She glanced to the left, where he was gesturing—with both hands. She’d noted that this seemed to be an Italian habit. However fast the ride, however congested the roads, drivers seemed unable to grip the wheel with both hands—sometimes not even with one—when having a conversation.
Sachs studied the farm. Pigs, she noted, were the most populous animals in the spread he was indicating, a rambling two acres of low buildings and a lot of mud. A powerful, disgusting smell swept into the car.
She noted Ercole was genuinely troubled.
“Part of my job is to monitor the condition of farm animals. And from a rapid glance it appears to me that those swine are kept in poor quarters.”
To Sachs, they were pigs in mud.
“The farmer will have to improve their situation. Proper drainage and sewage. Healthy for the people, of course, and better for the animals. They have souls too. I firmly believe this.”
They drove through the town of D’Abruzzo—Ercole explained that this was not to be confused with Abruzzo, a region of Italy east of Rome. She wasn’t sure why he thought she’d make the mistake but thanked him anyway. They then continued into the rolling farmland and fallow ground where the Postal Police had reported that Ali Maziq’s phone had been used.
Sachs had a map, on which was a large circled area, encompassing six small towns or clusters of stores, cafés, restaurants and bars where Maziq and his colleague might have met. She held it up for him. He nodded and pointed out one. “We’re closest to there. In twenty minutes.”
They drove along the two-lane road. Ercole spoke about any topics that came to mind: His pigeons, which he kept for no reason other than that he liked the cooing sound they made and the thrill of racing them. (Ah, the bumper sticker now made sense.) His modest apartment in a pleasant part of Naples, his family—two siblings, older brother and younger, both of whom were married—and his nephews, in particular. He talked reverently about his mother and father; they’d both passed away.
“Allora, may I ask? You and Capitano Rhyme, you will be married soon?”
“Yes.”
“That is nice. When, do you think?”
“It was going to be within the next couple of weeks. Until the Composer. That delayed things.”
Sachs told Ercole that Rhyme had been talking about Greenland for their honeymoon.
“That is true? Odd. I have seen pictures of the place. It is somewhat barren. I would recommend Italy. We have Cinque Terre, Positano—not so very far from here. Florence. Piemonte, Lago di Como. Courmayeur is where I would be married. It is where Monte Bianco is located, near the border, north. Ah, so beautiful.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
She had observed the admiring looks he’d shot toward Daniela Canton, and she wondered if they’d known each other before the Composer case. She seemed smart, if a bit serious; she certainly was gorgeous.
“No, no, not at the moment. It is one regret. That my mother did not see me married.”
“You’re young.”
He shrugged. “I have other interests at the moment.”
Ercole then launched into a discussion of his career and his desire to get into the Police of State or, even better, the Carabinieri. She asked the difference, and it seemed the latter was a military police organization, though it had jurisdiction over civil crimes, as well. Then there was the Financial Police, which covered crimes involving immigration as well as financial irregularities. This didn’t appeal to him. He wanted to be a street cop, an investigator.
“Like you,” he said, blushing and smiling.
It was clear that he saw the Composer case as an entry into that world.
He asked her too about policing in New York City, and she told him about her career—from fashion model to NYPD. And about her father, a beat patrol officer all his life.
“Ah, like father like daughter!” Ercole’s eyes shone.
“Yes.”
Soon they came to the first village on the list and began canvassing. It was a slow process. They would go into a restaurant or bar, approach the server or owner and Ercole would flash a picture of Maziq and ask if they had seen him on Wednesday night. The first time this happened, a lengthy and intense conversation ensued. Sachs took this as a good sign, thinking that the person he was speaking to had provided a lead.
As they returned to the car, she asked, “So he saw Maziq?”
“Who, the waiter? No, no, no.”
“What were you talking about?”
“The government is desiring to build a new road nearby and that will improve business. He was saying that sales have been down lately. Even with the depressed price of gasoline, people don’t seem to be taking trips out into the countryside because the old road can get washed out, even in a small rainstorm. And—”
“Ercole, we really should move along.”
He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Then he smiled. “In Italy, we enjoy our conversations.”
Over the next two hours they hit eighteen establishments. The results were negative.
Just after noon they finished interviewing people in one small town and marked it off the list. Ercole looked at his watch. “I would say, we will have lunch.”
She looked around the small intersection. “I could use a sandwich, sure.”
“Un panino, sì. Possibly.”
“Where can we get one to go? Coffee too.”
“To go?”
“To take with us.”
He seemed confused. “We…Well, we do not do that in Italy. Not in Campania, at least. No, nowhere that I know of in Italy. We will sit down. It won’t take long.” He nodded to a restaurant whose owner they had just interviewed. “That is good?”
“Looks fine to me.”
They sat outside at a table covered by a vinyl sheet that depicted miniature Eiffel Towers, though French food did not appear on the menu.
“We should start with mozzarella. That’s what Naples is known for—pizza, too. We invented it. Whatever they say in Brooklyn.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“An article I read. A restaurant in Brooklyn in New York claimed to have created pizza.”
“Where I live.”
“No!” He was delighted to learn this. “Well, I bring no offense.”
“None taken.”
He ordered for them. Yes, fresh mozzarella to start and then pasta with ragù. He had a glass of red wine and she got an Americano coffee, which the waitress thought curious—apparently it was a beverage intended for after the meal.
Before the cheese, though, an antipasto plate, which they hadn’t ordered, appeared, meats sliced microscopically thin and sausages. Bread too. And the drinks.
She ate a bite of the meat, then more. Salty and explosive with flavor. A moment later the mozzarella cheese came—not slices but a ball the size of a navel orange. One for each of them. She stared. “You eat it all?”
Ercole, already halfway through his, laughed at the nonsensical question. She ate some—it was the best she’d ever had, and she said so—and then pushed the plate away.
“You don’t care for it, after all?”