Watch her lengthy, elegant fingers encircle the cup.
A cheetah with azure-blue claws.
He had decided, though, that perhaps she was less creature of the wild than a movie star, albeit one from a different era: the sort appearing in the films of the great Italian directors--Fellini, De Sica, Rossellini, Visconti.
Accordingly, he resisted the sudden urge to show her a picture of Isabella. Proud though he was, there seemed no possible excuse to bring up the topic of a pregnant pigeon to this stellar woman. He simply took notes.
So, armed with her insights, and a fast review of the Scientific Police guidelines, Ercole Benelli had plunged into his mission. And now he eased the poor boxy car onto a sidewalk (parking Neapolitan-style) and climbed out--as did his co-conspirator.
Thom looked around the neighborhood. "What part of town is this?"
"Near the university, so there are many students. Writers. Artists. Yes, yes, it looks tough but it's rather pleasant."
The street was typical of this portion of Naples. Narrow apartment buildings painted yellow or gray or red--and most in need of more painting. Some walls were decorated with graffiti and the air was "fragrant"; it had been several days since the trash had been picked up--a condition not unusual, or entirely Naples's fault, as the Camorra largely controlled the trash collection and the dump sites. Waste removal could be fitful, depending on who was late in paying off whom.
Clothing hung from lines. Children played in the alleyways and the yards behind the stand-alone structures. At least four football games were in progress, the age of the players ranging from six or seven up to early twenties. The latter players, Ercole noted, were strapping and intense and skillful; some of them seemed of professional quality.
He himself had never played seriously--too tall, too gangly. Ercole's hobby as a boy had been bird-watching and board games.
"Did you play football? I mean soccer," he asked Thom.
"No. I fenced in college."
"Fencing! Very exciting. You were serious about it?" He regarded the man's thin, muscular frame.
"I won some awards." The words were modestly spoken.
Ercole managed to get the man to admit he'd nearly made it to the Olympics.
"That's the building there." Ercole strode toward the structure. It was a two-story affair and had apparently been modified for rental: A second door to the ground floor had been installed, clumsily. This, the lower-level living space, was the one that Garry Soames lived in. An easy deduction, since the cheap wooden panel was mounted with a bold placard warning that the space was closed by order of the police and one must not trespass. Was this typical? Closing a whole floor for merely a connection to a crime, rather than the site where an assault had occurred?
Perhaps for such a terrible wrongdoing as rape, yes.
Thom smiled. "That says we're not supposed to be here, right?"
"No trespassing, yes. Let us go to the back. We're easily seen here in front." They circled through a weed-filled alley to the back of the place.
As he did, his phone dinged with a text. It was the response to one he had sent not long before--while driving here.
Ercole. Yes, I am free for an aperitivo after work. May I suggest Castello's Lounge at 21:00.
A thump, low in his belly. Well, look at this. Convinced she wouldn't say yes to his proposal for a drink or dinner, he'd resigned himself to a rejection.
Badger cop. Fungus cop...
But she had agreed! He had a date!
He typed: Good!
Debated. Ercole removed the exclamation point and sent the text.
All right. Back to work, Inspector Benelli.
It was unlikely one could have broken into the front door to plant the date-rape trace without being seen. The back? There was one door here, on the first-floor deck. There were windows, but those large enough for someone to climb through were high--three meters up, not easily reachable. At the ground level were slits of windows on the sides of the structure, but only about twenty centimeters high, too small for entry. In any event, they were painted shut and clearly had not been opened in decades, if ever.
Thom pointed out two pudgy workmen painting the building next door. Ercole and he approached. The men regarded the officer's uniform and climbed from the scaffolding. Ercole asked if they'd seen anyone at the backyard in the past few days. They replied they'd noticed only some boys playing football yesterday or the day before.
Thom had Ercole ask if they kept ladders here overnight, one that an intruder might borrow. But they did not. They took all their equipment with them. A person wishing to break in might have brought his own ladder, of course. Ercole now borrowed one of the workmen's and used it to climb to each of the windows. They were locked or painted shut. He returned the ladder and stepped into the backyard.
Standing with hands on hips, he gazed at the rear of Garry's building. There was trash in the yard, and not much else. Under the deck were two large plastic flower pots, empty. There was no rear entrance on this level--only one tiny window to the right of the deck. Like the others, on the sides, it was painted shut.
He pulled on latex gloves and wrapped his feet with rubber bands. Thom did the same. They climbed to the deck, jutting from the first floor. On it was a lawn chair, faded and torn, and three more large flower pots, filled with dry, cracked dirt but empty of plants, living or dead. A windowed door led into the upper apartment. He tried it. Locked, as were these windows. Through the dust-and mud-spattered glass he could see a kitchen but no utensils or furniture. The counters were covered with undisturbed dust.
Thom squinted too. "Unoccupied. So, no witnesses in the form of Garry's upstairs neighbors."
"No. That is too bad."
Climbing down from the deck into the backyard once more, Ercole followed Daniela's advice and stepped away from the building, a good ten yards. He turned and surveyed the structure in its entirety. She'd explained that this gave you context.
Where were the doors, the windows, for entrance and exit? Where were alcoves and alleys--places where one could lie in wait and plan a break-in?
Where were the vantage points from which people inside could look out and where, from outside, could people peer in?
Were there trash bins that might contain evidence?
Were there hiding places for weapons?
The questions piled up. But there were no helpful answers. He shook his head.
Which was when Thom said in a soft voice, "You become him."
"Him?"
"The perp." The aide was looking his way and had apparently noted Ercole's stymied expression. "You know the word?"
"Yes, yes, certainly. 'Perp.' But become him?"
"It's why Lincoln was the king of crime scenes when he ran forensics at NYPD. And why he picked Amelia as his protegee years ago. I don't understand it myself." The aide added after a moment, "But the process is getting into the mind of the killer. You're not a cop anymore. You're the killer, the burglar, the rapist, the molester. You're like a Method actor: you know, getting into the minds of the characters they play. It can be pretty tough. You go to dark places. And it can take some time to climb back out. But the best crime scene investigators can do it. Lincoln says that it's a fine line between good and bad, that the best forensic cops could easily become the worst perps. So. Your goal isn't to find clues. It's to commit the crime all over again."
Ercole's eyes went back to the building. "So I am a criminal."
"That's right."
"Allora, my crime is putting the evidence in the apartment to make Garry Soames seem guilty."
"That's right," Thom said.
"But the front door is open to a busy street and many neighbors. I can't break in that way. Maybe I could pretend to be interested in letting the apartment upstairs and, when the real estate agent lets me in, I sneak down to Garry's flat and leave the evidence."
"But would you, as the criminal, do that?" Thom asked.
"No. Of course not. Because I wo
uld leave a record of my presence. So, I have to break in through the side or the back. But the doors and windows are locked or painted shut. And there are no signs of--"
"Ah, Ercole, you're thinking as an investigator. After the fact of the crime. You have to think like the criminal. You have to be the criminal. You're the real rapist who has to blame Garry. Or you're the girlfriend that he treated badly and who wants to get even. You're desperate. You need to make this work."
"Yes, yes," Ercole whispered.
So I am the perp.
I'm desperate or furious. I must get inside, and plant drugs in Garry's bedroom.
Ercole began to pace through the backyard. Thom followed. The officer stopped quickly. "I have to plant the drugs but that's only part of my crime. The other part is being certain that no one knows I've done it. Otherwise, the police will instantly conclude Garry is innocent and begin looking for me."
"Yes. Good. You said, 'me,' not 'him.'"
"How would I do this? I can't be a supervillain and abseil down the chimney. I can't tunnel up into the basement apartment..."
Ercole's eyes scanned the back of the building, actually feeling a twist of desperation in his belly. I have little time because I can't be seen. I have no fancy tools because I'm not a professional thief. Yet I have to break in and make sure there are no signs of jimmied doors or windows. He muttered, "No signs at all...How do I do that? How?"
Thom was silent.
Ercole, staring at the building he needed to breach. Staring, staring.
And then understood. He gave a laugh.
"What?" Thom asked.
"I think I have the answer," the officer said softly. "Flower pots. The answer is flower pots."
Chapter 40
Now was the time for blood.
Alberto Allegro Pronti moved silently from the shadows of an alleyway behind the Guida Brothers warehouse at Filippo Argelati, 20-32, in Milan.
While sitting at an unsteady table, sipping a Valpolicella, red of course, he had heard a noise from half a block away. A rapping. Perhaps a voice.
He'd stood immediately and hurried to where he believed that sound had come from: the warehouse.
He was now behind the old structure and could see what he believed was a flicker of shadow on one of the painted-over windows.
Someone was inside.
And that was good for Pronti, and quite bad for whoever that person might be.
The fifty-eight-year-old, wiry and strong, returned to where he'd been sipping and collected a weapon. An iron rod, about three feet long. At the threaded end was a square nut, rusted permanently onto the staff.
It was very efficient and very dangerous and very lethal.
He called to Mario that he would be handling this himself, to stay back. He then returned to the warehouse, easing quietly to the rear. He peered through a spot on the pane where he had scraped the paint away, when he'd been inside recently, so that he could do just this--spy on whoever might be there and deal with them as he wished.
Pronti glanced through the peephole fast, his pulse racing, half believing that he would see an eye looking directly back at him. But no. He noted, however, that there was a shadow in the entryway, where stairs led from here to the first floor. Yes, a target was inside.
He moved on the balls of his running shoes to the back door and withdrew a key from his pocket. He undid the lock and carefully threaded the chain out of the rings screwed into the frame and door, setting the links down--in a line on the dirt so they would not clink together.
The lock too he set down carefully, away from other metal. He spat quietly on the hinges to lubricate them.
Pronti had been well trained.
Then, gripping the deadly club in a firm hand, he pushed inside.
Silently.
It took a moment for his eyes to get used to the darkness, though Pronti knew the layout well: The warehouse was built like a huge horse stable, with six-foot-high dividers separating the ground floor into storage areas. All but one were filled with trash and piles of old, rotting building materials. The remaining one contained a tall stack of cartons and pallets, a recent delivery from a company letting out space here. The floor here was clean, dust-free, and he could walk to the cartons and hide behind them without fear of his target seeing footsteps. He now did so, and he waited, listening to the creaks from overhead, closing his eyes from time to time to concentrate more clearly.
Blood...
His target returned to the top of the stairs, and Pronti could hear him walking down them carefully. As soon as he stepped out of the stairway, he'd return to the front door or walk through the center aisle. Either way he would present his back to Pronti and the wicked club.
His tactically trained ears--like a bat's--would sense exactly where the son of a bitch was, and Pronti would step out, swinging his murderous weapon. He cocked his head and listened. Oh, yes, just like the old days...in the army. Fond memories, troubled ones too. He would bore Mario with his exploits in the service as they sat together over meals or wine.
He thought now of that time on the Po River...
Then Pronti grew stern with himself. Be serious here.
This is battle.
The footsteps descended the stairs and stopped. The victim was debating which direction to turn.
Left to the door, straight?
Either way, you're about to feel my fury...
Pronti took the club in both hands. He smelled the iron nut, close to his nose. Blood and rust smell similar and his weapon was about to reek of both.
But then...What's happening?
There was a thud--a footstep--followed by another, then another. In the back of the warehouse! The intruder had not taken the direct route--past him through the clear center aisle--but had picked one of the areas filled with construction trash, along the side wall. Pronti had assumed it impassable.
Well, no, my friend, you're not escaping me.
Pronti stepped from his hiding space and, holding the rod in two hands, stalked silently toward the rear of the structure, where his victim would be making for the back door, Pronti assumed. This would work just fine. The man would go to the door...and Pronti would crush his skull.
Quiet...quiet...
When he was nearly there, another footfall--close--made him jump.
Yet no foot was to be seen.
What is this?
Another thud.
And the bit of brick rolled to a stop in front of him.
No, no! His soldierly training had failed him.
The footsteps, the thuds, were not that at all. They were a distraction. Of course!
Behind him, the voice barked a command.
The order, delivered by, of all things, a woman, was in English, of which he spoke very little. But it was not much of challenge to deduce the meaning and so Pronti quickly dropped the rod and shot his hands into the air.
Amelia Sachs slipped her gun away.
She stood over the skinny, unshaven man, who sat defiantly on the floor of the warehouse. He wore filthy clothing. Pete Prescott was beside her, examining the metal bar he'd carried. "Quite a weapon."
She glanced at the rod. Yes, it was.
"Il suo nome?" Prescott asked.
The man was silent, eyes darting from one to the other.
Prescott repeated the question.
"Alberto Allegro Pronti," he said. He said something more to Prescott, who fished a card from the man's pocket.
This confirmed his identity.
A string of strident and defiant Italian followed. Sachs caught a few words. "He's a Communist?"
His eyes shone. "Partito Comunista Italiano!"
Prescott said, "It was dissolved in 'ninety-one."
"No!" Pronti barked. More Italian followed. A lengthy, fervent monologue. Sachs guessed he was a holdout from the old movement, which had lost relevance to all but a few.
The man rambled on for a moment, now grimacing.
Prescott seemed amused. "He said yo
u are very good to have fooled him. He's a trained soldier."
"He is?"
"Well, I don't know about the training but he probably served. In Italy all men used to have to serve a year." Prescott asked him a question.
Looking down, Pronti answered.
"It seems he was a cook. But he points out that he did take basic training."
"What's his story? And tell him no politics please."
It seemed that he was homeless and lived in an alley about a half block away.
"Why was he going to attack me?"
Prescott listened to the man's response with a cocked head. Then explained: "Until a few weeks ago he was living in this warehouse, which had been abandoned for at least a year. He'd even put a chain and lock on the back door, so he could have access whenever he wanted and feel safe from street thugs. He had it fixed up nicely. Then the owner or somebody leasing it came back to store things and a man threatened him and threw him out. Beat him up. And he kicked Mario."
"Who's Mario?"
"Il mio gatto."
"His--
"Cat."
Pronti: "Era scontroso."
Prescott said, "The man who threw him out was...unpleasant."
As most cat-kickers would be.
"Today he heard someone and assumed that the man had come back. Pronti wanted to get revenge."
"Was someone here earlier?" She mentioned the broken bottle.
Pronti's response, Prescott said, was that, yes, some workers either dropped off a shipment for storage or picked something up. "About two hours ago. He was asleep and missed them. But then he heard you."
Sachs dug into her pocket and handed the homeless man a twenty-euro note. His eyes grew wide as he calculated, she was sure, how much cheap wine it might buy. She displayed the composite picture of the Composer and the passport photo of Malek Dadi.
"Have you seen them?"
Pronti understood but shook his head in the negative.
So, the most logical explanation for the Post-it was that it had been given to Dadi by someone in the camp, maybe as a possible lead for a job when he was granted asylum.
On the slim chance, though, that there was a connection to the Composer, she said, "You see him." Pointing to her phone. "You call me?" Mimicking making a phone call like a stand-up comic and pointing to herself.
"Nessun cellulare." He offered her a disappointed pout. As if he'd have to give back the euros.