Sachs said, “Not a lot of traffic but the place had its crack-house attractions.”
One find, more or less intact, was a scrap of paper:
CASH T
EXCHA
CONVER
TRANSAC
“Wheel of Fortune,” Mel Cooper said.
“What’s that?”
Nobody replied to Rhyme’s question, as they all tried to complete the words, Thom too. Nothing, so they moved on.
The remains of the musical keyboard, presumably the one on which the Composer had recorded his eerie composition, contained a serial number. Sellitto called the manufacturer but the company, in Massachusetts, was presently closed. He’d check again in the morning, though the Composer had been so careful about so many aspects of the kidnapping that he’d surely bought the Casio with cash.
No fingerprints on it. Or anything else.
The noose that had been used to try to murder Robert Ellis was made of two gut instrument strings tied together in a carrick bend knot. This was a common knot, Rhyme knew; knowing how to tie it did not suggest any special nautical or other professional background.
The gut strings, larger versions of the calling card the schoolgirl had found, were for an upright bass. Rhyme had little hope that they’d find a clerk who’d remember a purchaser like the Composer, given their skimpy description of him…and the fact that there were thousands of musicians in the area who’d use such strings.
To break into the factory, the Composer had sliced through the chain at the gate with a bolt cutter and replaced it with his own. Both the lock and chain were generic.
The battery-powered router and Wi-Fi–enabled webcam—which had apparently alerted him to the police’s arrival—were similarly untraceable.
A canvass by dozens of officers found no witnesses to follow up on the boy who’d reported that somebody resembling the Composer had fled the plant around the time of the fire.
After the information went up on the board, Rhyme wheeled in front of it.
Sachs too gazed. She called up a map of the area on one of the big-screen monitors. She tapped the place to the north of the factory, about where he’d escaped, and said absently, “Where the hell’re you going?”
Sellitto, also looking over the chart, said, “He’s got a car. He can drive home. He can drive to a subway and take the train, leave the car on the street. He can—”
Rhyme had a fast thought. “Sachs!”
She, Sellitto and Cooper were looking toward him. They seemed alarmed. Maybe it was his angered expression.
“What, Rhyme?”
“What you just asked.”
“Where he lives.”
“No, you didn’t ask that. You asked where he was going?”
“Well, I meant, where’s his home.”
“Forget that.” He scanned the chart. “Those scraps of paper you found? The photo paper?
“Right.”
“Play jigsaw puzzle with them. See how they fit together.”
After pulling on gloves she opened the plastic evidence envelope and arranged the slips. “They make a frame, see? Something was cut out of the middle. A perfect square.”
Rhyme then consulted his computer. He asked, “One that measures fifty-one centimeters by fifty-one, by any chance?”
Sachs applied a ruler. She laughed. “Exactly.”
Sellitto grunted, “How the hell’d you know that, Linc?”
“Goddamn it.” He nodded at the burned triangle of paper, containing the mysterious code.
CASH T
EXCHA
CONVER
TRANSAC
More typing. Rhyme reviewed the screen and said, “Try this: ‘Cash Tendered. Exchange Rate. Converted Amount. Transaction Amount.’” He nodded at the screen. “I found a receipt from a currency exchange. That’s what it is. And the square cut out of the glossy paper. It’s the size—”
Sellitto filled in, “A passport photo. Oh, hell.”
“Exactly,” Rhyme said, exhaling slowly. “Call Washington.”
“DC?” Cooper asked.
“Of course DC. I hardly want a cup of Starbucks or a Microsoft Windows upgrade, now, do I? Tell the State Department to alert the embassies that the Composer’s headed out of the country. Dellray too. Get him on the wire to the FBI offices abroad.” Another scowl. “Don’t know what good it’ll do. No solid description or other info to give Passport Control.” He shook his head in dismay. “And if he’s as smart as he seems to be, he’s not wasting any time. He’s probably halfway to London or Rio by now.”
Wednesday, September 22
II
In the Field of Truffles
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?