Rossi summoned the woman from the crime lab.
When posed the question, Beatrice answered. The inspector’s translation: “She has compared the soil with a number of samples but it is common with those found in hundreds of areas and can’t be narrowed down more.”
Rhyme asked, “Can we canvass stores that would sell duct tape, wooden rods and buckets?”
Rossi and Spiro regarded each other with amusement. It was for Rossi to say, “That is beyond our resources.”
“Well, at least can we see if the tobacco store where he bought the phone has a video camera?”
The inspector said, “Daniela and Giacomo have that assignment, yes.”
Ercole Benelli appeared in the doorway and entered cautiously, almost as if worried he’d be physically assaulted by Dante Spiro.
“Sir, no, Ali Maziq has not had electroconvulsive treatment. He does not know what that is. And he has taken no medication. Well, I am not accurate. He takes Tylenol for his pains.”
“That’s not relevant, Forestry Officer.”
“No, of course, Procuratore.”
Spiro said, “Electroconvulsive, antipsychotic drugs, anti-anxiety drugs. So the Composer was surely a patient at some mental facility recently. Have you searched mental hospitals?”
Rhyme wondered if the question was calculated to be a barb to counter what he might perceive as Rhyme’s criticism of the Italians’ inability to search for the sources for the wooden rod, tape and bucket, which it was not.
“There are too many hospitals and doctors to check. And the theft of a small amount of the sedative wouldn’t be reported in the national database. Our NCIC shows no similar crimes. Ever.”
Beyond our resources…
Spiro regarded the evidence chart. “And no clue as to where he’s holed up.”
Surprised at the old-time American expression.
“Holed up?” Ercole asked tentatively.
“Where he’s staying. Where he took the victim right after the kidnapping.”
“It wasn’t there, at the aqueduct?”
“No,” Spiro said and offered nothing more.
Rhyme explained, “He hadn’t peed. Or defecated.” He knew this because either Sachs or the medical team would have observed and reported if he’d done so. “The Composer has a base of operation in or near Naples. He videoed Maziq in the aqueduct reservoir room but he assembled and uploaded the video from somewhere else. Maybe something there will tell us where. Maybe not.” A nod toward the chart.
Rossi answered his mobile and had a conversation. After he disconnected, he said, “That was my colleague with the Postal Police. They have completed the analysis of Maziq’s phone card. They have significantly narrowed the area where he made calls within the hour before he was kidnapped at the bus stop. They center on a cellular phone tower about ten kilometers northeast of the town of D’Abruzzo.”
Spiro said to Rossi, “I know nothing about the area. Why would the Composer be hunting that far from downtown? Allora. Can your officers get out there, Massimo? Tomorrow?”
“Possibly. Not, however, until later. Daniela and Giacomo will be canvassing here. Why don’t we send Ercole?”
“Him?” Spiro looked his way. “Have you ever canvassed before?”
“I’ve interviewed suspects and witnesses. Many times.”
Rhyme wondered if the prosecutor would make some cruel comment about canvassing wildlife. But the man merely shrugged. “Yes, all right.”
“I will do it, sì.” Ercole paused, glancing to the room where Maziq had been interviewed. “Can you assign an Arabic speaker to come with me? Perhaps the officer who spoke with him earlier?”
Rossi asked, “Arabic, why?”
“Because of what you said, Procuratore.”
“Me?”
“Yes, just now. Why would he go all that distance if there was not a Muslim community there? He doesn’t speak Italian. I would guess he met with an Arabic speaker.”
Spiro considered this. “Perhaps.”
But Rossi said, “Our translators, Marco and Federica, are busy solidly.” To Rhyme: “Our greatest lack, one of our greatest lacks, is Arabic interpreters, given the refugee flood.”
The young officer frowned. To Sachs he said, “You were speaking Arabic.”
“Me? Oh, I—”
“You were quite proficient,” Ercole said quickly. Then to Rossi, “She was speaking to Maziq.” To Sachs he said, “Perhaps you could assist.” Then he grew stern. “Only for that purpose. You translate for me, and say nothing else.”
Sachs blinked.
Rhyme reflected that there was something faintly comical about the gentle young man trying to sound like a prickly, lecturing father.
Ercole said to the prosecutor, “I recall what you said, Procuratore. She will translate only, and if anyone were to ask, that is what I will tell them. But I think it is important, if you agree, to find this dinner companion of Maziq. Or find evidence the Composer might have left or witnesses who saw him. Perhaps this will lead to establishing the pattern you were speaking of.”
“But under no circumstances—”
“Will she utter a word to the press.”
“Correct.”
Spiro looked from Ercole to Sachs. He said, “On that condition. Complete silence other than to interpret the Forestry officer’s words. If there is no need, you will remain in the car.”
“Fine.”
Spiro walked to the doorway. There he paused and turned back to Sachs. “Hal tatahaddath alearabia?”
She eyed him evenly. “Nem fielaan.”
Spiro met her gaze for a moment, then pulled a lighter from his pocket and, clutching it and his cheroot together, continued into the corridor.
Rhyme suspected that with those two exchanges, the prosecutor had used up a good portion of his entire Arabic vocabulary. He knew Sachs’s numbered about two dozen words.
He swiveled to see Thom standing in the doorway.
“And we’re going to the hotel,” the aide said firmly.
“I need—”
“You need rest.”
“There are a dozen unanswered questions.”
“I’ll unplug the controller and push you to the van.”
The chair weighed close to a hundred pounds. But Rhyme knew Thom was fully capable of doing just what he’d threatened.
A grimace. “Fine, fine, fine.” He turned the chair and headed out into the hallway, leaving it to Sachs to say good night for both of them.
Chapter 23
Close to 11 p.m.
Stefan was driving outside Naples, edgy. Anxious. He wanted to start the next composition. He needed to start the next composition.
Wiping sweat, wiping. Stuffing the tissues into his pocket. So very careful to avoid that DNA crap.
He was aware of noises, of course, always. But tonight they didn’t calm him or dull the anxiety: the car’s hum, the shush of rubber on asphalt, the two dozen tones from one dozen insects, an owl, no two. An airplane overhead, imposing its imperial growl over everything else.