He tapped her arm. She smiled. He was holding out rubber bands.
They put them on their feet. He whispered, “But no gloves. Tactical.”
Nodding, she whispered, “We clear every room. That means we assume that he’s on the other side of any closed door or he’s hiding behind anything big enough to hide behind. I’ll hit the room once, fast, with the light, high, like I did at the window. Then back to cover. Then we go in low, crouching. He’ll be expecting us standing. And I mean low.”
“And if we find him and he doesn’t surrender, we shoot for his arms or legs?”
She frowned. “No, if he’s armed, we kill him.”
“Oh.”
“Shoot here.” She touched her upper lip, just below the nose. “To hit the brain stem. Three shots. Are you okay with that?”
“I—”
“You have to be okay with it, Ercole.”
“I am.” A firm nod. “Sì. D’accordo.”
A few deep breaths, and so began the hunt. This was a game you never got used to, a game you hated and yet was the most exquisite drug ever concocted.
First, she directed him to the den, where she’d seen the rifle. They cleared the room and she lifted the gun down and removed and pocketed the bolt, so it couldn’t fire. Then they began a room-by-room search, from the back of the house to the front. Most rooms were empty. There was a small bedroom that had to be the Composer’s. A single Converse Con sat beside the bed.
The kitchen, too, had been used with some frequency.
They continued on.
And hit every room on the ground floor of the place, then upstairs. The Composer was not here.
Finally, they returned to the door that Sachs believed led to the cellar.
She tested the wrought-iron latch slowly. It was unlocked.
Amelia Sachs loathed basements. With a full tactical operation, you could pitch down a flash bang grenade, stun a barricaded suspect and leap down fast. But now? Just the two of them? She’d have to descend the stairs, her legs then hips then torso in full view of whatever weapon the Composer had. When he’d stolen the rifle, had he gotten away with a pistol as well?
Two shots to the knees and she’d fall, helpless and screaming in pain, ready for the final kill.
She glanced up and noted that Ercole, while he would not have had any such experience, was determined and calm. She was confident he’d do fine, if anything happened to her.
She whispered, “If Khaled is anywhere, it’s down there. Or the garage. More likely here, I’m thinking. So let’s go. You pull the door. And I go down, fast.”
“No, I will be the one.”
She smiled. “This is my thing, Ercole. I’ll go.”
“Let me. If he fires or attacks you will be able to shoot him better than I can. It is not a subject I excelled in at training. Truffle smugglers rarely carry AK-Four-Sevens.” A smile.
She gripped his arm. “All right. Go fast. Here’s the light.”
He took a deep breath. And muttered something. A name. Isabella, she believed. Maybe a saint.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
She yanked the door open. It crashed into the wall with a cloud of dust.
Neither moved for a moment.
It wasn’t a cellar. It was a closet. Empty.
Breathing fast.
“Okay. Garage. We need something to break the padlock.”
They rummaged for tools and, in the kitchen, Ercole found a large hatchet. They left the house and made their way, crouching, to the outbuilding.
They prepared for entry again—different this time, since they could both establish a field of fire. He would break the lock and pull the sliding door open, while Sachs crouched and aimed into the small building with her flashlight and Beretta. He would do the same.
She nodded.
One swing of the tool and the padlock flew off. He yanked the door open…and just like with the closet, empty space greeted them.
A sigh. They put their weapons away and walked back to the house.
“Let’s see what we can find.”
How much time did they have until Khaled died? Not much, she knew.
They walked into the living room and, donning blue gloves now, looked over the desk, the papers, files, notes, instrument strings. Searching for anything that might give a clue where the Composer and Khaled might be.
Her phone hummed—she’d put it on silent before the entry.
“Rhyme,” she said into the microphone attached to her earbud cords. “It’s his hidey-hole. But they’re not here. The Composer or the vic.”
“Massimo says the Carabinieri should be there any minute.”
She could hear the sirens.
Rhyme said, “There’s not much time. He’s uploaded his video. Massimo sent the link to Ercole’s phone. The Postal Police are trying to track his proxies through the Far East. He doesn’t have Edward Snowden’s chops but it’ll still be a few hours before they get a specific site.”
“We’ll keep at it here, Rhyme.”
She disconnected and continued the search, telling the Forestry officer, “Check your phone.”
Ercole showed her the screen. “Here.”
The video showed the unconscious form of Khaled Jabril, sitting in a chair, a noose around his neck, mouth gagged. Even through the small speakers of the mobile, it was easy to hear the bass beat, keeping time to the waltz that played underneath the visuals. The tune was eerie.
Ercole said, “Ah, he’s not using gasping breath for the rhythm, like before. It’s the victim’s heartbeat.”
Sachs said, “It’s familiar, that music. Do you know what it is?”
“Ah, yes. It is the ‘Danse Macabre.’”
Sachs actually shivered, hearing the pulsing, ominous piece. She then squinted as she gazed at some papers in front of her.
No. Impossible.
She hit redial.
“Sachs. You’ve found something?”
“It’s far-fetched, Rhyme, but it’s the only chance we’ve got. Where’s Massimo?”
“Hold on. You’re on speaker.”
“I’m here, Detective Sachs,” Rossi said.
“Here’s an address. In Naples.” She recited it.
“Yes, it’s in the Spanish Quarters, not too far away from us. What’s there?”
“Khaled Jabril, I’m pretty sure. The only question is, is he still alive?”
Chapter 51
Sachs saw Massimo Rossi, standing before what seemed to be an old factory, long abandoned, boarded up. The word “Produzione” was legible, appearing below another word—a person’s name or a product or a service—that was not.
The inspector saw them and called, “Qui. This way.”