In the situation room beside the Scientific Police’s laboratory on the ground floor of the Questura, Beatrice Renza said in a matter-of-fact voice, “I am afraid I have created a fail.” She was not particularly downcast about this glitch, whatever that might be, but it was hard to tell; she seemed to live in a perpetual state of overcast.
She was speaking to Rhyme, Massimo Rossi, Ercole Benelli and Amelia Sachs.
Rossi asked her a question in Italian.
The forensic analyst said in English, “I was able only to make reconstruction of a partial fingerprint from the leafs that you”—a nod to Ercole—“recovered. Yes, it was a print on the leaf, yes, I would assume it was left by our furfante, our villain, the Composer, for his footprint was below the place where you sawed the branch off. But it is merely a very minor portion of a friction ridge. It is not enough for the systems to match.”
“And the trace?” Rhyme asked.
“I have had more successfulness there. From the soil in the tread marks of his Converse shoes I have discovered a several grains of soil…infused with carbon dioxide, unburned hydrocarbons, oxides of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, kerosene.”
“Engine exhaust,” Rhyme said.
“Yes, exactly as I had considered.”
“What do the proportions suggest?”
“Jet aircraft. Because of the levels of kerosene. Not automobiles or trucks. And in addition, I found this: Fibers that are coerente…”
“Consistent,” Ercole said.
“Sì, with those in napkins or paper towelettes. And in the trace and in the fibers were substances that are consistent with these foods: sour milk, wheat, potatoes, chili powder, turmeric, tomatoes. And fenugreek. You are familiar?”
“No.”
Ercole said, “Ingredients in Northern African cuisine, most frequently.”
Beatrice said, “Yes, yes. With those materials, ingredients, possibly it is being bazin, a bread from Liberia or Tunisia.” She touched her belly and added, “I know food well. All types of food I know, I will say.” No smile, no embarrassment.
She added, “Allora, I called restaurants in the area of his staking-out, fifteen kilometers around, a circle, from D’Abruzzo, and they are all traditional Italian. There are no establishments of Middle Eastern or North African eating nearby.” She spoke to Ercole, who translated: “So, the Composer had recently been somewhere near cooking of this kind, a restaurant, a family.”
Rhyme scowled.
“Is something wrong?” Massimo Rossi asked.
“The analysis is fine. The problem is I don’t know how to put the evidence in context. You have to know the geography in this business. The landscape, the culture of your crime scenes.”
“Sì, this is true,” Beatrice said.
“Allora,” Rossi said. “Perhaps, Captain Rhyme, I can be of help. We had an incident not long ago. Refugees from Africa refused to eat Italian pasta. True, it was simple, with only pomodoro—tomato—sauce.” He wrinkled his nose. “I prefer ragù or pesto. But, my story is this: The refugees complained, can you believe that? And they insisted on native food. My feeling is, your expression in English, beggars cannot be choosers, but many people took their protests to heart and an effort was made to give the refugees traditional Libyan and North African food. But the refugee camps and facilities are not always able to do so. So, near the camps are many vendors selling Libyan and Tunisian ingredients and fully cooked food.”
“That must cover much land.”
Rossi suddenly smiled. “It does, except for—”
Rhyme interrupted: “The jet exhaust.”
“Exactly! The biggest camp in Campania is the Capodichino Reception Center located near the airport. And there are North African food vendors there.”
“Refugees,” Ercole said. “Like Ali Maziq.” To Rossi: “Could this be the pattern Procuratore Spiro was thinking of?”
“I would say we don’t know enough yet. The Composer might have in mind as his next victim another refugee. But it might also be someone connected with the place. An employee.”
Sachs said, “Send Michelangelo and the tac team to the camp. And tell the security people there. And I’m going too.”
Rossi looked her way with a wary smile.
“I know, I know,” she said. “Spiro won’t be happy. But I’ll deal with him later.” She looked him over. “Are you going to stop me, Inspector?”
Rossi made a show of turning his back to her and staring at the evidence chart. He said, to no one in particular, “I wonder where Detective Sachs has gotten herself to. The last I saw of her, she was at the Questura. And now, gone. I would guess she is off to see the sights of Naples. The ruins of Pompeii, very likely.”
“Thank you,” she whispered to Rossi.
He said, “For what? I cannot imagine.”
As she and the Forestry officer headed for the door, Rhyme noted that Ercole dug into his pocket, fishing for something. Then, for a reason Rhyme could not figure out, the young man’s face tightened with dismay as he produced a set of car keys and dropped them into Sachs’s outstretched palm.
Chapter 33
Their deduction was a solid one—that the Composer might be looking for victims at the refugee camp near the airport.
The forensics were good: Aviation fuel suggested an airport, and the ingredients in Libyan food suggested refugees’ meals or vendors near a refugee camp like the Capodichino Reception Center.
And yet…
As sometimes happens with the most solidly and elegantly constructed theory, this was marred by a tragic flaw.
It had been made too late.
The Composer had done exactly what Rhyme and the others had guessed. Though with one variation: He had not bothered using a kidnapped person’s gasping breath as the rhythm section for a waltz. He’d simply slashed the victim’s throat and, after leaving his trademark noose, fled.
Amelia Sachs and Ercole Benelli had arrived about a half hour after the team at the Questura had deduced that the camp might be the site of the next kidnapping. Already present were a dozen Police of State and Carabinieri, along with some officers of the Financial Police, specializing in immigration laws. Sachs had spotted the flashing lights and the crowd just outside the camp, at the far end from the main gate. There, the chain link had been cut open, making an impromptu exit.
Perhaps a hundred people ganged outside—and from the vigilant way the officers were watching those present, Sachs assumed that many were refugees who’d slipped through the gate to view the incident. Others, workers from the vendor stands, protesters, journalists and passersby, milled about as well, hoping for a look at the carnage, Sachs supposed.
Sachs mounted an earphone and hit a call button, then slipped the live cell back into her hip pocket, sitting just above her switchblade knife.
“Sachs. The scene?”
“Beyond contaminated. Must be fifty people surrounding the body.”