“She went to Eurovision?”
“That’s right.” Beatrice gave a dismissing laugh, nearly a snort, and had to reseat her complicated glasses. “If you can believe that.”
“You don’t care for it?” Ercole asked her, after a thoughtful pause.
“Who on earth would? It’s juvenile.”
“Some feel that way, yes,” he said quickly.
Based on an Italian festival that started six decades ago, Sanremo, Eurovision was a televised songwriting and -performing contest, countries competing against one another in a theatrical show that was lavishly and gaudily produced. The music was criticized as being bubblegum, with a patriotic topping and political bias. Still, Ercole loved it. He had been six times. He had tickets for the next Grand Final. Two tickets.
Ever hopeful, Ercole Benelli.
“They returned from the show and found police waiting at his flat. He had been selling fuel-system secrets to a competing team. The charges resulted in a fine only but in Italy, of course, people take driving very seriously. I myself was personally offended.”
“You like car races?”
She said fervently, “I go to Formula One whenever I can. One day I will own a Maserati, the coupe. Used, of course. It will have to be. A Ferrari…well, that is beyond my dreams, on a Police of State salary. Do you attend?”
“Not often. I can’t find the time.” In fact, auto racing held no interest for him whatsoever. “I enjoyed the movie Rush.” He couldn’t remember the drivers’ names. And one was Italian.
“Ah, brilliant, wasn’t it? Niki Lauda, an artist! He drove for Ferrari, of course. I own the DVD. I attend races quite a lot. But they aren’t for everybody. You must wear sound protection, if you go. I take my earmuffs, the ones I use on the police pistol range. They also help me get good seats. People see Police of State printed on the cups and they make way for me.”
For some reason he said, “I race pigeons.”
“The birds?”
He said, “Of course the birds.”
What other kind of pigeons were there?
“I have never heard of that. In any event, though Arci’s offense was not serious, Daniela could hardly have a boyfriend who committed a crime.”
“And one who was guilty, as well, of bunga-bunga when he was away at races.”
“Exactly.”
“Poor thing. She must have been devastated.”
Beatrice clicked her tongue, the way a disapproving nun might do in class. “I wouldn’t call her a thing. It’s offensive. But, yes, of course she was upset.” Beatrice looked into the other room, toward the woman who was a foot taller, seven kilos lighter and had the face of an angelic cheetah. She said kindly, “Even the beautiful can suffer from heartbreak. No one is immune. So, I say to you simply that she is available, if you wish to speak to her on the matter.”
Utterly flustered, he blurted, “No, no, no. I have no interest in her in that way, none whatsoever. I’m merely curious. It’s my nature. I am curious about everyone. I am curious about people from different regions. People of different ages. People of different races, different colors. I am curious about men, about women, black, white, brown…” He struggled to find something more to say.
Beatrice helped out: “Children, of any complexion?”
Ercole blinked, then realized she was making a joke. He laughed at her dry delivery, though uncomfortably. She gave no response, other than to study the bags.
“So. What do we have here?” She was holding the card. “‘From the smoking station.’ What is that?”
“The location of a possible witness to a crime. Or a perpetrator.”
She read another card. “‘The attack site.’”
He stepped forward, to tell her what it contained, but she waved him back, past a yellow line. “No, no, no. You are not gowned. Get back!”
He sighed and stepped away. “It’s pebbles—”
“From a rooftop. Obviously.”
He then asked, “And can you see if the NV Hotel in Vomero has a CCTV pointed northeast, from the top level of their parking garage?”
Beatrice frowned. “Me? It would be the Postal Police who could check that.”
“I don’t know anyone there.” He tapped his Forestry Corps badge.
“I suppose I could. What case is this?”
He said, “An independent investigation.”
“Well, Ercole Benelli, you come to the Police of State like a newborn hatchling from the Forestry Corps and leap into the role of investigator, fully formed. With a case of your own. You are the new Montalbano.” The beloved Sicilian detective in the murder mystery series by Andrea Camilleri. “So understandably you do not know the procedures here. An evidence analysis request like this must reference a case number or at least the name of a suspect.”
“We don’t know his identity.” This much was true. If the claim of Garry Soames’s lawyer—and Garry himself—could be believed, someone else had raped the woman on the rooftop, a person unknown.
Ah. Perfect.
“Put down Unsub Number One.”
“What does that refer to? ‘Unsub’? I’ve never heard that.”
“English. ‘Unknown subject.’ It’s a term the American police use when referring to a suspect whose name they have not learned.”
Beatrice looked him up and down. “If you are taken with American expressions I think you are maybe more Columbo than Montalbano.”
Was this an insult? Columbo was that bumbling, disheveled detective, wasn’t he? Still, he was the hero of the show.
“As for the forensic results, should I contact you or Inspector Rossi or Prosecutor Spiro? Or another prosecutor?”
“Me, please.”
“Fine. Does this have priority over the Composer? I’m nearly finished with the analysis of the evidence you found outside D’Abruzzo.”
“That should be first. The Composer may be set to strike again, though perhaps if you could call about the CCTV on the NV Hotel? I am interested in any tapes the night of the twentieth, midnight to four a.m.”
“Midnight to four a.m. of the twentieth? Or the twenty-first of September?”
“Well, I suppose the twenty-first.”
“So, what you really mean is the ‘morning’ of the twenty-first. You misspoke when you said ‘night’?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“All right.” She picked up a phone, and Ercole walked into the situation room, nodding to Captain Rhyme and Thom. Detective Sachs looked up at him, questioningly.
He whispered, “She will review it. And now she is calling the hotel. About the CCTV.”
“Good,” Rhyme said.
A moment later Beatrice stepped into the situation room. She nodded to those inside and said in Italian, “No, Ercole. The NV Hotel does have a camera but unfortunately it seemed not to be working at the time of the attack. There is nothing on the disk.”
“Thank you for checking that.”
She said, “Surely.” Then seemed to look him over as she turned and left. He glanced down at his uniform. Was he as rumpled as Columbo? He brushed at some dust on his jacket sleeve.
“Ercole?” Captain Rhyme asked.