“You recall, as you wanted, I took the evidence to the locker room, everything the Scientific Police and Detective Sachs and I collected regarding Fatima and Mike Hill and the incident at the Castel dell’Ovo—everything, of course, except the C4 explosive itself, which is at the army bomb facility. I asked that this evidence be filed with the Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie evidence.”
“That was right,” Rossi said. “The cases are related, of course.”
“But the administrator of the evidence room looked at the records and said there was no file for Stefan or Charlotte. No evidence had been logged in.”
“Not logged in?” Rossi asked. “But didn’t you do so?”
“Yes, sir. Yes. Just as you asked. Everything from the bus stop, the camp, the aqueduct and underground, the farmhouse near the composting facility, the factory in Naples…all the scenes! Everything! I went directly there from here. But the administrator looked twice—and then, at my request, again.” His miserable eyes zipped from Rossi’s to Spiro’s and settled on Rhyme’s. “Every bit of evidence in the Composer case. It has vanished.”
Chapter 69
Massimo Rossi strode to the landline telephone unit on a fiberboard table and placed a call, dialing three numbers. After a moment, he cocked his head and said, “Sono Rossi. Il caso del Compositore? Stefan Merck e Charlotte McKenzie. Qual è il problema?”
He listened and his face grew troubled. After a moment, he looked toward Ercole. “Hai la ricevuta?”
Ercole fell into English. “The receipt? For the evidence, you mean?”
“Sì. When you logged it in.”
The young officer was blushing furiously. “I received one just now—for the recent evidence. But earlier? No. I left everything at the Evidence Room intake desk. There was a man in the back—I didn’t see who. I called to him that I was dropping off evidence, along with the proper paperwork, and I left.”
Rossi stared at him, whispering, “Nessuna ricevuta?”
“I…no. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
Rossi closed his eyes.
As a forensic scientist, Rhyme could think of no greater sin among law enforcers than being careless with—much less losing—the evidence in a case.
Another string of words into the phone, Rossi’s face growing more grim yet. He listened. “Grazie. Ciao, ciao.” He disconnected, eyes on the floor, his expression one of incredulity. “It’s gone,” he said. “Vanished.”
Rhyme snapped, “How?”
“I do not understand. It’s never happened before.”
Sachs said, “CCTV?”
“Not in the evidence room itself. It is not a public area. There’s no need.”
Spiro looked suspicious. “Charlotte McKenzie?”
Rossi considered. “Officer, you took the evidence there when I told you to.”
“Immediately, sir.”
“Charlotte was in custody by then. Stefan too. They could not have done it. Her associates—whoever they might be—might have been behind this. A theft from the Questura…that is something not even the Camorra would dare attempt. But American intelligence?” He shrugged.
Rhyme said, “We need the evidence. We have to find it.” Without that, the cases against McKenzie and Stefan could proceed only with witness statements and confessions…and he knew that everything McKenzie had told them about the Alternative Intelligence Service and the operation here she would deny. And Stefan, of course, would not dare to contradict his muse.
In a stumbling voice, Ercole said, “Inspector, sir…I am sorry. I…” The voice faded to thick silence.
Rossi was looking out the window. He turned back. “Ercole, I must tell you that this is a problem. A serious one. It is of my making. I should have known that you were inexperienced, yet I asked you onto our operation.”
His long face crimson, Ercole was chewing his lip. He probably would have preferred a tongue-lashing to this quiet regret.
“I think it is best you report back to Forestry Corps now. I’ll send this matter to Rome. There will be an inquiry. You will be interviewed and make a statement.”
Ercole seemed far younger than his thirty-some-odd years at the moment. He nodded and then his gaze dipped to the floor. He wasn’t completely to blame, Rhyme supposed, though he recalled Rossi saying that the officer should “log in” the evidence, which suggested there would be a paper trail for the transfer.
Rhyme knew Ercole had hoped this assignment might be a springboard to a career with the Police of State.
And with this one incident, that chance was probably over.
Spiro asked him, “Ercole? The evidence against Mike Hill and Gianni? That receipt?”
He handed it to the prosecutor, who took it.
Ercole’s eyes were sweeping everyone in the room. “I have been honored to work with you. I have learned a great deal.”
His expression seemed to add the qualifier: But, it seems, I didn’t learn enough.
Sachs hugged him. He and Rhyme shook hands, then with a last glance at the evidence board, he nodded and left.
Rossi’s gaze followed the man’s receding figure. “A shame. He was smart. He took initiative. And, yes, I should have been more attentive. But, well, not everyone is made out to be a criminal officer. He is better off in Forestry. More to his nature, I would think, anyway.”
Tree cop…
Rossi said, “Mamma mia. La prova. The evidence…” He asked Spiro, “Where do we go from here, Dante?”
Regarding the inspector for a moment, Spiro finally said, “I don’t see how we can proceed against Signorina McKenzie and Stefan. They will have to be released.”
Rossi said to Rhyme, “The case against Mike Hill and Procopio, however, will proceed. I know you wish to extradite Hill, at least, back to the United States for trial. But we cannot let you do that. Rome—and I—intend to try him and his associate here. I’m sorry, Lincoln. But there is no other way. Are you going to look for a lawyer from Wolf Tits now?”
The new friends were now opponents once again.
“We have no choice, Dante.”
With a sad face, Spiro ran his cheroot beneath his nose. “Did you know that the emperor Tiberius, one of our more infamous forebears, had a luxurious villa not far from where we are just now? Perhaps more than most emperors, he loved gladiatorial contests.”
“Is that right?”
“I will paraphrase what he said at the beginning of each, when the warriors and spectators faced him: ‘Let the extradition games begin.’”
Chapter 70
You don’t trust us?”
Charlotte McKenzie was speaking to Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs outside police headquarters. Stefan stood beside her.
Two agents from the FBI’s Rome office were standing beside a black SUV, a man and woman, both in dark suits that must have been nearly unbearable; a heat wave had settled over Naples, as if Vesuvius had woken and spewed searing air over all of Campania.
Rhyme himself was sweating fiercely but, as with most other sensations, good and bad, he was largely immune. His temples tickled occasionally but Thom was always there to mop.
And remind. “Out of the sun soon,” the aide said sternly. Extreme temperatures were not good for his system.
“Yes, yes, yes.”