"I know."
"And maybe didn't treat them the way they would like to have been treated. There's a woman in Florence who might--"
Spiro said, "Valentina Morelli. Yes. I am trying to locate her myself."
Silence for a moment. Then Spiro's face took on an expression that said: Against my better judgment. "Allora, Capitano Rhyme. I will pursue this aspect of the investigation. And will temporarily put on hold my complaint against you and Forestry Officer Benelli for misuse of police facilities and interference with procedures. Temporarily."
He took a cheroot from his breast pocket and lifted it to his nose, smelled the dark tube, then replaced it.
"My reaction to your presence, you might have perceived, was perhaps out of proportion to your, if I may, crime. You came here at great risk to your personal safety--one in your condition cannot have an easy time traveling. There are dangers."
"That's true for everyone."
He continued without comment, "And there is no guarantee that even if the Composer is captured you would be successful in your attempt to extradite him back to America. Remember--"
"The Wolf Tits Rule."
"Indeed. But here you came anyway in pursuit of your quarry." He tilted his head. "In pursuit of the truth. And I resisted at every turn."
A pause as Spiro regarded the Composer evidence pads. Slowly he said, "There was a reason for my resistance. A personal reason, which is, by its very definition, unacceptable in our endeavors."
Rhyme said nothing. He was pleased for any chance to continue to pursue the two cases--not to mention pleased to remain out of an Italian prison--so he let the man talk.
The prosecutor said, "The answer goes back a long time--to the days of the Second World War, when your country and mine were sworn enemies..." Spiro's voice softened. "...and yet were not."
Chapter 43
You will not have heard of the Esercito Cobelligerante Italiano."
"No," Rhyme told Spiro.
"The Italian Co-Belligerent Army. A complex name for a simple concept. Another fact most Americans do not know: Italy and the Allies were antagonists only at the start of the war. Both sides signed an armistice in nineteen forty-three, ending their hostilities long before Germany fell. True, some fascist soldiers fought on, in league with the Nazis, but our king and prime minister joined with the Americans and British and fought against the Germans. The Co-Belligerent Army was the Italian wing of the Allies.
"But, as you might guess, war is complicated. War is sciatta. Messy. After September 'forty-three, although the armistice was in full force and we were supposed to be fighting together, many of the American soldiers did not trust the Italians. My grandfather was a brave and decorated infantry commander who was in charge of, you would say, a company of men to assist the U.S. Fifth Army and break through the Bernhardt Line, halfway between Rome and Naples. A very stubborn defense on the part of the Nazis.
"My grandfather led his men behind the line, near San Pietro. They attacked from the rear and achieved a gorgeous victory, though suffered heavy losses. But when the U.S. troops moved forward, they found my grandfather's unit behind the lines. They hadn't heard about his operation. They disarmed the thirty or so survivors of my grandfather's company and rounded them up. But they did not bother to talk to their headquarters. They didn't listen to my grandfather's pleas. And threw them all together in a PoW camp, populated with three hundred Nazis." He gave a chill laugh. "Do you want to imagine how long the Italians lived, at the hands of their 'colleagues'? About ten hours, the story goes. And the report was that most died very unpleasant deaths, my grandfather among them. The Americans merely listened to the screams. When the truth came out, a major with the Fifth Army issued an apology to the six survivors. A major issued the apology. Not a general, not a colonel. A major. He was twenty-eight years old.
"I will add this: War is not only messy but it has consequences we cannot foresee. Now, my mother was a little girl when her father died in that camp. She barely knew him. But something about his loss affected her mind. This, my grandmother believed, in any case. She was never quite right. She married and gave birth to me and to my brother but began to have episodes just after I was born. They grew worse. Depression then mania, depression then mania. Disrobing in public, sometimes when she had arrived to collect my brother and me from school. Sometimes in church. Screaming. She received treatments, extreme treatments."
It's rare that someone knows the raw ingredients of electroconductive gel...
"Those did nothing more than destroy her short-term memory. The sadness remained."
"And her condition now?"
"She is in a home. My brother and I visit. She sometimes knows us. New medications, they have stabilized her. It is, they say, about the best we can hope for."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"Can I blame your country for this, too, in addition to her father's death? But I have chosen to, and for some very unfair reason that relieves the burden. Allora, that is what I have to say. All I have to say."
Rhyme nodded, acknowledging the oblique apology, which, he knew, was heartfelt nonetheless.
Spiro slapped his thigh, signaling that the discussion on this topic was at an end. "Now, we are agreed that our goal is the truth behind the Garry Soames case. What approach do we take now?"
"The results of the date-rape drug analysis in Rome should be expedited. We must find out if the samples in his apartment are the same as what was in Frieda's system."
"Yes, I will look into that."
"And Beatrice is completing an analysis of the soil outside Garry's window."
"Bene."
"But I have another idea. I'd like to run one more analysis. Ercole can talk to Beatrice about that."
"Ah, the Forestry officer. I had forgotten about him." Spiro walked to the door. Stuck his head out and barked a command.
Ercole stepped inside, looking consummately awkward.
"You are not being dismissed, not yet, Ercole." Spiro glowered. "Captain Rhyme here has saved your bacon. An American expression, well suited for a Forestry officer."
Ercole was smiling, albeit without a splinter of humor.
Spiro's face turned even colder. "But if you ever try to run an end--"
End run, Rhyme nearly corrected, though he decided not to.
"--your career will be over."
"But what are you speaking of?"
"Isn't it obvious? And I don't mean that nonsense of enlisting Detective Sachs to translate Arabic, though the transparency of that ploy was laughable. What I am speaking of is the reporter at the Capodichino Reception Center: Nunzio Parada. The man pelting me with questions the night Dadi was killed. He is a friend of yours, is he not?"
"I...well, I am somewhat familiar with him, yes."
"And did you not, after you saw me arrive, slip away and coach him to ask me about my brilliance in inviting the Americans here?"
The officer's cheeks glowed bright red. "I am so very sorry, Procuratore, but I thought we could benefit if Detective Sachs assisted, and you, with all respect, did not seem willing to allow her to do so."
"La truffa, your scam, served a purpose, Ercole, and so I played along, even though I saw it as such. It was a chance for the investigation to save face, while allowing the talented Detective Sachs to work on the case directly. But your plan was, in English, cheap. And most embarrassing for you, it was pathetically inept."
"Why do you say that, Procuratore?"
"Did it not occur to you that rather than being lauded for my choice, I might be ridiculed for inviting to Italy detectives whom the serial killer managed to elude in New York?"
Rhyme and Thom smiled.
"Thank the Lord that the press are sufficient idiots that they missed that contradiction too. But in the future you will be straightforward with me. Do I not have the persona of a purring kitten?"
"Allora, Procuratore, the fact is..."
"You behave as if you are afraid of me!"
"I think many people are afraid of you, sir. With all respect."
"Why is that?"
"You are stern. You are known to bark, even scream at people."
"As do generals and artists and explorers. Of necessity."
"Your book..."
"My book?"
Ercole looked down at the man's pocket; the gilt-edged, leather-bound volume was just visible.
"What of it?"
"Allora, you understand."
He snapped, "How can you assert I understand something if I have just asked you to explain?"
"Sir. You write down in it the names of people who offend you. Who you wish to get even with."
"Do I now?"
"I have heard people say that. Yes, I have."
"Well, Forestry Officer, tell me how many names you see, names destined for the pillory." Spiro handed the book to Ercole, who took it timidly.
"I--"
"Read, Forestry Officer. Read."
He cracked open the pages and Rhyme could catch a glimpse of dense and very precise Italian script. The lettering was minuscule.
Ercole frowned.
Spiro said, "The title. Read what is at the top of the first page. Aloud."
Ercole read: "La Ragazza da Cheyenne." He looked toward Rhyme and Thom. "It means The Girl from Cheyenne."
"And below?"
"Capitolo Uno. First Chapter."
"And below that, please continue. Translate for Capitano Rhyme."
Ercole puzzled for a moment. He cocked his head and read in a halting voice, as he translated, "'If the four twenty-five train to Tucson had not been attacked, Belle Walker would have married her fiance and her life would have settled into the same dull, predictable routine as that of her sisters, and their mother before them.'"
Ercole looked up.
Spiro said, "It is a hobby of mine. I like very much American cowboy stories and I read many of them. I have from the time I was a boy. You know Italy and American Westerns are inextricably linked. Sergio Leone. The Clint Eastwood movies. A Fistful of Dollars. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Then there is the masterpiece Once Upon a Time in the West. Sergio Corbucci's Django, which starred Franco Nero. And of course there are the scores for so many of those films by Ennio Morricone. He even scored a most recent movie by Quentin Tarantino.
"I particularly enjoy Western novels written by women in the nineteenth century. Did you know some of the best were written by them?"
Didn't have a clue, Rhyme reflected. And don't much care. But he nodded agreeably.
Ercole, perhaps relieved not to be inscribed in the prosecutor's book of doom, said, "Fascinating, Procuratore."
"I believe so too. Mary Foote wrote a clever novel about mining in 1883. Helen Hunt Jackson wrote Ramona, quite famous, the next year. And one of the most interesting is by Marah Ellis Ryan, Told in the Hills. It is as much about race relations as it is an adventure story. I find that remarkable. Well more than one hundred years ago."
Spiro nodded at the book, which Ercole continued to read. The prosecuter said, "I too try my hand at Westerns and have created that character, Belle Walker. A society woman from the East who becomes a hunter of outlaws. And, ultimately, in future books, a prosecutor. So, as you can see, Forestry Officer, you do not need to worry about ending up in the pages of my book. Though, this is not to say that the least failing on your part will not result in catastrophic consequences."
"Yes, yes." The young officer's eyes then dropped once more to the pages.
Spiro lifted the book out of his hands.
"But, please, who were the train attackers, Procuratore? Savages? Bandits?"
Spiro waved his hand with a grimace, and Ercole instantly fell silent.
"Now, we have two cases to work on. And at the moment Captain Rhyme wants you to arrange for Beatrice to run a further analysis regarding the Garry Soames case...What would this be?"
Rhyme answered, "I was reading the charts and the accounts of the crime. And I would like a full analysis of the wine bottle found at the smoking station."
"The contents were checked for the date-rape drug and the outside for fingerprints and DNA."
"I understand but I would like an examination of trace on the surface of the bottle and the label."
Spiro said to Ercole, "Do that now."
"Yes, I will see Beatrice about this. Where would the bottle be?"
"The evidence facility is up the hall. She will know. Is there anything else, Captain Rhyme?"
"Lincoln, please. No, I think that will be enough for now."
Spiro looked him over. "You have a question about the wine served at the party. I myself find another question equally intriguing."
"And what is that?"
"This third person, who broke into Garry Soames' apartment, might have planted the evidence to shift guilt to an innocent man either to protect the actual rapist or to visit revenge on Soames."
"Yes. That's one theory."
"There is another, you know: The intruder might also be a friend of Soames who committed the break-in in hopes that we would come to the very conclusion we just have: that he is being framed...when in fact he's guilty as--what do you Americans say?--guilty as sin."
Sunday, September 26
VI
The House of Rats
Chapter 44
The G6 jet settled low on the approach to Naples airport, smooth as a Cadillac in soft-suspension mode.
Amelia Sachs was the only passenger today and the flight attendant had doted.
"More coffee? You really should try the croissants. The ones filled with prosciutto and mozzarella are the best."
I could really get used to this...
Now, breakfasted and caffeinated, Sachs sat back and looked below the plane, on final. She got a clear view of the Capodichino Reception Center. From here it was a messy sprawl, much bigger than it appeared from the ground. Where, she wondered, would all those people end up? In ten years, would they have homes here? In other countries? Or would they have been sent back where they had come from--to meet a fate merely postponed by their voyage here.
Would they be alive or dead?
Her phone hummed--the crew didn't require mobiles to be powered off--and she answered.
"Yes?"
"Detective Sachs...I am sorry, Amelia. It is Massimo Rossi. Are you in Milan still?"
"No, just landing, Inspector."
"In Naples?"
"Yes."
"Good, good. For we have received an email on the Questura website. The writer says that he--or she, there's no name--saw a man on a hilltop near the camp the night of the murder of Dadi, just afterward. He was beside a dark car. The Italian is bad so we are certain he used a translation program. I would guess he is one of the vendors and Arabic is his first language."
"Does he say where?"
"Yes." Rossi gave her the name of a road. He'd gone to Google Earth and found a footpath to a hilltop that overlooked the camp. He described it to her.
"I probably just flew over it. I'll stop on the way."
"I will have Ercole Benelli meet you there. In case translation is necessary." He chuckled. "Or a real badge must be shown to loosen tongues."
She disconnected. Well, a concerned citizen had come forward.
A somewhat concerned citizen.
Would there be any evidence?
Maybe, maybe not. But you never missed any opportunities for the collection of even a microgram of trace.
Amelia Sachs sat in the back of Mike Hill's limo, the cheerful driver flirting once more and regaling her with additional details of Naples. The eruption of Vesuvius was today's topic, and she learned to her surprise that it was not ash or earthquake or lava that killed. It was poisonous fumes.
"In only, it was, a few minutes. Poof. You would say poof?"
"Yes."
"Poof and then: dead! Thousands dead. That certainly makes you think, does it not? Never waste a moment of life." He winked, and she wondered if he regularly used references
to natural disasters to seduce women.
She'd given him the destination and the Audi limo wound through hills north of the camp. In a tree-line gully, she found Ercole Benelli, and asked the chauffeur to stop.
They greeted each other and she introduced him to the driver. The men shared a brief conversation in Italian.
"Can you wait here? I won't be long," Sachs said to the driver.
"Yes, yes! Of course." The big man smiled, as if anything a beautiful lady asked would be granted.
"That's the path?" she asked Ercole.
"Yes."
She looked around. It was impossible to see the camp from here, but she assumed that the walkway would take her to a good vantage point.
They slipped rubber bands over their shoes and started. The way was steep, mostly dirt and grass, but some stepping-stones were smooth and seemed intentionally planted. Was this an ancient Roman route?
Climbing, breathing hard. And sweating. The day was hot, even at this early hour.
A breath of wind surrounded them with a sweet smell.
"Telinum," Ercole said. He'd apparently noted her head turn toward the scent.
"A plant?"
"A perfume. But made of some of what you're smelling: cypress, calamus and sweet marjoram. Telinum was the most popular perfume in Caesar's day."
"Julius?"
"The only and one," Ercole said.
"One and only."
"Ah."
They crested the top of the hill. It was free of trees and, looking down, she saw that, yes, she did have a good view of the camp. She was discouraged to see no obvious signs that the Composer had been here. They walked farther, to the center of the clearing.
Ercole asked, "Milano? Captain Rhyme reported that you found nothing."
"No. But we eliminated a clue. That's as important as finding one that pans out."
"As important?" he asked wryly.
"Okay. No. But you have to pursue it anyway. Besides, I just had croissants on a private jet. So, I'm hardly complaining. You know, I don't see any footprints or...well, anything. Where would he have stood?"
They both looked about, and Ercole walked in a careful perimeter around the clearing. He returned to Sachs. "No, I see nothing."
The Burial Hour Page 26
