The Composer’s composite picture revealed a round, bald white man, depicted both with a hat and without. He resembled ten thousand other round white men. Rhyme had worked very few cases in which an artist’s rendering provided leads that resulted in an arrest.
Looking at the chart, Rossi mused, “That Post-it note, Milan…What could it be? Was it Malek Dadi’s? Or does the Composer have a connection there? He might have flown in there, established a base, and then drove to Naples for his mischief.”
“Is it nearby?” Rhyme asked.
“No. Seven hundred kilometers.”
Sachs said, “We have to follow up.”
“Someone from the Milan police,” Ercole suggested. “You must know officers there, Ispettore.”
“Of course I do. But one who can understand the nature of the case quickly? What to look for? I think it would be better for someone here to go. Daniela and Giacomo have other caseloads. Ercole, with respect, you are new to this game. I wonder if—”
Sachs said, “I’ll go.”
“That is what I was going to suggest.”
Rhyme said, “But what about Spiro?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you, Rhyme,” Sachs offered. “I’m on the A list. Some reporter was talking about him getting praised for the insight of flying us here from America.” She lowered her voice. “He came close to smiling.”
“Dante Spiro smiling?” Rossi laughed. “As often as a pope’s death.”
Sachs said, “I’ll find somebody in the consulate there to translate for me.” She looked at Ercole. “You can stay here and take care of other matters.”
Other matters…
He understood, as Rhyme did, that she was talking about the Garry Soames case. There was still the student’s apartment to search. Ercole looked worried for a moment, concerned that she might mention this mission in front of Rossi, but of course she did not.
She said, “The jet we flew here on is in England for the time being. Is there an aircraft of yours I can use?”
Rossi laughed. “We have none, I’m afraid. We fly Alitalia, like everyone else, except in very rare cases.” He looked at Ercole. “The Forestry Corps has aircraft.”
“For forest fires. Bombardier Four-Fifteen Super Scoopers. We have a Piaggio P One-Eighty. But none of those are nearby.”
He said this in a tone that, to Rhyme, really meant they were not available to shuttle American detectives anywhere, even if one had been nearby.
“I will check with Alitalia,” Ercole said.
“No,” Rhyme replied. Then to Sachs, “No commercial flights. I want you to have your weapon with you.”
Rossi said, “Yes, it would add considerable time and paperwork.”
Irregularness…
Sachs asked, “Then what? An overnight drive?”
Rhyme said, “No. I have an idea. But I’ll need to make a call.” Then he looked Thom’s way. “All right, all right. I’ll do it from the hotel.”
Besides, he was eager to continue his mission to acquire the acquired taste for grappa.
Saturday, September 25
V
Skulls and Bones
Chapter 35
At 8 a.m. Rhyme, Sachs and Thom were once again displaying passports to the U.S. Marine guards at the well-fortified entrance to the U.S. consulate and were shown inside, to the lobby.
Rhyme was rested and had only a slight hangover—grappa seemed to be kinder in this regard than single-malt whisky.
Five minutes later they were in the office of the consulate general himself, a handsome, well-built man in his mid-fifties. He wore a gray suit, a white shirt and a tie as rich and blue as the water sparkling outside. Henry Musgrave had the studied manners and perceptive eyes of a lifer in the diplomatic corps. Unlike Charlotte McKenzie, he had no problem striding up to Rhyme and shaking hands.
“I’ve heard of you, of course, Mr. Rhyme. I get to New York and Washington. You make the news, even in the nation’s capital. Some of your cases—that fellow, the Skin Collector, he was called. That was quite something.”
“Yes. Well.” Rhyme was never averse to praise but wasn’t inclined to tell war stories at the moment; he was sure that the Composer was planning another attack—because the one at the reception center had failed or because he was indeed slipping further into madness.
Musgrave greeted Sachs and Thom with an enthusiastic grip. He sat down and his attention drifted to his computer screen. “Ah, it’s confirmed.” He read for a moment and looked up. “Just got a National Security briefing report. Not classified—it’s going to the media now. You’ll be interested. The CIA and the Austrian counterterrorism department, the BVT, stopped a terrorist plot in Vienna. They scored a half kilo of C4, a cell phone detonator and a map of a mall in a suburb. No actors yet but they’re on it.”
Rhyme recalled that there’d been a flurry of reports of suspected terrorist activity—both in Europe and in the United States. That was why the Police of State had fewer officers to help investigate the Composer case than they otherwise might.
Okay, got it. Happy news for all. Let’s move on.
Musgrave turned from the screen. “So, a serial killer from America.”
Rhyme glanced toward Sachs, a reminder that they didn’t have time to correct the diplomat about the Composer’s technical criminal profile.
The consulate general mused, “The Italians have had a few—the Monster of Florence. Then, Donato Bilancia. He killed about seventeen. There’s a nurse currently suspected of killing nearly forty patients. And there were the Beasts of Satan. They were convicted of killing only three, though they’re suspected of more. I imagine the Americans win the serial killer prize in terms of body count. At least if you believe cable TV.”
Rhyme said in a clipped voice, “Colombia, China, Russia, Afghanistan and India beat the U.S. Now, as to our request? We’re still good?”
“Yep. I just double-checked.”
Last night, Rhyme had called Charlotte McKenzie, asking if she had access to a government jet to shepherd Sachs to Milan. She didn’t but would check with the consulate general. Musgrave’s assistant called Rhyme to report that an American businessman, in Naples for trade promotion meetings, had a private jet that was flying to Switzerland this morning. The plane could easily stop in Milan on the way. He’d meet them this morning to discuss the trip.
And now Musgrave’s assistant appeared in the doorway, followed by a lanky man, topped with a shock of strawberry-blond hair. He grinned to all and stepped forward. “Mike Hill.” He shook hands with everyone, Rhyme included, paying no attention to the wheelchair.
Rhyme was not surprised when the consulate general told him that Hill—nerdy and boyish, a younger Bill Gates—was here to hawk high-tech products to the Italians; his company exported broadband and fiber-optic equipment, built in his Midwest factory.
“Henry was telling me what you need, and I’m happy to help.” He then frowned and now glanced at the wheelchair. “But have to say, the plane’s not, you know, accessible.”
Sachs said, “I’ll be going alone.”
“What’s the timing?”