglected wheat bent in a breeze like parishioners before a priest.
Now a head appeared in the window. And yes! It was the villain he'd worked so hard to capture. Round, porcine Antonio Albini. Ercole could see the bushy hair surrounding the bald pate. His urge was to duck, escaping the demonic gaze
from under wizard's brows. The suspect was not looking outward, though. He was gazing down.
The lamps inside went dark.
And Ercole's heart twisted with dismay.
No, no! He was leaving now? While it was still light? Perhaps the deserted nature of the area gave him confidence that he would not be seen. Ercole had thought he would have plenty of time, after verifying the identity of the occupant, to call for backup.
So the question became this: Should he apprehend the man alone?
But, of course, he realized that it was no query at all.
He had no choice. Arresting Albini was his mission and he would now do what he needed to, at whatever risk, to snare the prey.
His hand dipped to the Beretta 9mm on his hip. He took a deep breath and continued through the field, picking his steps carefully. Ercole Benelli regularly studied the procedure books of the Carabinieri, as well as those of the Police of State and the Finance Police--not to mention the law enforcement agencies of other countries and Europol and Interpol, as well. While he had not had many opportunities to effect arrests by himself, he knew the approved techniques to stop and control a suspect.
Pausing at the relic of a harvester, then continuing on to a Stonehenge of oil drums for cover. He was listening to the thuds from inside the garage attached to the farmhouse. He knew what had made the disturbing sounds and grew all the more infuriated at Albini's crimes.
Move, now!
And with no more cover, he hurried into the driveway.
Which was when the truck, a four-wheeled Piaggio Poker van, burst from the garage, speeding directly toward him.
The young officer stood his ground.
Some seasoned criminals might think twice about killing a police officer. In Italy there was still honor among villains. But Albini?
The truck didn't stop. Would the man be persuaded by Ercole's pistol? He lifted the large black gun. Heart throbbing, breath coming fast, he aimed carefully, as he did on the range, and slid his finger off the guard to the trigger. The Beretta had a very light touch and he was careful to apply no pressure yet, but merely caress the steel curve.
This, not honor, it seemed, had the desired effect.
The ungainly truck slowed to a stop, the brakes squealing. Albini squinted and then climbed from the vehicle. The plump man stomped forward, stopped and stood with hands on hips. "Ah, ah, what are you doing?" he asked, as if genuinely confused.
"Keep your hands visible."
"Who are you?"
"I'm arresting you, Mr. Albini."
"For what?"
"You know very well. You have been dealing in counterfeit truffles."
Italy was, of course, known for truffles: the most delicate and most sought after, the white, from Piedmont, and the earthier black from Tuscany. But Campania too had a vital truffle trade--black ones from around the town of Bagnoli Irpino, near the Monti Picentini Regional Park. These truffles were respected for their substantial taste; unlike their paler cousins from central and northern Italy, which were served only with plain eggs or pasta, Campanian fungi had the fortitude to stand up to more substantial dishes and sauces.
Albini was believed to be buying Chinese truffles--much cheaper than and inferior to the Italian--and palming them off as local to distributors and restaurants throughout Campania and Calabria, to the south. He had gone so far as to buy--or possibly steal--two expensive Lagotti Romagnolo, the traditional truffle-hunting dogs. The beasts now sat in the back of the truck, looking Ercole over cheerfully. For Albini, though, they were merely for show, since the only hunting he did for truffles was on the docks to find which warehouse held the shipments from Guangdong.
Weapon still aimed in Albini's direction, Ercole now walked to the back of the man's Piaggio Poker truck and, peeking under the canvas tarp covering a portion of the back bed, could see clearly a dozen empty shipping cartons, with Chinese characters on the side and on the bills of lading. And beside them buckets of dirt holding dozens of gray-black truffles: the thuds that Ercole had heard moments before, Albini loading the vehicle.
"You accuse me wrongly! I have done nothing illegal, Officer..." He cocked his head.
"Benelli."
"Ah, Benelli! You are perhaps an heir to the motorcycle family?" Albini's face beamed. "The shotgun family?"
The officer said nothing in response, though he was at a loss to figure out how the criminal planned to leverage a famous family connection to his advantage, had one existed, which it did not.
Then Albini grew serious. "But honestly. All I do is sell a product for which there is a need and desire and I charge a fair price. I never said they are from Campania. Has one person ever said I have made that claim?"
"Yes."
"He's a liar."
"There are dozens."
"They, then, are liars. To a man."
"Even so, you have no import license."
"What is the harm, though? Has anyone gotten sick? No. And, in fact, even if they are from China, they are of equal quality to those from our region. Smell them!"
"Mr. Albini, the very fact that I cannot smell them from here tells me they are vastly inferior."
This was certainly the case. The best truffles give off a scent that is as far-ranging as it is unique and seductive.
The crook offered what appeared to be a smile of concession. "Now, now, Officer Benelli, do you not think that most diners would have no clue as to whether they were eating truffles from Campania, from Tuscany, from Beijing, from New Jersey in America?"
Ercole didn't doubt this was true.
But still, the law was the law.
He lifted the handcuffs off his belt.
Albini said, "I have euros in my pocket. Many euros." He smiled.
"And they will be logged into evidence. Every last one of them."
"You bastard!" Albini grew agitated. "You can't do this."
"Hold your hands out."
The man's eyes were cold as they dipped to Ercole's gray uniform, scornfully focusing on the insignia on the cap and the breast of the open-necked jacket. "You? Arrest me? You're a cow officer. You're a rare-species officer. You're a fire warden. You're hardly a real policeman."
The first three charges, while insultingly toned, were accurate. The fourth comment slung his way was false. Ercole was a full-fledged police officer with the Italian government. He worked for the CFS, or State Forestry Corps, which was indeed charged with enforcing agricultural regulations, protecting endangered species, and preventing and fighting forest fires. It was a proud and busy law enforcement agency that dated to the early 1800s and counted more than eight thousand officers in its ranks.
"Come along, Mr. Albini. I'm taking you into custody."
The counterfeiter growled, "I have friends. I have friends in the Camorra!"
This was decidedly not true; yes, the crime organization, based in Campania, was involved in rackets surrounding food and wine (and, ironically, the end result thereof: garbage), but no self-respecting gang leader would invite into the fold such a small, weasely operator as Albini. Even the Camorra had standards.
"Now, come on, sir. Don't make this difficult." Ercole stepped closer. But before he could restrain the criminal, a shout of alarm rang out from the road. Indistinct words, but urgent.
Albini stepped back, out of reach; Ercole too moved away, lifting his weapon and swiveling, thinking that perhaps his assessment had been wrong and that Albini was indeed connected with the Camorra, and that there were conspirators nearby.
But he saw that the shout had come from a civilian bicyclist, a young man pedaling a racing bike toward them quickly, bounding unsteadily over the rough terrain. Finally, the cyclist gave up and dismounted, laying down his bike and jogging. He wore an almond-shell helmet, and his kit was tight blue shorts and a black-and-white Juventus football team jersey, emblazoned with the stark sans-serif Jeep logo.
"Officer! Officer!"
Albini started to turn. Ercole growled, "No." He lifted a finger,
and the chubby man froze.
The breathless cyclist reached them, glancing at the gun and the suspect. But he paid neither any mind. His face was red and a vein prominent in his forehead. "Up the road, Officer! I saw it! It happened right in front of me. You have to come."
"What? Slow down. Take your time."
"An attack! A man was waiting at the bus stop. He was just sitting there. And another man, in a car parked nearby, he got out and, in an instant, he grabbed the man waiting for the bus and they began struggling!" He brandished his phone. "I called the police but the officer said it would be a half hour before anybody could be here. I remembered I saw your Forestry truck when I rode past. I came back to see if you were still here."
"Any weapons?"
"Not that I could see."
Ercole shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Jesus Christ. Why now? A glance at Albini, his face pouting innocence.
Well, he couldn't ignore an assault. A robbery? he wondered. A husband attacking his wife's lover?
A psycho, killing for pleasure?
The Monster of Florence's cousin?
He scratched his chin and considered his options. All right. He would cuff Albini and leave him in the back of the Poker, then return.
But the counterfeiter had sensed a good opportunity. He sprinted to the truck and leapt into the seat calling, "Farewell, Officer Benelli!"
"No!"
The engine started and the tiny vehicle puttered past Ercole and the bicyclist.
The officer raised the pistol.
Through the open window Albini shouted, "Ah, would you shoot me over a truffle? I do not think you will. Farewell, Mr. Pig Cop, Mr. Cow Cop, Guardian of the Endangered Muskrat! Farewell!"
Ercole's face burned with anger and shame. He shoved his pistol back into the holster and began trotting toward the Ford. He called over his shoulder to the bicyclist, "Come, get in my truck. Show me exactly. Hurry, man. Hurry!"
Chapter 10
The vehicles began to arrive at the bus stop.
Two officers from the Naples Flying Squad--in a blue Police of State Alfa Romeo--as well as several in a local commune police Fiat from the closest village. The Police of State officers climbed out and one, a blond woman with her hair in a tight bun, nodded to Ercole.
The Burial Hour Page 5
