Ali Maziq gave up trying to figure out what had happened.
He focused on where he was and how to escape.
Squinting, he could discern that he was sitting in a chair--bound into a chair--in a cylindrical room that measured about six or seven meters across, stone walls, no ceiling. Above was merely a dim emptiness, from which the very faint illumination came. The floor, also stone, was pitted and scarred.
And what exactly did this room remind him of?
What? What?
Ah, a memory trickled from a dim recess in his mind, and he was picturing a class trip to a museum in Tripoli: the burial chamber for a Carthaginian holy man.
A brief recent memory flickered again: sipping cold water, eating olives, drinking tea that was sour, made from water shot out of a cappuccino machine steamer, residue of milk in the brew.
With somebody?
Then the bus stop. Something had happened at a bus stop.
What country am I in? Libya?
No, he didn't think so.
But I am certainly in a burial chamber...
The room was silent except for the drip of water somewhere in the chamber.
He was gagged, a piece of cloth in his mouth, which was covered with tape. Still, he tried calling for help--in Arabic. Even if he were elsewhere and a different language was spoken, he hoped the tone of his voice would draw rescuers.
But the gag was efficient and he made hardly any sound whatsoever.
Ali now gasped in shock as there was sudden pressure against his windpipe. What could this be? He couldn't see clearly and he had no use of his hands but by twisting his head from side to side and analyzing the sensation, he realized that his head was in a hoop of what seemed to be thin twine. It had just grown slightly tauter.
He looked up and to the right.
And then he saw it--the device meant to kill him!
The cord around his neck traveled upward, to a rod stuck into the wall, then over another rod and down to a bucket. The pail was under an old rusted pipe, from which water dripped.
Oh, no, no! God protect me, praise be to Him!
He now understood the source of the sounds. Slowly the drops of water were filling the bucket. As it grew heavier, it tugged the noose tighter.
The size of the bucket suggested that it would hold easily a half-dozen liters. Ali didn't know how many kilos that represented. But he suspected that the person who had created this horrible machine did. And that his calculation was accurate enough to make certain that--for reasons only God knew, praise be to Him--the bucket would soon be more than heavy enough to choke Ali to death.
Ah, wait! Are those footsteps?
When his breathing slowed, he listened carefully.
Had someone heard him?
But, no, the sound was only the slow plick, plick, plick of water leaching from the ancient pipe and dropping into the bucket.
The noose tugged upward once more, and Ali Maziq's muffled pleas for help echoed softly throughout his burial chamber.
Chapter 16
Hm, was sure I'd get a ticket." Thom's handsome face was perplexed.
The three Americans were outside the police station and the aide was staring at the disabled-accessible van he'd leased online and picked up at Naples airport a few hours ago. The battered, dusty vehicle, a modified Mercedes Sprinter, sat more on the sidewalk than in a parking place. It had been the only spot he'd been able to find near the Questura.
Sachs surveyed the chaotic traffic zipping past and said, "Naples doesn't seem like a place that bothers much with parking tickets. Wish we saw that more in Manhattan."
"Wait here. I'll bring the van over."
"No, I'd like something to drink."
"Too much alcohol isn't good when you've been flying. The pressurization."
This concern, Rhyme was convinced, was a complete fiction. True, a quadriplegic's system is more sensitive than that of a person who isn't disabled, and stress on the body can be a problem. The confused nervous system, conspiring with an equally perplexed cardiovascular network, can sometimes send the blood pressure through the roof, which could result in stroke, additional neuro damage and death, if not treated quickly. Rhyme supposed the cabin pressure might in rare cases lead to this condition--autonomic dysreflexia--but blaming alcohol consumption for increased risk was, he was convinced, a shabby ploy to get him to cut down.
He said as much now.
Thom fired back, "I read about it in a study."
"Anyway, I was referring to coffee. Besides, what's the hurry? The pilots've gone on to London to ferry those witnesses to Amsterdam. They can't just turn around and fly us back to America. We're spending the night in Naples."
"We'll go to the hotel. Maybe later. A glass of wine. Small."
They had a reservation for a two-bedroom suite at a place Thom had found near the water. "Accessible and romantic," the aide had said, drawing an eye roll from Rhyme.
Then, looking around him, Rhyme said, "Coffee then? I am tired. Look. There's a cafe." He nodded across the street, Via Medina.
Sachs was watching a low, glistening sports car growl past. Of its make, model and horsepower, Rhyme had no clue. But to catch her attention it must have been quite a machine. Her eyes turned back to Rhyme. She said in an edgy voice, "Jurisdictional pissing contests."
Rhyme smiled. Her mind was still on the case.
She continued, "Feds versus state in the U.S. Here, Italy versus America. It happens everywhere, looks like. This is bullshit, Rhyme."
"Is, yes."
"You don't look that upset."
"Hm."
She glanced back at the building. "We need to stop this guy. Damn it. Well, we can still help them from New York. I'll call Rossi when we get back home. He seemed reasonable. More reasonable, at least, than the other one. The prosecutor."
Rhyme said, "I like the name: Dante Spiro. Coffee?" he repeated.
As they headed for the place, which seemed to specialize in pastry and gelato, Thom said to Rhyme, "You're tired, you should have tiramisu. The dessert, you know. It means 'pick me up' in Italian. Like tea in England--gives you energy in the afternoon. Remember, 'coffee' here is what we call espresso. Then there's cappuccino and latte and Americano, which is espresso with hot water, served in a larger cup."
The hostess found a space for them outside, near a metal divider, separating the tables from the rest of the sidewalk. It was covered with a painted banner, probably red when it was installed, now faded pink. It bore the word "Cinzano."
The server, a laconic woman, mid-twenties, in a dark skirt and white blouse, approached and asked for their order in broken English.
Sachs and Thom ordered cappuccino and the aide a vanilla gelato as well. She turned to Rhyme, who said, "Per favore, una grappa grande."
"Si."
She vanished before Thom could protest. Sachs laughed. The aide muttered, "You tricked me. It's an ice cream parlor. Who knew they had a liquor license?"
Rhyme said, "I like Italy."
"And where did you learn the Italian? How do you even know what grappa is?"
"Frommer's guide to Italy," Rhyme said. "I put my time on the plane to good use. You were sleeping, I noticed."
"Which you should have been doing too."
The beverages came and, with his right hand, Rhyme lifted the glass and sipped. "It's...refreshing. I would say an acquired taste."
Thom reached for it. "If you don't like it..."
Rhyme moved his hand away. "I need a chance to complete my acquisition."
The server was nearby and had overheard. She said, "Ah, we are not having the best grappa here." Her tone was apologetic. "But go to a bigger restaurant and they will offer more and betterer grappa. Distillato too. It is like grappa. You must have them both. The best are from Barolo, in Piemonte, and Veneto. The north. But that is my opinion. Where is it are you visiting from?"
"New York."
"Ah, New York!" Eyes shining. "The Manhattan?"
"Yes,
" Sachs said.
"I will go someday. I have been to Disney with my family. In Florida. Someday I will go to New York. I want to skate on the ice at Rockefeller Center. It is possible doing that all the time?"
"Only the winter," Thom said.
"Allora, thank you!"
Rhyme took another sip of grappa. This taste was mellower but he was now determined to try one of the better varieties. His eyes remained where they had largely been, on the front of police headquarters. He finished the sip and had another.
Thom, clearly enjoying his dessert and coffee, said, with a suspicious look in his eyes, "You seem a lot better now. Less tired."
"Yes. Miraculous."
"Though impatient about something."
True, he was.
"About--?"
"About that," Rhyme said as Sachs's phone hummed.
She frowned. "No caller ID."
"Answer. We know who it is."
"We do?"
"And on speaker."
She pressed the screen and said, "Hello?"
"Detective Sachs?"
"Yes."
"Yes, yes. I am Massimo Rossi."
"Pay," Rhyme said to Thom, finishing the grappa.
"And, Captain Rhyme?" Rossi asked.
"Inspector."
"I hoped I might catch you nearby."
"A cafe, across the street. Having some grappa."
A pause. "Well, I must tell you that the Composer's video has been uploaded. You were correct. Not on YouVid. It was on NowChat."
"When?" Rhyme asked.
"The time stamp was twenty minutes ago."
"Ah."
Rossi said, "Please, Captain Rhyme. I think you are not the sort of man to play games. Clearly not. I have discussed the matter with Prosecutor Spiro and we were, to say the least, impressed at your observations."
"Deductions, not observations."
"Yes, of course. Allora, we decided we might ask you, changing our ideas, if you would in fact be willing to--"
"We'll be in your offices in five minutes."
Chapter 17
At Rhyme's suggestion--insistent suggestion--the situation room was moved from upstairs to a larger conference room in the basement, near the Scientific Police laboratory.
The lab was efficiently constructed. There was a sterile area, where trace was extracted and analyzed, and a larger section for fingerprints, tread and shoe prints and other work where contamination would not be a risk. The conference room opened onto this latter part of the lab.
Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were here with Rossi and the tall, rangy Ercole Benelli.
Two others were present, uniformed officers, though in blue outfits, different from Ercole's--the light gray. They were a young patrolman, Giacomo Schiller, and his apparent partner, Daniela Canton. Both blond--she darker than he--they were serious of expression and attentive to Rossi, who spoke to them like a grandfather, kindly but one you made sure to obey. They were, Rossi explained, with the Flying Squad--which corresponded, Rhyme deduced, to the patrol officers assigned to squad cars, Remote Mobile Patrols in NYPD jargon.
Rhyme asked, "And Dante Spiro?"
"Procuratore Spiro had other matters to attend to."
So the temperamental man had reluctantly agreed to let the Americans return but wanted nothing to do with them. Fine with Rhyme. He was not quite sure about this Italian arrangement of the district attorney's active involvement in the investigation. It probably wasn't a conflict of interest--and Spiro seemed sharp enough. No, Rhyme's objection could be summed up in a dreaded cliche: too many cooks.
Ercole was setting up the easels and charts, and translating from Italian to English. In the doorway, advising him, was round, no-nonsense Beatrice Renza, a senior analyst in the lab.
Her name, Rhyme learned, was pronounced Bee-a-TREE-chay. Italian took some getting used to, certainly, but was far more melodic than blunt English.
She spoke to Ercole in clipped, rapid Italian and he grimaced and responded testily, apparently to some objection about a translation or characterization of something he was writing. She rolled her eyes, behind elaborate glasses, then stepped forward to take the marker from him and make a correction.
Schoolmarm, Rhyme thought, but then, so'm I. He was admiring her professional style. And her skill in extracting the evidence. The breakdown of the trace was excellent.
Daniela and Giacomo finished setting up a large laptop. She nodded to Rossi, who said, "Here is the video."
Giacomo tapped keys and the screen came to life.
In lightly accented English, Daniela said, "The site had taken down the video. It's against their policy to show graphic violence. In Italy that can be a crime. But at our request they sent a copy to us."
"Were there comments by viewers on the page where it was posted?" Sachs asked. "About the video?"
Rossi explained, "We hoped too what you are suggesting, yes. That the Composer might respond to a comment and we might learn more. But that has not been the case. The video site has left the page up--again at our request--without the video. And Giacomo here is monitoring comments. But he has remained silent, the Composer."
The young man gave a sour laugh. "It is a sad state. The comments mostly are people angry that the video is down. The audience wants to see a man die." He nodded toward the computer. "Ecco."
They all stared at the screen.
The video showed a dimly lit room, walls apparently damp, dotted with mold. The gagged victim--a slim man, dark-complexioned, with a beard--sat in a chair, a thin noose around his neck. The cord--another musical-instrument string--disappeared up out of the scene. It was not very tight. The man was unconscious, breathing slowly. The video, like the one in New York, included only music, played on a keyboard, presumably a new Casio or something similar.
This tune too was in three-four waltz time. And, as in the earlier video, the downbeat was a man's gasp and, as the visual grew darker, the music and inhalations grew slower.
"Cristo," Ercole whispered, though he had presumably seen it at least once before. He looked toward Daniela, who regarded the video impassively. Ercole cleared his throat and put on a stoic face.
The music was familiar but Rhyme couldn't place it. He mentioned this.
The others seemed surprised. It was Thom who said, "'The Waltz of the Flowers.' Nutcracker."
"Oh." Rhyme listened to jazz occasionally; there was something intriguing about how improvisation could find a home in the mathematical absolute of a musical composition (it was how he approached crime scene work). But in general, music, like most arts, was largely a waste of time to Lincoln Rhyme.
The victim stirred as dirt or stones trickled onto his shoulder, from the wall or ceiling, but did not come to. The screen grew dimmer, the music slower. Finally, it went black and the soundtrack ended.
The perverse copyright notice came up on the screen.
Rhyme asked, "Metadata?" Information embedded in pictures and videos about the work itself: type of camera, focal length, date and time, speed and aperture settings, sometimes even the GPS location. This had been removed from the New York video, but perhaps the Composer failed to do so here.
Rossi said, "None. The Postal Police said it was re-encoded and all the data stripped out."
"Postal Police?"
"It is our telecommunications arm."
Rossi stared at the black screen for a moment. "How much time do you think we have?"
Rhyme shook his head. Any suggestion would be simply a guess, a waste of effort.
Sachs mused, "How does the gallows work? Something off camera will pull the noose up, a weight or something."
They looked at the video for any clue but saw nothing.
"Well, let us move now. See if we can solve this puzzle. Captain Rhyme--"
"How did I draw my conclusions I told you about?"
"Yes. That's where we should start."
Nodding toward the now-translated chart, Rhyme said, "The trace, of course. Now, the substances
paired with the propylene glycol are shaving cream. With the blood, it's a reasonable conclusion that he cut himself shaving. To change his appearance as much as he can, he'd lose the hair and beard. The shaved-head look seems popular here in Italy.
"Now, the indole, skatole and thiol are excrement." A glance toward the chart once more. "Those're shit. With the paper fiber? Human shit, of course. No other creatures I know wipe. It's old shit, quite old, desiccated. You can see in the picture--and of several different types. See the color and texture variations? I would speculate there is a sewer nearby, one that might not have been used for some time.
"The animal hairs are from a rat. It's shedding because it's scratching; it has a skin irritation--the bartonella bacteria are causing that. The particular strain is the one that most commonly infects rats. Rats and sewers, well, you find them everywhere but more often in cities than smaller towns. So, urban setting."
"Bene," said Beatrice Renza.
"The iron shavings tell me the Composer cut a lock or chain to get access to the place. Iron isn't used much anymore--most locks are steel--so it's old. With the rust on only one side--you can see it there, that photo--it was recently cut."
Rossi said, "You suggested it used to have public access, in the past."
"Yes, because of the rubber."
"The rubber?" Ercole asked. He seemed to be memorizing all that Rhyme said.
"What else would be vulcanized? Translucent, decomposing shreds. Vulcanized rubber."
It was Beatrice who nodded. "They are the old condoms, might it not be?"
"Exactly. Hardly a romantic trysting place, with the rat neighbors, and sewers, but perfect for streetwalkers." Rhyme shrugged. "They're bold deductions. But we have a man who's about to be strangled to death. I don't think we have time to be timid. So, what does this tell you about where the victim might be? Underground in Naples? Of course, a deserted area."
Rossi said, "Not many of those here. We are a very crowded city."
Beatrice said, "And Naples has more underground passages and walkways than any other city in Italy. Perhaps than Europe. Kilometers after kilometers."
Ercole disagreed. "But not so many where access is in deserted places."
The lab analyst muttered to him, "No, I think many. We must find other ways to narrow these concerns down."
Rhyme said, "A map. There has to be a map of underground locations."
"Historical documents," Daniela offered.
The Burial Hour Page 10
