Spiro then made what seemed to be a brief statement, which the reporters scribbled down.
He strode to Amelia Sachs and, shocking her, put his arm around her shoulder and gazed at the cameras. “You will smile,” he whispered harshly to her.
She did.
Ercole stepped forward too but Spiro whispered a harsh, “Scappa!”
The young officer backed away.
When the reporter had turned, to jockey through the crowd for pictures of the body, Spiro regarded Sachs and said, “You have a temporary—and limited—reprieve. And your appearing at scenes? I would not object to that. Though you will not talk to the press.” He started away.
“Wait!” she snapped.
Spiro paused and turned, his face reflecting an expression that said he was not used to people addressing him in this tone.
Sachs said, “What you said? About disability? That was beneath you.”
Their eyes locked, and neither moved a muscle for long seconds. Then it seemed he might, only might, have given her a minuscule nod of concession, before continuing on to Massimo Rossi.
He nearly crashed the Mercedes.
So upset was Stefan, about the disaster at the camp, that his eyes had filled with tears and he’d nearly missed a turn as he fled into the hills above Capodichino.
He parked, climbed from the car and sagged to the cool earth. In his mind, he was picturing the blood pouring out of the man’s neck, making a shape like a bell in the sandy ground outside the camp. The man who would now never be the downbeat for his new composition.
The man who was now forever silent.
Alas, my love….
I’m sorry, Euterpe…I’m sorry…
Oh, don’t ever turn your back on your muse. Never nevernevernever…
Never disappoint.
That Stefan hadn’t wanted the man to die this way made no difference. Stefan’s composition was ruined, his waltz—so perfect—was ruined.
He dried his eyes and glanced back at the camp.
Which was when the sight stunned him. If it had been a sound, it would have been a dynamite explosion.
No!
Impossible.
This couldn’t be…
Stefan pushed his way down the hill—still remaining under cover of the pine and magnolias—and paused, his cheek against the bark of a gnarly tree.
Was it true?
Yes, yes, it was! His eyes closed again and he sagged to his knees. He was devastated.
For below him, at the very spot where the man had died, where his blood had spilled out so fast, so relentlessly, stood Artemis.
The red-haired policewoman from the factory in Brooklyn. Stefan knew that some people from New York had come to Italy to help in the investigation against Il Compositore. But he’d never thought it would be the same woman who had so cleverly tracked down the plant and burst through the fence, like the goddess from Olympus that she was, the huntress winging her way to her prey.
No, no, no…
All that mattered in Stefan’s life was arriving at Harmony. He would not allow anything or anyone to deflect him from that state of grace, where the music of the spheres hummed in perfection. And yet here she was, Artemis, intent on stopping him and driving his life to discord.
He lay curled on the ground, knowing he should be moving, but shivering in despair. Nearby, an insect clicked, an owl hoo-ahed, a large animal broke a branch and swished some dry grass.
But the sounds brought him no comfort.
Artemis… In Italy.
Get back to your house, he told himself. Before she starts looking here. Because she will. She’s lethal, she’s keen and she’s hungry for the hunt.
She’s a goddess. She’ll sense where I am!
He rose and stumbled back to the car. He started the engine, wiped the last of his tears and pulled back onto the road.
What would he do?
An idea occurred. What was the one thing that a huntress might not expect?
Obvious: that she would become another hunter’s prey.
Chapter 34
Later that evening, ten o’clock, the Composer team reconvened at the Questura.
All except Dante Spiro, the man who kept his own hours…and his own counsel.
Rhyme kept glancing impatiently into the lab, at Beatrice, who was silently plodding away in her analysis of the evidence. Her fingers were stubby, her hands small. Yet even from here Rhyme could see a deftness about her movements.
Rhyme was also aware of Thom, who’d glanced pointedly at his watch twice in the past few minutes. Yes, yes, I get it.
But Rhyme was in no mood to leave, certainly in no mood to sleep. He was exhilarated, as always when on a thorny case. Tired from the travel, yes, but sleep would remain evasive, he knew, even back in the luxurious hotel.
Sachs said, “But the killing: Intentional? Or because the snatch—the kidnapping—went bad? Somebody showed up. Or the victim saw him and fought back. After he was dead he left the noose as a concession to his plan.”
“Or,” Ercole offered, “his psychosis took over and he is becoming more homicidal. He doesn’t want to take the time to make more compositions.”
Beatrice Renza walked into the room, carrying a yellow pad with her notes. “Here, finally, is the things I have. For the board.” She nodded to an easel. “And I have included the report from the notes by one of the present officers.”
Ercole handed her the marker, conceding the handwriting issue without a fight.
She said, “Fammi la traduzione.”
He nodded and he both spoke and spelled some of entries for her in English, correcting her errors as she wrote.
Capodichino Reception Center
—Victim: —Malek Dadi, 26.
—Tunisian national, lived in Libya, economic not political refugee.
—Causa di morte: loss of blood due to lacerated jugular vein and carotid artery (see medical officer’s report).
—No murder weapon recovered.
—Crime scene trampled, largely destroyed.
—Individual spotted observing the camp within past day or two, fitting the Composer’s description. No further information.
—Traces of amobarbital (anti-panic drug) found in soil beside victim, in suspect’s footprint.
—Miniature noose, made from musical instrument string, no manufacturer determined. Probably cello. 32cm in length.
—Tire tread: Michelin 205/55R16 91H, same as at other scenes.
—Footprints: Converse Cons, Size 45, same as at other scenes.
—Witnesses report suspect drove large black or navy-blue vehicle.
—Post-it note, yellow. —Unable to determine source.
—Address written in blue ink (unable to determine source of ink): Filippo Argelati, 20-32, Milan.
—No readable fingerprints.
—Located under victim but unclear whether he or Composer or someone else was source.
—Camp officials presently searching for other witnesses.
—See FACETTE facial composite rendering.