She looked around. It was impossible to see the camp from here, but she assumed that the walkway would take her to a good vantage point.
They slipped rubber bands over their shoes and started. The way was steep, mostly dirt and grass, but some stepping-stones were smooth and seemed intentionally planted. Was this an ancient Roman route?
Climbing, breathing hard. And sweating. The day was hot, even at this early hour.
A breath of wind surrounded them with a sweet smell.
“Telinum,” Ercole said. He’d apparently noted her head turn toward the scent.
“A plant?”
“A perfume. But made of some of what you’re smelling: cypress, calamus and sweet marjoram. Telinum was the most popular perfume in Caesar’s day.”
“Julius?”
“The only and one,” Ercole said.
“One and only.”
“Ah.”
They crested the top of the hill. It was free of trees and, looking down, she saw that, yes, she did have a good view of the camp. She was discouraged to see no obvious signs that the Composer had been here. They walked farther, to the center of the clearing.
Ercole asked, “Milano? Captain Rhyme reported that you found nothing.”
“No. But we eliminated a clue. That’s as important as finding one that pans out.”
“As important?” he asked wryly.
“Okay. No. But you have to pursue it anyway. Besides, I just had croissants on a private jet. So, I’m hardly complaining. You know, I don’t see any footprints or…well, anything. Where would he have stood?”
They both looked about, and Ercole walked in a careful perimeter around the clearing. He returned to Sachs. “No, I see nothing.”
“Why would the Composer come here? It was after the murder, the witness said.”
“To see who was after him?” The young officer shrugged. “Or to communicate with the gods or Satan or whoever might be directing him.”
“That makes as much sense as anything.”
Ercole shook his head. “He would have some cover behind those trees. I will look.”
“I’ll check out down there.” Sachs stepped off the crest of the hill and walked to a small clearing closer to the camp.
Wondering again: What was his point in coming here?
It would have been out of his way—would have taken ten minutes of precious time needed for his escape—to climb the path.
Then she stopped. Fast.
The path!
The only way to see the camp—and to be seen from it—was here, on the crest, after climbing from the road. Yet the emailer had said the suspect had been spotted standing “beside” a dark car as he looked over the camp.
Impossible.
There was no way to get a car up here; the vehicle would have had to remain in the valley, out of sight.
It’s a trap!
The Composer himself had sent the email—in bad Italian, a program translating it from English—to lure her or other officers here.
She turned and was just starting back to the crest, calling Ercole’s name, when she heard the shot. A powerful rifle shot, booming off the hills.
At the crest, Sachs dropped to a crouch in the brush that formed the perimeter of the clearing, drawing her Beretta. She glanced into the valley and saw Hill’s driver, panicked and crouching behind the fender of the Audi. He was on his mobile, apparently shouting as he summoned the police.
And then she looked over the fringe of dry, rustling weeds and saw Ercole Benelli sprawled facedown in the dust beside a regal magnolia. She started to rise and run toward him when a second bullet slammed into the ground right in front of her and, a moment later, the boom of the powerful gun’s report filled the air.
“One interview?”
The man on the other end of the line was speaking in his soft Southern (U.S. not Italian) drawl. This always seemed to make a request more persuasive.
Still Rhyme told Daryl Mulbry, “No.”
The pale fellow was nothing if not persistent.
Rhyme and Thom sat in the breakfast room of their hotel. Rhyme rarely had much interest in an early meal but in Europe the room rate included a full breakfast and, perhaps because of the travel, or the intensity of the cases, his appetite was stronger than normal.
Oh, and there was the fact that the food here was damn good.
“Garry was beat up. Anything we can say about the case might help get him moved from general population.” Mulbry was on speakerphone in the office Charlotte McKenzie was using at the consulate. She was with him and now said, “The Penitentiary Police are decent folks and they’re looking out for him. But they can’t be there all the time. I just need one fact that suggests he’s innocent, to get him to a different facility.”
Mulbry came on the line. “At least could you give us,” he asked, “an idea of what you’ve found?”
Rhyme sighed. He said, trying to be patient, “We have some indication he might be innocent, yes.” He didn’t want to be more specific, for fear Mulbry would leak it.
“Really?” This was McKenzie. Enthusiasm in her voice.
“But that’s only half the story. We need to be able to point to the real perp. We’re not there yet.” Spiro had blessed their involvement but no way was Rhyme going to make a press statement without the prosecutor’s okay.
Mulbry asked, “Could you give us any clue?”
Rhyme looked up, across the breakfast table. “Oh, I’m sorry. I have an important meeting now. A man is here I have to see. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Well, if—”
Click.
Rhyme turned his attention to the man he’d referred to, who was approaching the breakfast table: their server, a slim fellow in a white jacket with a flamboyant mustache. He asked Rhyme, “Un altro caffè?”
Thom began, “It means—”
“I can figure it out and yes.”
The man left and returned a moment later with the Americano.
Thom looked around the room. “Nobody’s fat in Italy. Have you noticed?”
“What was that?” Rhyme asked Thom. His tone suggested he was not fully present mentally. He was considering both the Garry Soames and the Composer cases.
The aide continued, “Look at this food.” He nodded to a large buffet of different kinds of ham, salami, cheese, fish, fruit, cereal, pastries, a half-dozen varieties of fresh bread, and mysterious delicacies wrapped in shiny paper. And there were eggs and other dishes cooked to order. Everyone was eating a full meal, and, yes, nobody was fat. Plump, maybe. Like Beatrice. But not fat.
“No,” Rhyme said in a snappy tone, summarily ending what would probably have been a conversation about American obesity—a topic that he had absolutely no interest in. “Where the hell is she? We need to get going.”
Mike Hill’s private jet had collected Amelia Sachs in Milan and had transported her back to Naples. She’d landed a half hour ago. She was going to meet Ercole to check out a possible clue in the hills above the refugee camp, but Rhyme hadn’t thought that would take this long.
The waiter was hovering once again.
Thom said, “No, grazie.”
“Prego.” Then, after a dawdle: “It is possible for un autografo?”
“Is he serious?” Rhyme muttered.