“Like the Campania mozzarella is the best,” Sachs said, with a smile that was both wry and sincere.
“Exactly like the cheese, Detective. The best in Italy. Now, accenting the pasta, the sauce will be ragù, of course. And then branzino fish, grilled with oil and rosemary and lemon only, and to accompany: zucchini, fried, and served with vinegar and mint. Finally, una insalata of incappucciata, a local lettuce that you will find heavenly. Dolce will be, as it must, sfogliatelle, the shell-shaped pastry that Naples gave to the world.”
“Not for me,” Rhyme said. “But perhaps grappa.”
“Not perhaps. Definitely. And they have a fine selection here. We can try distillato too. Distilled wine. They have here my favorite, Capovilla. It is from Veneto, in the north. It is superb. But that will be for after the meal.”
The server refilled the wineglasses, as Spiro directed.
Sachs eyed the prosecutor warily.
He laughed. “No, I’m not trying to ‘liquor you down.’”
“‘Up,’” she corrected.
Spiro said, “I must change that in my Western novel.” He actually made a note, using his phone. He set it down and placed his hands flat on the table. “Now, obviously, we are opponents once again.”
Rhyme said, “When it comes to negotiation about legal issues, I have no say in the matter. I’m a civilian. A consultant. My Sachs here is an officer of the law. She’s the one who pitches the case to the powers that be in New York. And of course, there will be FBI agents involved, from the field office in Rome. U.S. attorneys too, in the United States.”
“Ah, a truly formidable army of legal minds I am up against, it seems. But let me state to you my position.” His narrow, dark eyes aimed their way.
Rhyme glanced at Sachs, who nodded, and he said, “You win.”
Spiro blinked. One of the few times since they’d met that he seemed surprised.
“Our position is we’re going to recommend against extraditing Mike Hill back to the United States.”
Sachs shrugged. “He’s all yours.”
Spiro drew on his cheroot, blew smoke ceilingward. He said nothing, his face revealed nothing.
Rhyme said, “Hill is technically in violation of U.S. laws, sure. But the kidnap victims weren’t U.S. citizens. And, yes, he scammed a U.S. intelligence agency but the AIS doesn’t exist, remember? Everything Charlotte McKenzie said was hypothetical. We wouldn’t get very far with that case.”
Sachs then said, “We can’t guarantee that someone in our Justice Department, back in the States, won’t want to pursue extradition. But my recommendation’s going to be against that.”
Spiro said, “And I suspect you carry some weight back there, Detective Sachs.”
Yep, she did.
“Allora. Thank you, Captain, Detective. This man, Hill, I despise what he did. I want justice served.” He smiled. “Such a cliché, no?”
“Perhaps. But some clichés are like comfortable, well-worn shoes or sweaters. They serve a needed purpose.” Rhyme lifted his wineglass toward the man. Then his face grew somber. “But, Dante, you’ll have a difficult time with the case. If you charge Hill and Gianni—Procopio—with the whole scheme, you’ll have no witnesses: The refugees’ memories are shot. And Charlotte and Stefan are out of the country. I’d recommend you simplify the case. You could—”
“Charge them only with illegal importation of explosives,” Spiro interrupted.
“Exactly.”
“Yes, I have been thinking this is what we must do. The Albanian airport worker will give evidence. We have the C4. Fatima Jabril can testify to that aspect of the plot. Hill and his accomplice will get a suitable sentence.” A tip of his wineglass. “A sufficient justice. Sometimes that is the best we can do. And sometimes it is enough.”
This plan would also align with the Composer’s fate. News stories, based on accounts by a “reliable but anonymous” source (surely Charlotte McKenzie or one of her associates at AIS) were leaked that the serial killer had fled Italy for parts unknown. The kidnapper, this individual stated, had been stymied by the Italian police and knew he was days away from being captured. Among the possible destinations were London, Spain, Brazil or, heading home, America.
Thom returned to the dining room, bearing a bag. “Pasta, cheese, spices. The chef insisted.” He took his place at the table and asked for, and received, a glass of the white wine. At Rhyme’s request he took pictures of the labels.
A figure appeared in the doorway of the restaurant. And Rhyme was surprised to see Ercole Benelli approach.
The young officer, in his gray Forestry Corps uniform, had a matching expression.
Greetings all around.
“Ah, Hercules,” Spiro said, offering the English pronunciation. “The man of the twelve labors.”
“Sir.”
The prosecutor gestured toward the table and caught the waitress’s eyes.
Ercole sat and took a glass of red wine. “Once again, Prosecutor Spiro, I must apologize for my error the other day. I know there were…conseguenze.”
“Consequences. Oh, yes. Without the evidence there can be no case against the American spy and her psychotic musician. But I did not ask you here to berate you. I would not hesitate to do that, as you know, but not under these circumstances. Now, let me explain why you are here. I will say this up front, bluntly, for if you are going to make your way in the world of law enforcement, you cannot shy, like a colt, from the truth—unpainted?” He looked at Rhyme and Sachs.
She said, “Unvarnished.”
“Sì. You cannot shy from the unvarnished truth. And that truth is this: You have done nothing wrong. Even if the evidence against Stefan Merck and Charlotte McKenzie had been properly logged in, it would still have gone missing.”
“No! Procuratore, è vero?”
“Yes, sadly it is quite true.”
“But how?”
“I am sorry to have to tell you, and our guests here, that it was Inspector Massimo Rossi who arranged for the disappearance and destruction of the evidence.”
The young officer’s face was the epitome of shock. “Che cosa? No. That cannot be.”
Rhyme and Sachs shared a surprised look.
“Yes, it is the case. He—”
“But he was managing the case, he is a senior member—”
“Forestry Officer.” Spiro lowered his head toward the young officer.
“Mi perdoni! Forgive me.” He fell silent.
“You have learned quite a bit about the nature of police investigation in the past few days.” Spiro leaned back. “Forensics, tactical operations, body language, interrogation…”
A wry expression on his face, Ercole glanced toward Sachs and whispered, “High-speed pursuit.” Then back to Spiro, who fixed him with a glare for interrupting again. He repeated, “Mi perdoni. Please continue, sir.”
“But I think you have yet to master one other important, no, vital aspect of our profession. And that is the politics within law enforcement. Is this not true, Captain Rhyme?”