Ercole closed his eyes briefly. “Yes, of course. The Composer would call every fifteen minutes or so and as long as the mobile rang he knew no one was there. When he called and it was dead, he would realize that someone had breached the door. And it was unsafe to return. So simple, yet I missed it.”
Spiro cast a glance down his nose at Ercole. Then he asked, “Where is Maziq now?”
“A protective cell,” Rossi said. “Here.”
“Forestry Officer,” Spiro said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Make yourself useful and find our Arabic-speaking officer. I am interested in that substance, the electroconductive gel.”
“Allora…” Ercole fell silent.
“What do you wish to say?”
The officer cleared his throat.
Rhyme broke in again. “Our supposition was that it was from the Composer. He’s taking antipsychotic drugs, so we assumed he’d undergone ECS treatment.”
Spiro replied, “That is logical. But it’s not impossible that Maziq was being treated in Libya for a condition. And I would like to eliminate that as a possibility.”
Rhyme nodded, for it was a theory that he had not considered, and it was a valid one.
“Sì, Procuratore.”
“And that other substance, amobarbital?” Spiro gazed at the chart.
Sachs told him it was a sedative the Composer took to ward off panic attacks.
“See if Maziq has ever taken that too.”
“I will go now,” Ercole said.
“Then go.”
After he’d left, Rhyme said, “Prosecutor Spiro. It’s rare that someone knows the raw ingredients of electroconductive gel.” Rhyme had concluded that’s what the ingredients were, before the prosecutor had arrived.
“Is it?” Spiro asked absently. His eyes were on the chart. “We learn many things in this curious business of ours, don’t we?”
Stepping outside the situation room, Ercole Benelli nearly ran directly into Silvio De Carlo, Rossi’s favorite boy.
The Stylista, the Fashionista of the Police of State.
Mamma mia. And now I will endure the comments.
Will De Carlo snidely remark on my mopping up spilled mineral water too, or just the most recent dressing-down by Spiro?
More Forestry Corps comments?
Zucchini Cop. Pig Cop…
Ercole thought for a moment about walking past the young man, who was again dressed in clothing that Ercole not only couldn’t afford but wouldn’t have had the taste to select, even if he’d been given the run of a Ferragamo warehouse. But then he decided, No. No running. As when he was young and boys would torment him about his gangly build and clumsiness at sports he’d learned that it was best to confront them, even if you ended up with a bloody nose or split lip.
He looked De Carlo in the eye. “Silvio.”
“Ercole.”
“Your cases going well?”
But the assistant inspector wasn’t interested in small talk. He looked past Ercole and up and down the corridor. His rich brown eyes settled on the Forestry officer once more. He said, “You have been lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“With Dante Spiro. The offenses you have committed…”
Offenses?
“…have not been so serious. He might have cut your legs out from underneath you. Stuck you like a pig.”
Ah, a reference to the Forestry Corps.
De Carlo continued, “Yet you received what amounted to a slap with a glove.”
Ercole said nothing but waited for the insult, the sneer, the condescension, not knowing what form it might take.
How would he respond?
It hardly mattered; whatever he said it would backfire. He would make a buffoon of himself. As always with the Silvio De Carlos of the world.
But then the officer continued, “If you want to survive this experience, if you want to move from Forestry into Police of State, as I suspect you do—and this might be your only opportunity—you must learn how to work with Dante Spiro. Do you swim, Ercole?”
“I…yes.”
“In the sea?”
“Of course.”
They were in Naples. Every boy could swim in the sea.
De Carlo said, “So you know riptides. You never fight them, because you can’t win. You let them take you where they will and then, slowly, gently you swim diagonally back to shore. Dante Spiro is a riptide. With Spiro, you never fight him. That is to say, contradict him. You never question him. You agree. You suggest he is brilliant. If you have an idea that you feel must be pursued and is at odds with him then you must find a way to achieve your goal obliquely. Either in a way that he can’t learn about, or one that seems—seems, mind you—compatible with his thinking. Do you understand?”
Ercole did understand the words but he would need time to translate them to practical effect. This was a very different way of policing than he was used to.
For the moment he said, “Yes, I do.”
“Good. Fortunately, you’re under the wing of a kinder—and equally talented—man. Massimo Rossi will protect you to the extent he can. He and Spiro are peers and respect each other. But he can’t save you if you fling yourself into the lion’s mouth. As you seem inclined to do.”
“Thank you for this.”
“Yes.” De Carlo turned and started to walk away then looked back. “Your shirt.”
Ercole looked down at the cream-colored shirt he had pulled on this morning beneath his gray uniform jacket. He hadn’t realized the jacket was unzipped.
“Armani? Or one of his protégés perhaps?” De Carlo asked.
“I dressed quickly. I don’t know the label, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, well, it is quite fine.”
Ercole could tell that these words were not ironic and that De Carlo truly admired the shirt.
He offered his thanks. Pointedly he did not add that the shirt had been stitched together not in Milan but in a Vietnamese factory and was sold not in a boutique in the chic Vomero district of Naples but from a cart on the rough and rugged avenue known as the Spaccanapoli by an Albanian vendor. The negotiated price was four euros.
They shook hands and the assistant inspector wandered off, pulling an iPhone, in a stylish case, from a stylish back pocket.
Chapter 21
Not in Kansas anymore.
Walking down the residential portion of this Neapolitan street—dinnertime and therefore not so crowded—Garry Soames thought of this clichéd line from The Wizard of Oz. And then he whispered it aloud, glancing at a young brunette, long, long hair, long legs, conversing on a cell phone, passing by. It was a certain type of look, and she returned it in a certain way, eyes not exactly lingering, but remaining upon his sculpted Midwest American face a fraction of a second longer than a phone talker would do otherwise.
Then the woman, the epitome of southern Italian élan, and her swaying, sexy stride, were gone.
Damn. Nice.
Garry continued on. His eyes then slipped to two more young women, chatting, dressed as sharply—and as tactically—as any hot girl on the Upper East Side in Manhattan.