Jack tried to counsel the depression out of him but it was deep-seated, like a bruise that was yet to show its colour. It was going to take time to work through. He was still hurting for his friend as he said goodbye and caught a cab back. He'd promised they'd do lunch soon and he'd help him get sorted.
A couple of hours later, back at Nancy's parents' place, Jack was still thinking about Howie as he took a call from Massimo Albonetti. The Direttore cut to the chase. 'Jack, I called the Criminal Investigations Unit in Naples. Turns out they know your Luciano Creed, and he is a strange young man.'
'That I knew.'
'Creed is late twenties, single, came to them on secondment from the university, with good recommendations. A top graduate in criminal psychology and on paper the perfect recruit to the Crime Pattern Analysis and Research Department. But that's where the good stuff stops.'
'I figured it might.'
'That's what makes you such a good profiler, Jack,' joked Massimo. 'A month ago they terminated Creed's contract and escorted him off the premises. He shouldn't even have been at that conference, let alone claim that he was there on behalf of either the university or the police.'
'They give a reason why they let him go?'
'Sexual harassment. No specific incident, but several female admin staff went to Personnel and complained about him.'
'For doing what?'
'Pestering them. Asking them out.'
'Since when was that a crime in Italy?'
Massimo laughed. 'Since it was done by ugly, creepy guys who smelled like sewage. Women complained of his lack of personal hygiene and said they felt he was mentally undressing them. Even when they told him to get lost, he kept coming back.'
'Anyone have a good word for him?'
'From what I learned, I don't think his Mamma would even have a good word for him. Given your comments, Jack, my colleagues in Naples would very much like to meet Creed. And they'd also like to talk to you about him. Do you know where he is?'
A bad feeling stirred inside the profiler. 'He's disappeared, Massimo. Hotel receptionist said he headed out to Newark just after it reopened. Maybe he's back in Naples, maybe he's on the other side of the world.'
Disappeared. The word resonated with both of them. Disappeared, just like the women had.
Just like killers do.
TWO
Three days later
17
Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio Chief of Homicide Capitano Sylvia Carmela Tomms stood outside the crime scene in the damp clearing of parkland and blew cigarette smoke high into the evening air.
A local man walking his dog had found blackened human bones and now it seemed like half a forest was being excavated. An age-old murder was the last thing she wanted just before Christmas.
The 35-year-old was one of only a few female captains in the carabinieri, an organization that until the new century hadn't even admitted women into its ranks. She certainly looked the part. Striking black hair and dark eyes, good cheekbones and trim enough to turn heads whether she was in or out of uniform. She was also multilingual and had her sights set on the top. Sylvia was her German grandmother's name, chosen for her by her father, a diplomat from Munich working in Italy. Carmela was her Italian mother's name, a classical musician who'd met her father in Rome. And Tomms, well that was the marital name that she was about to get rid of, as soon as her divorce came through from the no-good Englishman she'd been foolish enough to marry.
The cigarette break was her first since arriving at the scene and cranking up the slow engine of a murder inquiry. It was probably something and nothing. A domestic, no doubt. Angry husband kills unfaithful wife and buries her body in woods. No big deal. Nevertheless, Sylvia was determined that it be investigated every bit as thoroughly as if a rich politician had just been killed. That was her style. Never cut corners.
The site had been taped off, an officer was in place to log visitors and a photographer had just arrived. An exhibits officer was on standby. A medic had pronounced death and the ME was on his way. The CSI had already established a safe corridor down which every man, woman and dog that had a right to be there could freely walk without fear of contaminating anything.
She'd also instructed officers to grid the scene, mark it off in zones with tapes and poles, so that the whole area could be scrupulously searched and accurate notes kept of whatever was found.
The crime-scene photographer began clicking away on the other side of the tape, getting wide shots of the location where forensic scientists were seemingly panning for bone.
Sylvia's Number Two, Lieutenant Pietro Raimondi, swigged from a small, green plastic bottle of Rocchetta Natura. 'In case we find skull fragments, you will want an orthodontist. Shall I contact Cavaliere?'
'No. Talk to Manuela in the office. She told me she found a hot new guy who studied at the UCLA School of Dentistry. Married, but gorgeous and prone to straying.'
'Remember we are carabinieri!' teased Raimondi. 'Our motto is Nei Secoli Fedele.' He melodramatically thumped his fist against his heart as though making an oath.
'Well, Pietro, let me tell you, I stayed faithful throughout the centuries that I was married to that English dog. Now I'm free and I need some fun. And as for the dentist, well I think he probably took the Hippocratic Oath, and that means he's sworn to secrecy.'
She relaxed a little, blew the last of her cigarette away. 'As well as DNA profiling, let's get CT scans on those bigger pieces of bone. And we'll need some anthropological and archaeological experts to look in detail at what we've got.'
Raimondi, who at six-four was what Sylvia deemed 'unnecessarily large for an Italian male', reminded her of a problem. 'We have no state forensic anthropologists available at the moment. Bossi and Bonetti are both still in Rome.'
'Great! When are they going to be free, do you know?'
Raimondi shrugged. 'Not for some time. I think they have other work backing up.'
Everyone had other work. Cases were backed up as far as Sicily. It seemed to Sylvia that you could double police resources and within a month they'd still be understaffed.
'What about going private? Sorrentino or De Bellis?' suggested Raimondi.
Sylvia thought for a moment. Sorrentino was a top anthropologist and archaeologist, meaning he wasn't just a bone man confined to the labs, he had expert field skills and could supervise the excavations. But he was also a bag of trouble. De Bellis, on the other hand, was probably a better osteologist, his anthropology was superb, but he was older than a dinosaur and could never be rushed to a deadline. 'Sorrentino, but stress the confidentiality. Tell him we don't want to be reading his report in La Repubblica before it's on our desk.'
Sylvia dropped her cigarette butt and ground it into the hard earth with the heel of her boot. She looked again at the excavation site and had a bad feeling. Something in her gut told her this wasn't going to be routine. She shivered for a second. Sure, it was cold. But that hadn't been what chilled her. What she'd felt wasn't the weather. It was the presence of evil.
18
Greenwich Village, New York City It was one of those icy nights when the sky looks sharper than a sixty-inch plasma screen and the stars shine so brightly that kids try to touch them. Jack spent most of it walking around, while the rest of the house slept. The house was cold. The heating was off. He sat in the kitchen and brewed coffee. While he waited, he looked again at the slip of paper Creed had given him. Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi, Gloria Pirandello and Francesca Di Lauro. Their deaths in his hand. It had been clever of Creed to imply that, to write them down and press them into his palm. Stigmata of responsibility. It made it hard for him just to screw up the paper and forget them. The coffee boiled and Jack drank it black, warming his hands around a Yankees mug. Five missing women, their disappearances stretching back more than half a decade, linked by a strange pervert who had crossed continents to try to get him involved. It was no wonder he couldn't sleep. His mind was churning with thoughts about Howie too.
The big fella was all beat-up. The divorce had knocked him sideways, and then the bottle he'd sought solace in had laid him out. Punch-drunk.
Jack crept back into bed sometime before five and the warmth and close comfort of his wife's body sent him to sleep.
Less than two hours later his cellphone woke him.
He'd forgotten to mute it and by the time he found it in the dark, it had tripped to voicemail.
'Sorry,' he said as Nancy turned over and stared at him.
The message was from Massimo Albonetti, and it wasn't the kind that anyone should start the day with.
'It's okay, put the light on,' she said. 'I'm awake now.'
She watched as he listened to the call, and didn't like what she saw on his face.
He clicked off the phone. 'Massimo.'
'This Naples thing?'
'Yes, this Naples thing. Massimo wants me to go out there.'
Nancy ran her hands through her hair to untangle it. 'Oh, he does, does he? And when exactly does he want you there?'
'Early next week. Just to talk to the local cops, brief them on Creed, share the documents he gave me, that sort of thing. It could all be important.'
Nancy did little to hide her exasperation. 'Is there any point me pleading that we're supposed to be on holiday? That this is our one break together? That it's almost Christmas and I still have to help Mom and Dad prepare?'
Jack put his arm around his wife so she had to lean on his chest. 'Listen, honey. I feel bad about this guy Creed going AWOL. I feel even worse about things I found at his hotel and comments he made to me. I have to do this.'
'Like what?' she snapped. 'What did he say?'
Jack recalled Creed's comment… more will die and both you and I will feel like we have blood on our hands. 'Stuff, Nancy; just stuff.'
She screwed up her face.
'Listen, he might be a killer. If he is, then I don't want to think that I could have done something to prevent someone dying, but didn't.'
'And if he's not? What if he's just a weirdo, like you said?'
'Then there's no harm done, and I'll be back before the weekend.'
Nancy pulled herself from under his arm and headed for the bathroom. Sometimes her husband drove her crazy. Why didn't he just come straight out and say he wanted to be involved, admit that he ached to be out there in the thick of the action, racking his brains and testing himself? 'You'd better come home soon, even if he turns out to be Charlie Manson's murderous twin brother.'
Jack swung out of bed, smiled and told his first lie of the day. 'Don't worry, I'll be back on time, I promise.'
19
Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii Antonio Castellani's eighty-three-year-old face looked like it had been shaped out of saddle-leather. Skin sagged around a once broken and now entirely toothless jaw and fell in wrinkly folds down his scrawny neck.
Alone since his wife had died a decade ago, he spent most of his time in the old, rusting caravan that was both home and office. From here he ran the family holiday camp business and from the leaky window that let in the winter wind he watched what remained of his family go about their chores.
Outside, hauling garbage, were his grandsons Franco Castellani and Paolo Falconi. Both twenty-four, they'd been best friends since they crawled on a rug together. That was back in the days before Franco's father went to prison and his mother ran away to Milan with Paolo's father. Paolo's mother had looked after Franco for two years before she'd then upped and left as well.
Antonio gazed sadly at his grandsons heaving sacks out of an old van, straining to earn extra money by burning trash that gathered on the streets. Was that what his life had amounted to? Garbage. Was this the best he could provide for his family? It certainly hadn't been what he'd planned half a century ago as he'd fought his way out of the slums and worked two jobs a day so he could start his own business. And years ago – more than fifty to be precise – well, he'd even hit the big time, for a while. He used the cash he'd saved to buy land and move in a fleet of shiny, new caravans. Then, by targeting those not rich enough to stay in hotels, he'd made money, good money, from tourists bound for Pompeii and Herculaneum.
It had all gone well.
Until he'd met Luigi Finelli.
Antonio had been full of bravado, ambition and cash. He'd cut quite a dash in the city's most popular ballrooms, bars and clubs. But such success didn't just catch the eyes of the ladies. It also turned the heads of the city's predators.
Camorra kingpin Luigi Finelli had been born with an instinct to spot easy prey. One long spring night, when Antonio fell into a game of high-stakes poker with fickle friends and ruthlessly rich strangers, Luigi scented blood. With a wave of his hand the strangers gave up their places to his Camorra soldiers. A day later, Antonio left at dawn, a broken man. All of his savings and a third of his business had been surrendered to settle his debt.
If you looked closely into Antonio's face, you could still see the lines of shock that had been seared into his skin half a century ago when the game ended and reality sank in. Past, present and future – all had been lost on the turn of a card. But this momentous event was not what was troubling him as he stared out of the caravan window this dour December day. It was something more personal. More painful.
Young Franco Castellani looked towards the caravan, caught his grandfather's gaze, smiled and waved. Antonio returned the gesture along with a gaptoothed smile. It had been years since Antonio had cried, but when he looked at Franco he couldn't help swallowing hard and blinking. It wasn't just that he had his grandmother's eyes, and Antonio remembered her every time he saw him. It was that the child had been cursed with something worse than death. A disease that was cruelly robbing him of the life he should have.
Car tyres crunching dusty gravel made the old man jump like a lizard in the sun. He hoped the arrivals were tourists, plenty of them, packed with cash.
But they weren't.
The black Mercedes S280 was undoubtedly a Camorra car. The Finelli Family normally sent their weekly collectors in more modest vehicles, but sometimes one of their distinctive Mercs rolled up. An under-boss usually slouched in the back while he despatched some young leech to come and bleed Antonio of his hard-earned money.
'Buon giorno,' shouted a man that most of Antonio's generation recognized as Sal the Snake. The Camorrista stood and waited for someone to appear from around the other side of the car.
'Buon giorno,' replied Antonio, respectfully dipping his head.
The muscled form of Tonino Farina slid out from the passenger seat and opened the back door for his boss.
'This is Signor Valsi,' said Sal, moving towards Antonio. 'He'd like to come inside and talk to you.'
The old man slicked back his hair and tried to fuss himself smart. 'Of course. Please, come in. This is an honour. A great honour.'
Valsi nodded, buttoned up his black suit jacket and climbed two metal steps into the van. He looked around contemptuously. The air stank of male sweat and cigarettes. It reminded him of his first day in prison.
'Sit down, please,' said Antonio. He hurriedly moved newspapers and a plate glazed with stale pasta sauce. Farina checked out the rest of the van. He opened the toilet door and almost gagged.
'I'll stand,' said Valsi. 'This won't take long.'
Antonio felt his chest tighten. He wiped his hands on his crumpled old trousers and hoped the Camorristi couldn't sense his fear.
'My father-in-law tells me that you pay us a third of all your earnings and, with only one or two unfortunate lapses, you have always met your debts promptly.'
'Yes, sir. That is the case. I do my best, even when times are difficult.' Antonio hated calling this young weasel 'sir'. There had been a day when he could have bought and sold scum like him.
'How old are you?'
Antonio smiled. 'I am eighty-three, almost eighty-four.'
'Then you do not have long left,' said Valsi coldly. 'Do you have any illnesses, anything wrong with you?'
'A little angina.' He patted his thumping heart.
'Then maybe you have two to five years,' said Valsi. 'What will happen to this place when you die?'
'I will leave it to my grandsons. They will run the business. It will be their livelihood.'
Valsi smirked. 'Oh, no. No, I really don't think so.' He placed his hands either side of the window and looked into the camp yard. 'I am going to buy the land off you, and you can have some money for the last of your years. I will be generous, so there will be some cash to pass to your grandsons.' He turned to face him. 'Signor Giacomo here will come back with a lawyer and you will sign all the legal papers transferring ownership to me. We will build on here. Perhaps housing. Perhaps a restaurant and apartments. You will be compensated and move out. Do you understand?'
Antonio wanted to say no. With all his broken heart and all his broken spirit, he burned with the urge to say no.
One last stand.
'Signor Valsi, this is all I have left. My wife died many years ago and my business has been difficult to run. But I have done so, because it is part of my family and I want to pass it on to the next generation. It is not worth much, but still it is an inheritance. And, in leaving an inheritance, we old people find some respect and dignity. Please don't take that away from me.'
Valsi's eyes lit up. The old man's fear excited him. 'Signor Castellani, you speak of your own family and your own respect, but in doing so, you show only disrespect to me and my Family. I am not interested in how you, or your grandsons, feel. I am a businessman, and this is purely a business matter. I will pay you fifty thousand euros. It is enough to rent an apartment – no doubt until your death – and even put some food in your mouth. In return, you will sign over all the land to me. You can take anything you want from here, I demand only the earth. Building starts in six months' time.' Before Antonio could react, the caravan door opened.
Franco Castellani blundered in, his voice full of youthful excitement. 'Grandfather, I've finished the garbage and toilets. What do you want me -' He stopped when he saw the three sharp-suited men in front of him.
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