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• Vehicle:

Dark sedan. Make and model unknown, but wheelbase consistent with large vehicle: American, German?

Tire tread mark Michelin 205/55R16 91H.

• Physical Evidence:

Trace of human blood (AB positive), in sample of propylene glycol, triethanolamine, nitrosamines, sodium lauryl sulfate.

DNA results, negative for matches in:

♦ United Kingdom: National DNA Database (NDNAD).

♦ United States: Combined DNA Index System (CODIS).

♦ Interpol: DNA Gateway.

♦ Prüm Treaty Database.

♦ Italian National Database.

Nitrogen compounds – ammonia, urea and uric acid – hydrogen, oxygen, phosphates, sulfates, carbon dioxide. As well as: C8H7N (indole), 4-Methyl-2,3-benzopyrrole (skatole), and sulfhydryl (thiol), suspended with paper fibers. Desiccated. Old.

Decomposing bits of polymer cis-1,4-polyisoprene, thermoset (vulcanized). Translucent. Quite old.

Bartonella elizabethae bacteria.

Thirty-two hairs – animal. Dog shedding? Awaiting Scientific Police analysis as to what type of animal.

Lead.

Shavings of Fe (iron), rust on one side (see photo).

Limestone.

Phone card, purchased at Arrozo Tabaccaio, Naples. No CCTV, cash sale.

Awaiting analysis from Postal Police.

Fingerprints:

No match in Eurodac, Interpol, Europol or Italy; IAIFIS (America); Ident1 (UK).

Footprints:

Victim apparently in Nike running shoes, size 42.

Perpetrator apparently in Converse Cons, size 45.

Blood, other fluid: See above.

Cash, €11 and 30 dinars (Libyan).

Miniature hangman’s noose, made out of a musical instrument string – probably cello. About 36 centimeters long. (Similar to noose in New York kidnapping, according to NYPD.)

• Witness Account:

Witness was approaching the bus stop, where the victim was standing. He noted that the dark vehicle was parked nearby, about ten meters away at the side of the road. Behind bushes. Suspect was possibly waiting for the victim, or drove up and hid after victim arrived. Suddenly he assaulted victim. A struggle ensued. No observed provocation. Witness then departed to find police assistance. (Information on witness on file; see Inspector Rossi.)

• Canvass: No one, other than the bicyclist, saw the incident or a vehicle.

• CCTV: None for 10km radius.

• Reports of missing persons: None.

• No apparent Camorra or other organized crime connection.

• Possible ’Ndràngheta operative in area, but no connection to the kidnapping verified.

• No known motive.

• Americans will supply analysis from crime scene in New York City.

• Postal Police are monitoring YouVid, prepared to trace, if suspect uploads video of the victim.

‘Beatrice has done her typically solid job,’ Spiro said.

‘Yes. She’s good.’

The prosecutor seemed to sway slightly as he stared at the writing. ‘What is that word?’

‘Bacteria, sir.’

‘I can hardly make it out. Write more carefully.’ Then he scanned the photographs. Spiro mused, ‘So we have this American psycho who has come here on vacation to prey outside his usual hunting grounds. What patterns can we see?’

‘Patterns?’ Ercole said, smiling. He mopped a bit more water and rose.

The lean man, with the most intense black eyes that Ercole had ever seen, turned slowly. ‘I’m sorry?’ Though Spiro was shorter, Ercole felt he was looking up into the prosecutor’s eyes.

‘Well, sir, I am not sure about that.’

‘“Not sure, not sure.” Tell me what you mean.’ His voice boomed. ‘I’m quite curious. You’re not sure about something? What might you not be sure about?’

Ercole was no longer smiling. Blushing, he swallowed. ‘Well, sir, with respect, how can there be any patterns? He’s picking his victims at random.’

‘Explain.’

‘Well, it’s obvious. He finds a victim in New York City, a businessman apparently, according to the Europol report. Then he flees to Italy and selects, it seems, a foreigner of limited means at a rural bus stop.’ He gave a laugh. ‘I see no pattern there.’

‘“See no pattern, see no pattern.”’ Spiro tasted the words as if trying a suspect wine. He paced slowly, studying the chart.

Ercole gulped once more and looked to Rossi, who tossed an amused glance toward both men.

‘What do you do with the fact, Forestry Officer—’

‘Benelli.’

‘– that the kidnapper’s car was parked by the desolate roadside and the kidnapper was waiting in the bushes? Does that not suggest design?’

‘It’s not clear when the kidnapper arrived. It might have been before or after the victim did. I would suggest, at best, there’s a design to kidnap a victim, but not necessarily this victim. So, pattern? I’m not sure I see one.’

Spiro glanced at his watch, a large gold model. Ercole could not detect the brand. He said to Rossi, ‘I have a meeting upstairs, with another inspector. Let me know about any videos. Oh, and Forestry Officer?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Your name is Ercole, right?’

‘It is.’

At last, he recognizes me. And he is going to concede my observation about patterns. Ercole felt victorious.

‘From mythology.’

His name was the Italian version of ‘Hercules,’ the Roman god.

‘My father enjoyed ancient lore and—’

‘You are familiar with the twelve labors that Hercules was required to complete?’

‘Yes, yes!’ Ercole laughed. ‘As an act of penance, in the service of King Eurystheus.’

‘You’re falling behind in yours.’

‘My …’

‘Your labors.’

Silence.

Looking away from the man’s fierce eyes, Ercole said, ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

Spiro pointed. ‘You missed some water there. You wouldn’t want it to seep under the tile, now, would you? The gods would not be pleased.’

Ercole glanced down. Tight-lipped for a moment, and furious that he could not control the reddening of his face. ‘I will get right to it, sir.’

As Spiro left, Ercole dropped to his knees. He happened to glance up and see just outside the doorway Rossi’s protégé Silvio De Carlo, looking in. The handsome officer would have witnessed the entire dressing-down – and the order to complete mopping, the implication being that Ercole was not even a competent janitor, let alone investigator. His face a blank mask, De Carlo moved on.

Ercole said to Rossi, ‘What have I done, Inspector? I was merely stating what seemed logical from the facts. I could see no pattern. A crime in New York, a crime in the hills of Campania.’

‘Ah, you committed the crime of blinders.’

‘Blinders. What is that?’

‘It’s a subtle psychological condition that inexperienced investigators fall victim to. You had already – on the basis of very preliminary evidence – reached the conclusion that this was a random crime. But by embracing that theory you will be disinclined to expand your investigative horizons and consider that the Composer might have acted out of design to target these particular people and that we can discover a pattern to his acts that will help us apprehend him.

‘Is it possible to see a pattern at this point? Of course not. Does Prosecutor Spiro think it likely? Of course not. But there is no one I know with a mind that is more expansive than his. He will take in all the facts, making no judgment, long after others have drawn conclusions. Often, he is right and the others are not.’

‘Open mind.’

‘Yes. Open mind. The most important asset an investigator can have. So, we will not vote on patterns or no patterns at this point.’

‘I’ll remember that, Inspector. Thank you.’

Ercole glanced down at the puddle on the tile floor once more. He’d used all the paper towels. He stepped outside and strode past De Carlo, who was texting on his mobile. My God, the man is completely in vogue, from hair coiffure to polished shoes. Ercole ignored his glance and continued down the hall to the men’s room to fetch more towels.

As he was returning, he noted Daniela Canton up the hall, finishing a conversation with her fellow officer, the blond, Giacomo Schiller. After he had walked away Ercole hid the paper towels behind his back and, after a hesitation, approached. ‘Excuse me. May I ask a question?’

‘Yes, of course, Officer …’

‘Call me Ercole, please.’

She nodded.

He asked, ‘Prosecutor Spiro.’ A whisper. ‘Is he always so stern?’

‘No, no, no,’ she said.

‘Ah.’

‘Usually he is far less polite than he was in there.’

Ercole lifted an eyebrow. ‘You heard him?’

‘We all did.’

Ercole closed his eyes momentarily. Oh, my. ‘And he can be worse? Is that true?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s formidable. A smart man, there’s no doubt. But he tolerates no errors – in fact or in judgment – by others. Be careful not to anger him.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Did you see that book in his pocket? The leather one.’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s never without it. People say it’s a notebook in which he writes down the names of people who have crossed him or are incompetent and will damage his future.’

Ercole recalled seeing the prosecutor on RAI television not long ago, smoothly fielding questions about his plans for a career in politics.

‘He wrote down something just now, as he was leaving!’

She was uncomfortable. ‘Perhaps it was just a coincidence.’ Her beautiful blue eyes scanned his face. ‘In any event, be careful, Officer.’

‘I will. Thank you. You are very kind and I—’

‘Ercole!’ a voice shouted from up the hall.

Gasping, he turned to see Inspector Massimo Rossi storming from the situation room. It was odd, and unnerving, to see the otherwise placid man so agitated.

Had the Postal Police reported that the Composer uploaded a video?

Had someone found the body of the Libyan?

‘Excuse me.’ He turned from Daniela.

‘Ercole,’ she said.

He paused and looked back.

She pointed at the floor. He had dropped the paper towels.

‘Oh.’ He bent and retrieved them then ran up the hall to Rossi.

The inspector said, ‘It seems the information you requested from America about the kidnapping has arrived.’

Ercole was confused; the expression on Rossi’s face was even more troubled than a moment ago. ‘And isn’t that good for us, sir?’

‘It most certainly is not. Come with me.’

CHAPTER 14

Lincoln Rhyme looked around the well-worn lobby of Naples police headquarters.

Though he’d never been here, the building was infinitely familiar; law enforcement doesn’t need translation.

People came and went, officers in several, no, many, different styles of uniforms – most of which were spiffier and more regal than the US equivalent. Some plainclothes officers, wearing badges on hips or lanyards. And civilians too. Victims, witnesses, attorneys.

Busy. Like Naples outside, Naples inside was hectic.

He studied the architecture once more.

Thom said to Rhyme and Sachs, ‘Prewar.’

It occurred to Rhyme that in Italy the phrase would, in most people’s minds, refer to the Second World War. Unlike America for the past eighty years, Italy had not regularly dotted the globe with tanks and infantry and drones.

Thom followed his boss’s eyes and said, ‘Fascist era. You know that Italy was the birthplace of fascism? World War One. Then Mussolini took up the standard.’

Rhyme had not known that. But, then, by his own admission, he knew very little that was not related to criminalistics. If a fact didn’t help him solve a case, it was a nonfact. He did, however, know the origin of the word. He shared this now. ‘The word “fascist” comes from “fasces.” The ceremonial bundle of sticks carried by bodyguards to signify power in Roman officials.’

‘As in speak softly, and carry a big one?’ Sachs asked.

Clever. But Lincoln Rhyme was not in the mood for clever. He was in the mood to get on with the unusual, and infuriating, case against the Composer.

Ah, at last.

Two men, focusing on the Americans, appeared in the hallway, one in his fifties, rumpled and solidly built, sporting a mustache. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie. With him was a tall younger man, around thirty, in a gray uniform with insignia on the breast and shoulder. They shared a glance and moved quickly toward the trio.

‘You are Lincoln Rhyme,’ said the older. His English was heavily accented but clear.

‘And this is Detective Amelia Sachs. And Thom Reston.’

As planned, she proffered her gold badge. Not as imposing as fasces, it was nonetheless some indicia of authority.

Even in the short period he’d been in Italy – about three hours – Rhyme had noted a great deal of hugging and cheek kissing. Man-woman, woman-woman, man-man. Now, not even a hand was offered – at least not by the older cop, the one in charge, of course. He merely nodded, his face stiff with wariness. The younger stepped forward, palm out, but, seeing his superior’s reticence, eased back quickly.

‘I am Inspector Massimo Rossi. The Police of State. You are coming from New York here, all the way?’

‘Yes.’

The young man’s eyes radiated awe, as if he were seeing a living unicorn. ‘I am Ercole Benelli.’

Curious name, pronounced AIR-colay.

He continued. ‘I am honored to meet such an esteemed figure as you. And to meet you in person, Signorina Sachs.’ His English was better and less accented than Rossi’s. Generational, probably. Rhyme suspected YouTube and American TV occupied more of the younger officer’s time.

Rossi said, ‘Let us go upstairs.’ He added, as if he needed to, ‘For the moment.’

They rose in silence to the third floor – it would be the fourth in America; Rhyme had read in the guidebook on the way here that in Europe the ground floor was counted as zero, not one.

Out of the elevator, as they made their way down a well-lit corridor, Ercole asked, ‘You flew on a commercial flight?’

‘No. I had access to a private jet.’

‘A private jet? From America!’ Ercole whistled.

Thom chuckled. ‘It’s not ours. A lawyer Lincoln helped in a case recently lent it to us. The crew is flying clients of his to depositions around Europe for the next ten days. We were going to use it for other plans but then this arose.’

Greenland, Rhyme thought. Or some other suitable honeymoon site. He didn’t, however, share this with the police officer.

At the reference to the duration of their visit – ten days, as opposed to one, or a portion of one – Rossi cocked his head and didn’t seem pleased. Rhyme had known from the moment he and Sachs had looked at each other, following Ercole’s email about the Composer’s presence in Italy, and decided to come here, they would not be welcome. So he was pleased that Thom had fired off the ten-day line; nothing wrong with getting the Italians used to the idea that they were not to be scooted away too fast.

Sachs said to Ercole, ‘You speak English well.’

‘Thank you. I have studied from the time I was a ragazzo, a boy. You speak Italian?’

‘No.’

‘But you do! That is Italian for “no.”’

No one smiled and he fell silent, blushing.

Rhyme looked around him, noting again how familiar the place seemed, little different from the Big Building – One Police Plaza, in New York. Harried detectives and uniforms, some joking, some scowling, some bored. Directives from on high posted on bulletin boards and taped directly to the walls. Computers, a year or so past state-of-the-art. Phones ringing – more mobiles in use than landlines.