Spiro chuckled. “You mean, Lincoln, it will be my problem in the Tribunale di Napoli.”
Rhyme shot him a wry look.
The Wolf Tits Rule…
Reading again, Rhyme said, “Now, those triacylglycerols, free fatty acids, pigment.”
Ercole said, “Beatrice has provided a chemical chart here. Should we write that down?”
Rhyme glanced at the molecular diagram. “No, not necessary. We’ve got what we need. Triacylglycerols—or triglycerides.”
“What are they?” Spiro asked.
“Fat basically. They’re energy reserves for living things. Molecules that contain glycol and three fatty acid chains. Hence, tri-glyceride. They’re found in both plants and animals. But animal fats tend to be saturated.”
“What does that mean?” Rossi made this inquiry.
“In a nutshell, saturated fats—the bad ones, if you listen to the health-minded—are so named because their carbon chains are saturated with hydrogen. This makes them more solid than unsaturated fats, which have less hydrogen.” He nodded at the diagram. “These are missing some hydrogen and therefore it is a plant fat.”
“But what kind?” Ercole asked.
“The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”
“The…what? I am not understanding,” Beatrice said.
“American cultural reference from a long time ago, fifty, sixty years or so.”
The officer translated for Beatrice, who gave a rare smile and said something, which Ercole translated: “She said that is not so ‘long ago,’ compared with cultural references in Italy.”
Sachs laughed.
Rhyme said, “We need to find out what plant. Is there a database of plants in the Scientific Police?”
Beatrice’s response was that there was one in Rome. She would go online and search it. She typed and spoke to herself as she did so. “Allora. A triglyceride molecule, unsaturated, una hydrocarbon chain, twenty-two carbon atoms in way of length. Dark green, the pigment. What plant, what plant…?” Finally she nodded. “Bene. I have gotten it. But helpful, I am not thinking so much. It is olive oil.”
Rhyme sighed, then glanced at Rossi. “How much olive oil would you say is produced in Italy?”
The inspector, in turn, handed off to Ercole. This would be, of course, his area of expertise. The young officer answered, “About four hundred and fifty thousand tons every year. We’re the world’s second-largest producer.” He grimaced and added defensively, “But we are closing in on Spain.”
How helpful is this? Rhyme thought, irritated. It could have come from anywhere in the country. “Hell.”
This was the most frustrating occurrence in forensic work, struggling to discover a clue, only to learn that while it probably did have some connection with the perpetrator, the substance was so common that it was useless forensically.
Then Ercole said something to Beatrice and she stepped away, returning a moment later with some photographs.
He studied them carefully.
“What, Ercole, you see something?” Rhyme asked.
“I believe I do, Capitano.”
“And?”
“The reference on the chart—to the organic material. Bits of solids. Look at the photo.”
Rhyme glanced at the images. He could see hundreds of tiny dark fragments.
Ercole added, “Since we now know about the olive oil, I would say that this trace is not olive oil alone. It is pomace. That is the paste left over after the pressing of the olives.”
Spiro said, “So this might have come not from a restaurant or someone’s home but from a producer?”
“Yes.”
Narrowing things down some. But how much? He asked, “Do you have a lot of producers here?”
“In Campania, our region, we don’t have as many as in Calabria, farther south. But still many, many, yes.”
Rhyme: “Then why is this helpful? And why do I see a goddamn smile on your face?”
Ercole asked, “Are you so often in an unpleasant mood, Captain Rhyme?”
“I’ll be considerably more cheerful if you answer my question.”
“I am smiling because of the one thing I do not see in this picture?”
Rhyme lifted an impatient eyebrow.
“I do not see any residue of olive stones—the pits, you know.”
Sachs asked, “Why is that important?”
“There are two ways to make olive oil. To crush the fruit with the pits intact or to destone them first. Cato, the Roman writer, felt that denocciolato oils—destoned before pressing—were superior. Some swear by this, others say no. I am familiar with the subject because I have, in fact, fined producers for claiming their oil is denocciolato when it is not.”
“And,” Rhyme said, not exactly smiling himself, but close, “it is a much more time-consuming and expensive process and therefore fewer producers use that technique.”
“Exactly,” Ercole said. “I would think there are only a few in the area that do so.”
“No,” Beatrice said, head down as she viewed her computer. “Not ‘few.’ Solo uno.” She stabbed a blunt finger onto the map of Naples, indicating a spot no more than ten miles away. “Ecco!”
Chapter 48
Through the dirty windshield, Amelia Sachs looked over the hilly fields outside Naples.
The afternoon air was dusty, filled with the scent of early autumn. Hot too, of course. Always hot here.
She and Ercole were driving past hundreds of acres of olive trees, about eight to ten feet high. They were untidy, branches tangled. On the nearest, she could see the tiny green olives—fruit, Ercole said they were called.
They were not having much luck in the hunt for the Composer.
The Police of State and the Carabinieri had divided up the fields around the Barbera olive oil factory—the only one making oil from destoned olives—in their search for Khaled Jabril and the Composer. This was the sector Sachs and Ercole had drawn. As they had approached down a long road, she was discouraged to see…well, very little. This area, northeast of Naples, was largely deserted. Farmhouses, small companies—generally construction and warehousing—and fields.
They stopped at the few residences scattered around the Barbera factory. And they learned that, no, a man resembling the Composer was not inside. No, a man resembling Khaled Jabril was not inside, either. And neither of them had been seen recently. Or ever.
Ci dispiace…
Sorry.
Back into the car.
Soon Sachs and Ercole were bounding along a badly kept road. Now there were no businesses or residences at all, just the acres and acres of Barbera company olives.
“Dead end,” Ercole said.
“Call the other teams,” Sachs said, distracted. She swatted lazily at a bee that had zipped into the Mégane. “See if they’ve had any success.”
But after three conversations, Ercole reported unsurprisingly that none of the other search parties had found anything helpful. And he confirmed that the Postal Police were carefully monitoring social media and streaming sites. But: “He has not uploaded the video yet.”
So Jabril was still alive. Probably.
They returned to the road.
“Hm.” Sachs was frowning as she looked over the fields.