Ercole looked up.
Spiro said, “It is a hobby of mine. I like very much American cowboy stories and I read many of them. I have from the time I was a boy. You know Italy and American Westerns are inextricably linked. Sergio Leone. The Clint Eastwood movies. A Fistful of Dollars. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Then there is the masterpiece Once Upon a Time in the West. Sergio Corbucci’s Django, which starred Franco Nero. And of course there are the scores for so many of those films by Ennio Morricone. He even scored a most recent movie by Quentin Tarantino.
“I particularly enjoy Western novels written by women in the nineteenth century. Did you know some of the best were written by them?”
Didn’t have a clue, Rhyme reflected. And don’t much care. But he nodded agreeably.
Ercole, perhaps relieved not to be inscribed in the prosecutor’s book of doom, said, “Fascinating, Procuratore.”
“I believe so too. Mary Foote wrote a clever novel about mining in 1883. Helen Hunt Jackson wrote Ramona, quite famous, the next year. And one of the most interesting is by Marah Ellis Ryan, Told in the Hills. It is as much about race relations as it is an adventure story. I find that remarkable. Well more than one hundred years ago.”
Spiro nodded at the book, which Ercole continued to read. The prosecuter said, “I too try my hand at Westerns and have created that character, Belle Walker. A society woman from the East who becomes a hunter of outlaws. And, ultimately, in future books, a prosecutor. So, as you can see, Forestry Officer, you do not need to worry about ending up in the pages of my book. Though, this is not to say that the least failing on your part will not result in catastrophic consequences.”
“Yes, yes.” The young officer’s eyes then dropped once more to the pages.
Spiro lifted the book out of his hands.
“But, please, who were the train attackers, Procuratore? Savages? Bandits?”
Spiro waved his hand with a grimace, and Ercole instantly fell silent.
“Now, we have two cases to work on. And at the moment Captain Rhyme wants you to arrange for Beatrice to run a further analysis regarding the Garry Soames case…What would this be?”
Rhyme answered, “I was reading the charts and the accounts of the crime. And I would like a full analysis of the wine bottle found at the smoking station.”
“The contents were checked for the date-rape drug and the outside for fingerprints and DNA.”
“I understand but I would like an examination of trace on the surface of the bottle and the label.”
Spiro said to Ercole, “Do that now.”
“Yes, I will see Beatrice about this. Where would the bottle be?”
“The evidence facility is up the hall. She will know. Is there anything else, Captain Rhyme?”
“Lincoln, please. No, I think that will be enough for now.”
Spiro looked him over. “You have a question about the wine served at the party. I myself find another question equally intriguing.”
“And what is that?”
“This third person, who broke into Garry Soames’ apartment, might have planted the evidence to shift guilt to an innocent man either to protect the actual rapist or to visit revenge on Soames.”
“Yes. That’s one theory.”
“There is another, you know: The intruder might also be a friend of Soames who committed the break-in in hopes that we would come to the very conclusion we just have: that he is being framed…when in fact he’s guilty as—what do you Americans say?—guilty as sin.”
Sunday, September 26
VI
The House of Rats
Chapter 44
The G6 jet settled low on the approach to Naples airport, smooth as a Cadillac in soft-suspension mode.
Amelia Sachs was the only passenger today and the flight attendant had doted.
“More coffee? You really should try the croissants. The ones filled with prosciutto and mozzarella are the best.”
I could really get used to this…
Now, breakfasted and caffeinated, Sachs sat back and looked below the plane, on final. She got a clear view of the Capodichino Reception Center. From here it was a messy sprawl, much bigger than it appeared from the ground. Where, she wondered, would all those people end up? In ten years, would they have homes here? In other countries? Or would they have been sent back where they had come from—to meet a fate merely postponed by their voyage here.
Would they be alive or dead?
Her phone hummed—the crew didn’t require mobiles to be powered off—and she answered.
“Yes?”
“Detective Sachs…I am sorry, Amelia. It is Massimo Rossi. Are you in Milan still?”
“No, just landing, Inspector.”
“In Naples?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. For we have received an email on the Questura website. The writer says that he—or she, there’s no name—saw a man on a hilltop near the camp the night of the murder of Dadi, just afterward. He was beside a dark car. The Italian is bad so we are certain he used a translation program. I would guess he is one of the vendors and Arabic is his first language.”
“Does he say where?”
“Yes.” Rossi gave her the name of a road. He’d gone to Google Earth and found a footpath to a hilltop that overlooked the camp. He described it to her.
“I probably just flew over it. I’ll stop on the way.”
“I will have Ercole Benelli meet you there. In case translation is necessary.” He chuckled. “Or a real badge must be shown to loosen tongues.”
She disconnected. Well, a concerned citizen had come forward.
A somewhat concerned citizen.
Would there be any evidence?
Maybe, maybe not. But you never missed any opportunities for the collection of even a microgram of trace.
Amelia Sachs sat in the back of Mike Hill’s limo, the cheerful driver flirting once more and regaling her with additional details of Naples. The eruption of Vesuvius was today’s topic, and she learned to her surprise that it was not ash or earthquake or lava that killed. It was poisonous fumes.
“In only, it was, a few minutes. Poof. You would say poof?”
“Yes.”
“Poof and then: dead! Thousands dead. That certainly makes you think, does it not? Never waste a moment of life.” He winked, and she wondered if he regularly used references to natural disasters to seduce women.
She’d given him the destination and the Audi limo wound through hills north of the camp. In a tree-line gully, she found Ercole Benelli, and asked the chauffeur to stop.
They greeted each other and she introduced him to the driver. The men shared a brief conversation in Italian.
“Can you wait here? I won’t be long,” Sachs said to the driver.
“Yes, yes! Of course.” The big man smiled, as if anything a beautiful lady asked would be granted.
“That’s the path?” she asked Ercole.
“Yes.”