The Burial Hour

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 this conclusion was only because the worker had 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 farm worker’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 comune 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.

Despite his despair about losing his truffle thief, and the shock of stumbling into a case of this magnitude, his heart thudded, seeing such beauty: her heart-shaped face, full lips, the fringe of wispy flaxen hair at her temples. Eye shadow the blue of her car. He thought her movie-star-worthy and noted her name was Daniela Canton. She wore no wedding ring. He surprised her when he reached out enthusiastically and shook her hand in both of his; he thought immediately that he should not have done so.

He greeted her partner with a handshake too, a gesture the young man took without a thought. Giacomo Schiller, slightly built and solemn. He had light hair and, given the last name, might have hailed from Asiago or somewhere else in the north, where many Italians were of Germanic or Austrian descent, thanks to a history of shifting borders.

Another car was here too, unmarked, driven by a uniformed officer and containing a passenger in the front seat, a man wearing a suit and tan raincoat. Detective Inspector Massimo Rossi, Ercole saw at once. Though a Forestry Corps officer, Ercole on occasion had worked with the Police of State in and around Naples, and knew of Rossi. The man, whose face was burnished with permanent stubble, it seemed, and whose head was topped with a thick pelt of black hair, side-parted, was around fifty years of age.

Resembling the actor Giancarlo Giannini — handsome, heavily browed dark eyes, thoughtful — Rossi was well known, and not just here, in Campania, but throughout all of southern Italy. He’d successfully arrested many suspects over the years, resulting in convictions of senior Camorra officials and Albanian and North African drug smugglers, as well as money launderers, burglars, wife (and husband) killers, and psychotic murderers. Ercole, whose Forestry Corps duty required him to wear a uniform, was impressed that Rossi was not a fashionista, as were some inspectors, who wore stylish designer (or, more likely, faux-designer) suits and dresses. Rossi wore the clothes of a journalist or insurance office worker. Modest, as tonight, his outfits were dusty and not well pressed. Ercole guessed this was to keep the suspects off guard, make them think he was slow or careless. The truth might simply be, however, that Rossi’s mind was engaged in embracing cases and he didn’t even notice that his look was unkempt. Then too he and his wife had five children, in whose rearing he was active, so there was little time for cultivating a trendy look.

Rossi completed a call, climbed from the car. He stretched and took in the scene: the dusty road, the unsteady bus-stop enclosure, the trees. The shadowy forest. The bicyclist.

And Ercole.

He now approached. ‘Forestry Officer Benelli. You have stumbled on something more than a poaching, it seems. You marked off the scene. Clever.’ He looked over the area around the bus stop once more. Ercole was rarely involved in crime scenes, so he carried no tape, but he had used a rope meant for rock climbing — not a hobby but an occasional necessity in his job, which included rescuing hikers and climbers.

‘Yes, sir, Inspector. Yes. This is Salvatore Crovi.’ Ercole handed over the bicyclist’s ruddy identity card.

Rossi nodded, reviewed the card, and handed it back. Crovi reiterated the story of what he’d seen: a hulking man in a dark-colored sedan, no make or model, no number plate visible. He could see little of the attacker. Wearing dark clothing and cap, the perpetrator had flung the victim to the ground. They had struggled and the bicyclist had hurried away to find Ercole. The victim was a man, dark-complexioned and bearded, wearing a pale-blue jacket.

The detective withdrew a notebook and jotted in it.

Ercole continued, ‘But when we arrived back, there was no one. No victim, no attacker.’

‘You searched?’

‘Yes.’ Ercole pointed out a large perimeter. ‘All that way. Yes. He might have gotten farther. But I called out. No one answered. Mr Crovi assisted. He went in the opposite direction.’

‘I saw nothing, Inspector,’ the bicyclist offered.

‘Perhaps witnesses on a bus?’ Rossi asked.

‘No, sir. There have been none. I called the transit office. A bus is not due for another half hour. Oh, and I checked with the closest hospitals. No one has been admitted.’

‘So, maybe,’ Rossi said slowly, ‘we have a kidnapping. Though that seems curious.’

A horn honked and Rossi looked up, toward a queue of cars. In the front, a sinewy, sixtyish balding man in an ancient Opel was gesturing angrily, sneering, wishing to pass. His way was blocked by Ercole’s SUV. There was another car behind his, filled with a family, and this driver too began to honk. A third joined in.

Rossi asked, ‘Is that your Ford blocking the road?’

Ercole blushed. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I thought it best to protect the scene. But I’ll move it now.’

‘No,’ Rossi muttered. He walked to the Opel, bent down and calmly whispered something to the driver. Even in the dark, Ercole could see that he blanched. A similar word with the driver behind him and both cars turned about quickly. The third did too, without the need for a personal visit. Ercole knew the lay of the land well here; to pick up the route on the other side of the scene would require a detour of nearly twenty kilometers.

Rossi returned to him.

Ercole added, ‘And, Inspector, as I was laying the rope, to preserve the scene, I found this.’ He walked to a spot beside the bus shelter — little more than a sheet-metal roof supported by two poles, over a scabby bench. He pointed down at some money.

‘The scuffle was here, correct?’

Crovi confirmed it was.

Ercole said, ‘There are eleven euros in coins and thirty Libyan dinars, in bills.’

‘Libyan? Hm. You said he was dark?’ Rossi asked Crovi.

‘Yes, sir. He could well have been North African. I would say most certainly.’

Daniela Canton approached and glanced down at the money. ‘The Scientific Police are on their way.’

The crime scene unit would lay number cards at the money and at any signs of the scuffle, take pictures of shoe prints and auto tread marks. They would then search more expertly than Ercole had.

Slowly, as if figuring out the scenario, Rossi said, ‘The victim was perhaps fishing for money in anticipation of the bus when the kidnapper took him and he dropped it. How else would it be scattered? Which means he didn’t have a ticket. Perhaps this was an unexpected trip.’

Daniela, nearby, had heard and she said, ‘Or, if he was illegal — a Libyan refugee — he might not have wanted to go to a ticket office.’

‘True.’ Rossi’s glance rose and he broadened his examination. ‘The coins are here. The dinar there, a bit farther away and scattered. Let us assume he had dug out the contents of his pockets and withdrawn the money to count it out. He’s attacked, the coins fall directly to the ground. The lighter dinars are carried in this breeze and float over there. Was there anything lighter yet in his hand that the wind carried?’ Rossi said to Daniela and Giacomo, ‘Search in that direction. We should preserve it now, even before the Scientific Police arrive.’

Ercole watched them pull booties and latex gloves from their pockets, don them and walk through the bushes, both playing Maglite flashlights over the ground.

Another car approached.

This was not a Police of State Flying Squad patrol car or an unmarked but a personal vehicle, a Volvo, black. The driver was a lean, unsmiling man, a dusting of short gray hair on his head. His salt-and-pepper goatee was expertly crafted and ended in a sharp point.

The car nosed to a stop and he climbed out.

Ercole Benelli recognized him too. He’d had no personal contact with the man but he owned a TV.

Dante Spiro, the senior prosecutor in Naples, wore a navy-blue sports coat and blue jeans, both close fitting. A yellow handkerchief blossomed from the breast pocket.

Fashionista...

He was not a tall man, and his deep-brown ankle boots had thick heels that boosted his height a solid inch or two. He had a dour expression and Ercole wondered if that was because he resented being interrupted at dinner, surely with a beautiful woman. Spiro, like Rossi, had had considerable success in prosecuting cases against and winning convictions of high-profile criminals. Once, two associates of a Camorra kingpin he’d put in jail had tried to kill him. He’d personally disarmed one, and had shot the other dead with his thug’s own weapon.

Ercole also recalled some gossip reporter’s comment that Spiro was intent on a career in politics, his eyes ultimately on Rome, though a judgeship at the World Court in The Hague might not be a bad goal either. Belgium, capital of the EU, was another destination perhaps.

Ercole noted a small book in the prosecutor’s right jacket pocket. It appeared to be leather-bound, with gold-edged pages.

A diary? he wondered. He suspected it was not a Bible.

Slipping an unlit cheroot between thin lips, Spiro approached and nodded to Rossi. ‘Massimo.’

The inspector nodded back.

‘Sir,’ Ercole began.

Spiro ignored him and asked Rossi what had happened.

Rossi gave him the details.

‘Kidnapping out here? Curious.’

‘I thought so too.’

‘Sir—’ Ercole began.

Spiro waved a hand to silence him and said to the cyclist, Crovi, ‘The victim? You said North African. Not sub-Saharan?’

Before the man could answer, Ercole said, with a laugh, ‘He would have to be from the north. He had dinars.’

Spiro, eyes on the ground where the struggle occurred, said in a soft voice, ‘Would not an Eskimo visiting Tripoli pay for his supper with Libyan dinars, Forestry Officer? Not in Eskimo money?’

‘Eskimo? Well. I suppose. Yes, true, Prosecutor.’

‘And would not someone from Mali or Congo be more likely to find a meal in Libya by paying with dinars, rather than francs?’

‘I’m sorry. Yes.’

To Crovi: ‘Now. My question. Did the appearance of the victim suggest what part of Africa he was from?’

‘It was not so dark, sir. I would say the features were Arab or tribal. Libyan, Tunisian, Moroccan. North African, I would say that with certainty.’

‘Thank you, Mr Crovi.’ Then Spiro asked, ‘Scientific Police?’

Rossi replied, ‘On the way. Our office.’

‘Yes, probably no need to bother Rome.’

Ercole knew the Naples headquarters of the Police of State had a laboratory on the ground floor. The main crime scene operation was in Rome and the trickier evidentiary analysis was performed there. He had never sent anything to either facility. Fake olive oil and misrepresented truffles were easy to spot.

Yet another vehicle arrived, a dark-blue marked police car with the word Carabinieri on the side.

‘Ah, our friends,’ Rossi said wryly.

Spiro watched, chewing his cheroot. His face was devoid of any emotion.

A tall man in a pristine uniform climbed out of the passenger’s seat. He wore a dark-blue jacket, and black trousers with red stripes down the sides. He surveyed the scene with a military bearing — as was appropriate, of course, since the Carabinieri, though it has jurisdiction over civilian crimes, is part of the Italian army.

Ercole marveled at the uniform and the man’s posture. At his perfect hat, his insignias, his boots. He had always dreamed of being in their ranks, which he considered the elite of Italy’s many police forces. Forestry Corps had been a compromise. Helping his father tend his ill mother, Ercole would not have been able to pursue the rigorous Carabinieri training — even if he’d been accepted into the corps.

A second officer, who’d been driving, lower ranking than the first, joined them.

‘Evening, Captain,’ Rossi called. ‘And Lieutenant.’

The Carabiniere nodded to the inspector and Spiro. The captain said, ‘So, Massimo. What do you have? Anything enticing, anything plump? I see you’re first on the scene.’

Spiro said, ‘Actually, Giuseppe, Forestry was here first.’ Perhaps a joke but he was not smiling. The Carabinieri officer, however, laughed.

Was this a contest to see who would seize control of the case? The Carabiniere might have pushed, and would probably win, having a political edge over the Police of State.

As for Dante Spiro, he might harbor a personal preference for working with the Police of State, on the one hand, or for the Carabinieri, on the other, but for his career it made no difference; the prosecution would be his, no matter which police unit took control.

‘Who was the victim?’ Giuseppe asked.

Rossi said, ‘No identification yet. Some local unfortunate perhaps.’

Or an Eskimo, Ercole thought but, of course, didn’t even consider saying.

Rossi continued, ‘A good case. A press-worthy case. Kidnappings always are. Camorra? Albanians? That Tunisian gang from Scampia?’ He grimaced. ‘I would have liked to find out, firsthand. But here you are. So, good luck to you, Giuseppe. We’ll get back to Naples. Anything you need, please, let us know.’

Rossi was giving away the case so easily? Ercole was surprised. But perhaps the Carabinieri wielded more power than he’d thought. Dante Spiro was looking at his phone.

Giuseppe cocked his head. ‘You’re giving us the case?’

‘Your organization is senior to us. You are senior to me. And it is clearly big. Kidnapping. Those reports you heard on the way over are wrong.’

‘Reports?’

Rossi paused. ‘The initial reports from Dispatch? Personally I think they were trying to downplay the incident.’

‘Massimo,’ Giuseppe said. ‘Please explain?’

‘The youths, of course. That was pure speculation. I think this has to be Camorra. Or at worst Tunisian.’

‘Youths?’ Giuseppe tried again.

‘But it’s not that. I’m sure.’

‘Still, your meaning?’

Rossi frowned. ‘Oh, have you not read? About the initiations?’

‘No, no, I think not.’

‘It happens more in the north. Not in Campania.’ He gestured toward the scene. ‘That’s why it could not be this.’

The second Carabiniere asked, ‘Inspector, how does this scheme work?’

‘Well, as I have read, it’s university boys. The initiate must drive around, and when he sees someone he approaches on the pretense of asking directions or for change of money. Then when the victim is distracted, he is thrown in the car and driven for many kilometers and released. Pictures are taken and posted anonymously. A prank, yes, but there could be injuries. One boy in Lombardy ended up with a broken thumb.’

‘Broken thumb.’

‘Yes. And upon displaying the pictures, the perpetrators are allowed into the college club.’

‘Club? Not a gang?’

‘No, no, no. But, again, it is the northern regions in which this is happening. Not here.’

‘Perhaps not yet. But kidnapping from a bus stop, way out here, nowhere close to a city center? It makes no sense.’

Then a voice cut through the night: ‘Look, what I have found.’ The Carabinieri lieutenant was pointing to the euros. ‘As he was counting out change for the bus driver.’

Giuseppe walked to the rope Ercole had laid out and looked down. ‘Yes, so perhaps it does fit that category of offense.’

Spiro watched silently.

‘Hm. But a coincidence. Surely.’ Massimo Rossi nodded and stepped toward his automobile.

The Carabiniere turned to his associate and they had a quiet conversation. ‘Ah, Massimo, my colleague has reminded me that we have a drug operation in Positano. You are familiar?’

‘Not aware of that.’

‘No? An interdiction planned for a few days. I think we’ll need to let you have the kidnapping here.’

Rossi looked concerned. ‘But I have no time for this, for a major criminal investigation.’

‘Major, is it? Pesky college boys?’ Giuseppe smiled. ‘I will let you take all the glory, my friend. I will sign the case over to you formally back at the station.’

Rossi sighed. ‘All right. But you do owe me.’

A wink from the senior officer and they turned and left.

Spiro glanced at them departing and said to Rossi, ‘The Positano drug cases? They were dismissed two months ago.’

‘I know. As soon as he mentioned them, I knew I’d won our little contest here.’

Spiro said, with a shrug, ‘Giuseppe’s good. A solid officer. But... I prefer working for you. Army rules add layers.’

Ercole realized he’d just seen a subtle chess game. Massimo Rossi had, for some reason, wanted to keep control of the case. So he had tried reverse psychology, attempting to palm off the case to the Carabiniere, who had immediately become suspicious.

If the Positano case was an illusion, so was the initiation matter.

‘Inspector?’ Daniela Canton asked.

Rossi, Spiro and Ercole joined her.

She was pointing down to a small piece of cardboard. ‘It’s fresh. It’s likely he dropped it with the money. And it blew here. It was beside another dinar bill.’

‘Prepaid phone card. Good.’ Rossi extracted a plastic evidence bag from his pocket and placed the card inside. ‘We’ll have Postal analyze it.’ To the uniformed officer he said, ‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Pull back then. We’ll let Scientific Police search more carefully when they get here.’

They returned to the road. Rossi turned to Ercole. ‘Thank you, Officer Benelli. Please write up a statement and then you’re free to go home.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m happy to be of help.’ He nodded to the prosecutor.

Spiro said to Rossi, ‘We, of course, cannot assume that the dinars and phone card are the victim’s. They are, probably, yes. But it could be too that the attacker had been in Libya recently.’

‘No, impossible.’ Ercole Benelli said this softly, almost a whisper. He was staring at the bus-stop bench, an ancient thing, bearing only a fraction of the paint that had been applied years ago.

‘What?’ Spiro snapped, staring, as if seeing Ercole for the first time.

‘There would not have been enough time to go to Libya and arrive here in Italy.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Rossi muttered.

‘He fled America late Monday night and arrived here yesterday. Tuesday.’

Dante Spiro’s voice cut like a blade. ‘Enough riddles. Explain yourself, Forestry Officer!’

‘He’s a kidnapper, though he intends to kill his victim eventually. He goes by the name “The Composer.” He creates music videos of his victims dying.’

The inspector and prosecutor — Daniela too — seemed unable to speak.

‘Look.’ Ercole pointed to the back of the bus-stop bench.

A miniature hangman’s noose hung from a beam.

Chapter 11

Ercole Benelli said to the others, ‘In the Europol alerts yesterday. A notice from the US embassy in Brussels. Did you not see it?’

Spiro glared at the young officer and Ercole continued quickly, ‘Well, sir, this man — they know he is a white male, though not his name — he kidnapped a victim in New York and left a noose just like this one, as a token. He tortured him. The man was about to die but was rescued just in time. The perpetrator escaped. The State Department believed he left the country but did not know where he was headed. It seems he’s come to Italy.’

‘A copycat crime, surely.’ Spiro was nodding at the noose.

Ercole said quickly, ‘No, impossible.’

‘Impossible?’ Spiro growled.

The young man blushed and looked down. ‘Ah, sir. I would say unlikely. The fact of the noose hasn’t yet been released to the press. For the very reason of copycat perpetrators. Someone might have seen the video, yes, but Crovi said it was a heavyset white male in a dark outfit. And the noose? The same as the report from the NYPD about the kidnapper there. I think it must be him.’

Rossi gave a chuckle. ‘You’re a Forestry officer. Why were you reading Europol reports?’

‘Interpol too. And our own Police of State and Carabinieri alerts from Rome. I always do. I might use something that I learn in my own work.’

Spiro muttered, ‘At Forestry? That must happen as often as a pope’s death.’ He kept his eyes on the blackness of the landscape. Then: ‘What else did this report say? The video?’

‘He posted a video of the victim about to be hanged. With music playing. On a site called YouVid.’

‘Terrorist?’ Rossi asked.

‘Apparently not. The report said he is on antipsychotic medication.’

‘Which is obviously not doing a very good job,’ Daniela said.

Rossi said to Spiro, ‘Postal Police. I’ll have them monitor the site and get ready to trace it if he posts.’

‘Postal Police’ was an antiquated name for a state-of-the-art law enforcement division in Italy. They handled all, or most, crimes involving telecommunications and computers.

Spiro said, ‘Any other thoughts?’

Ercole began to speak but the prosecutor interrupted, adding, ‘Massimo?’

‘If he is making a production of the death,’ the inspector said, ‘I won’t spend much time and manpower searching for the body. Only one team. I will send most officers out to canvass and look for CCTVs in the area.’

‘Good.’

Which cheered Ercole, since this was close to what his own suggestion would have been.

Spiro added, ‘I must be getting back to Naples. Good night, Massimo. Call me with any developments. I want all the reports, especially the crime scene data. And we should pursue this lead, if that’s what it is.’ He was now looking at the noose. He shook his head and walked to his car. There, before climbing in, he paused at the driver’s side, pulled the leather-bound book from his pocket and made notations. He replaced the volume, climbed into the Volvo and sped away. As his car drove off, crunching over the gravel on the shoulder, another sound filled the night. The guttural growl of a motorcycle approaching.

Several heads turned to see the gorgeous Moto Guzzi Stelvio 1200 NTX bounding along the uneven roadway. Astride was an athletic-looking man, with thick hair, clean-shaven. He wore close-fitting jeans, boots, a black shirt and a leather jacket, dark brown. On his left hip was a badge of the Police of State; on the right, a large Beretta, a Px4.45. No-nonsense, it had been dubbed by officers who carried it, though Ercole had always thought that the concept of nonsense could hardly apply to any firearm.

Ercole watched the man skid to a stop. He was Silvio De Carlo, assistant inspector, young — about Ercole’s age. He strolled up to the inspector and gave a nod that was the equivalent of a salute to a commanding officer. Rossi and De Carlo began discussing the case.

The assistant was the epitome of a young Italian law enforcer — handsome, self-assured, surely smart and quick-witted. Clearly in good shape, too, and probably an ace with that powerful gun of his. Karate or, more likely, some obscure form of martial art figured in his life. Attractive to the ladies — and skilled in those arts, as well.

De Carlo was a citizen of that rarefied world alien to Ercole.

Fashionista...

Then Ercole corrected himself. He was selling De Carlo short. He’d earned his slot with the Police of State, obviously. While, as in any policing organization anywhere in the world, there would be dross at the top — officials coasting on their connections and glad-handing — a young line officer like De Carlo would only have risen on merit.

Well, Ercole decided, he himself had done his job — brought the attack to the attention of the investigators, informed them of the Composer. The truffle counterfeiter was long gone, and it was time to get home to his small flat on the Via Calabritto, in the Chiaia district. The neighborhood was far more chic than Ercole would have liked, but he’d come upon the place for a song and had spent months making it charming and comfortable: crammed full of family heirlooms and artifacts from his parents’ home in the country. Besides, he had the top floor and it was a short climb up from his den to his pigeons. He was already looking forward to a coffee on the roof tonight, gazing over the lights of the city and enjoying his partial view of the park and the bay.

He could already hear the cooing of Isabella and Guillermo and Stanley.

He climbed into the front seat of his Ford. He pulled out his phone and sent several email messages. He was about to replace the unit when it sang with the tone. It was not a reply but instead a text from his superior, wondering how the operation was going.

The operation...

The capture of the truffle counterfeiter.

His heart sinking, Ercole texted he would report later.

He couldn’t discuss his failure now.

The engine engaged, he pulled the seat belt strap around his chest. Did he have any food in the kitchen?

No, he believed not. Nothing that he could whip up quickly.

Perhaps he would have a pizza at one of the places on the Via Partenope. A mineral water.

Then, the short walk home.

A coffee.

His pigeons.

Isabella was nesting...

Ercole jumped at the loud rapping to his left.

He turned fast and saw Rossi’s face, eyes peering at him. The inspector’s head seemed oversize, as if viewed through thick glass or a depth of water. Ercole eased down the window.

‘Inspector.’

‘Did I startle you?’

‘No. Well, yes. I have not forgotten. I will prepare the report for you tomorrow. You will have it in the morning.’

The inspector began to speak but his words were obscured by the growl of the Moto Guzzi engine firing up. De Carlo turned the large machine and sped off, lifting a small rooster tail of stones and dust behind him.

When the sound had faded, Rossi said, ‘My assistant.’

‘Yes, Silvio De Carlo.’

‘I asked him about the noose. And he knew nothing of it. Knew nothing of the case in America, the Composer.’ Rossi chuckled. ‘As I knew nothing about it. And Prosecutor Spiro knew nothing about it. But unlike you, Forestry Officer. Who knew very well about the case.’

‘I read reports, notices. That’s all.’

‘I would like to make some temporary changes in my department.’

Ercole Benelli remained silent.

‘Would you be able to work with me? Be my assistant? For this case only, of course.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Silvio will take over some of my other investigations. You will assist on the Composer case. I will call your supervisor and have you reassigned. Unless you are involved in a major investigation at the moment.’

It was surely his imagination but Ercole believe a smell wafted past, not unlike the fragrance of truffles.

‘No. I have cases but nothing pressing, nothing that can’t be handled by other officers.’

‘Good. Whom should I call?’

Ercole gave his superior’s name and number. ‘Sir, should I report to you in the morning?’

‘Yes. The Questura. You know it?’

‘I’ve been there, yes.’

Rossi stepped back and looked at the field, then focused on the bus stop. ‘What does your instinct tell you about this man. Do you think the victim is alive?’

‘As long as there’s no video posted, I would say yes. Why should he change his MO because he’s in a different country?’

‘Perhaps you could contact the authorities in America and ask them to send us whatever information they might have about this fellow.’

‘I already have done that, sir.’

The email he had just sent was to the New York Police and copied to Interpol.

‘You have?’

‘Yes. And I’ve taken the liberty of giving them your name.’

Rossi blinked, then smiled. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

Chapter 12

See Naples and die.

This was a quote from some poet.

Or someone.

The actual meaning, Stefan knew, was that once you had seen the city and had sampled all it had to offer, your bucket list was complete. There was nothing more to experience in life.

Well, for him it was the perfect quotation. Because after he was finished here — if he was successful, if he pleased Her — he would be going directly to Harmony. His life would be complete.

He was presently in his temporary residence in the region of Campania, home to Naples. It was old — as were many of the structures here. A musty smell permeated the place, mold and rot. And it was cold. But this hardly bothered him. The senses of smell and taste and touch and vision were of little interest to Stefan. His ear was the only important organ.

Stefan was in a dim room, not dissimilar to his lair back in New York. He wore jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt, under a work shirt, dark blue. Both were tight (the meds kept his soul under control and his weight high). On his feet were running shoes. His appearance was different from what it had been in America. He’d shaved his head — common in Italy — and lost the beard and mustache. He needed to remain invisible. He was sure word would spread here, sooner or later, about the kidnapping and his ‘compositions.’

He rose and looked out the window into the blackness.

No police cars.

No prying eyes.

No Artemises. He’d left the red-haired policewoman behind, back in America, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be another one here — or her brother god or god cousin or whoever — looking for him. He had assumed that was the case.

But all he saw was darkness and distant lights of the Italian landscape.

Italy...

What a wonderful place, magical.

The home of Stradivarius stringed instruments, worth millions, occasionally stolen or left in the back of a taxi, generating New York Post headlines about absentminded geniuses. Appropriate at the moment, because he was winding more double-bass strings into another noose for his next composition, which he would start on shortly. Italy was, as a matter of fact, the source for the absolutely best musical strings ever made. Sheep intestine, goat, lovingly stretched and scraped. Stefan actually felt a twinge of guilt that the strings he was using for his adventure had been made in the United States.

But that was simply practical. He’d bought a supply there, concerned that a purchase here might lead the authorities to him.

Italy...

Home of the opera composers, Verdi. Puccini. Brilliant beyond reckoning.

Home of La Scala — the most perfect acoustics of any concert hall made by man.

Home of Niccolò Paganini, the famed violinist, guitarist and composer.

Stefan returned to his bench and slipped on a headset. He turned the volume up and, as he continued to twine the gut strings together and tie the noose, he listened to the sounds caressing his eardrums, his brain and his soul. Most playlists people store on iPhones or Motorolas range from folk to classical to pop to jazz, and everything in between. Stefan certainly had a lot of music on his hard drive. But he had far more gigabytes of pure sound. Cricket chirps, bird wings, pile drivers, steam kettles, blood coursing through veins, wind and water... He collected them from everywhere. He had millions — nearly as many as the Library of Congress’s National Recording Registry.

When a mood was on him, Black Screams threatening, he sometimes grew depressed that his collection was limited to sounds dating back to merely a short time ago: the late nineteenth century. Oh, the Banu¯ Mu¯sa¯ brothers had created automated musical instruments, a water organ and a flute, in the ninth century in Baghdad, and music boxes still played the identical melodies they did when built in medieval days. But they were like music played from scores, re-creations.

Cheating.

Not the real thing.

Oh, we could marvel at a Rembrandt portrait. But it was — right? — fake. It was the artist’s conception of the subject. If Stefan had been moved by the visual, he would have traded a hundred Dutch masters’ works for a single Mathew Brady photograph. Frank Capra. Diane Arbus.

The first actual recordings of the human voice were made in the 1850s by Édouard-Léon Scott de Martinville, a French inventor, who came up with the phonautograph, yet it didn’t actually capture sounds but merely made graphic representations of them, like lines of a seismograph. (Stefan was aware of rumors that de Martinville had recorded Abraham Lincoln’s voice; he’d tried desperately to find if this was true and where it might be. But he’d learned that, no, the recording never happened, sending the young man into a bout of depression.) Nearly as troubling to him was the circumstance surrounding the paleophone, invented by another Frenchman, Charles Cros, twenty years later; it had the capability of creating recordings but none had ever been found. The first device to make recordings that survived to the present day was Edison’s phonograph, 1878. Stefan owned every recording made by Edison.

What Stefan would have given for phonographs to have been invented two thousand years ago! Or three or four!

In his gloved hands he tested the noose, pulling it hard — though he was careful not to break the latex gloves.

On his playlist, a series of swishes came on. The sound of a knife blade being swiped against a sharpening steel. One of Stefan’s favorites, and he closed his eyes to listen. Like many, if not most, sounds, this could be heard in several ways. A threat, a workman’s task, a mother, preparing dinner for her children.

When this track ended, he pulled off the headphones and took another look outside.

No lights.

No Artemis.

He turned on his new Casio keyboard and began to play. Stefan knew this waltz quite well and played it from memory once, then again. Once more. In playing the third version, he began to slow the piece halfway through until, at the end, it tapered to a stop and remained a single sustained D note.

He lifted his hand off the keyboard. He played back the recording of the piece and was satisfied.

Now on to the rhythm section.

That would be easy, he thought, looking into the tiny den off the living room, where Ali Maziq, late of Tripoli, Libya, lay limp as a rag doll.