The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"What is the harm, though? Has anyone gotten sick? No. And, in fact, even if they are from China, they are of equal quality to those from our region. Smell them!"

"Mr. Albini, the very fact that I cannot smell them from here tells me they are vastly inferior."

This was certainly the case. The best truffles give off a scent that is as far-ranging as it is unique and seductive.

The crook offered what appeared to be a smile of concession. "Now, now, Officer Benelli, do you not think that most diners would have no clue as to whether they were eating truffles from Campania, from Tuscany, from Beijing, from New Jersey in America?"

Ercole didn't doubt this was true.

But still, the law was the law.

He lifted the handcuffs off his belt.

Albini said, "I have euros in my pocket. Many euros." He smiled.

"And they will be logged into evidence. Every last one of them."

"You bastard!" Albini grew agitated. "You can't do this."

"Hold your hands out."

The man's eyes were cold as they dipped to Ercole's gray uniform, scornfully focusing on the insignia on the cap and the breast of the open-necked jacket. "You? Arrest me? You're a cow officer. You're a rare-species officer. You're a fire warden. You're hardly a real policeman."

The first three charges, while insultingly toned, were accurate. The fourth comment slung his way was false. Ercole was a full-fledged police officer with the Italian government. He worked for the CFS, or State Forestry Corps, which was indeed charged with enforcing agricultural regulations, protecting endangered species, and preventing and fighting forest fires. It was a proud and busy law enforcement agency that dated to the early 1800s and counted more than eight thousand officers in its ranks.

"Come along, Mr. Albini. I'm taking you into custody."

The counterfeiter growled, "I have friends. I have friends in the Camorra!"

This was decidedly not true; yes, the crime organization, based in Campania, was involved in rackets surrounding food and wine (and, ironically, the end result thereof: garbage), but no self-respecting gang leader would invite into the fold such a small, weasely operator as Albini. Even the Camorra had standards.

"Now, come on, sir. Don't make this difficult." Ercole stepped closer. But before he could restrain the criminal, a shout of alarm rang out from the road. Indistinct words, but urgent.

Albini stepped back, out of reach; Ercole too moved away, lifting his weapon and swiveling, thinking that perhaps his assessment had been wrong and that Albini was indeed connected with the Camorra, and that there were conspirators nearby.

But he saw that the shout had come from a civilian bicyclist, a young man pedaling a racing bike toward them quickly, bounding unsteadily over the rough terrain. Finally, the cyclist gave up and dismounted, laying down his bike and jogging. He wore an almond-shell helmet, and his kit was tight blue shorts and a black-and-white Juventus football team jersey, emblazoned with the stark sans-serif Jeep logo.

"Officer! Officer!"

Albini started to turn. Ercole growled, "No." He lifted a finger,

and the chubby man froze.

The breathless cyclist reached them, glancing at the gun and the suspect. But he paid neither any mind. His face was red and a vein prominent in his forehead. "Up the road, Officer! I saw it! It happened right in front of me. You have to come."

"What? Slow down. Take your time."

"An attack! A man was waiting at the bus stop. He was just sitting there. And another man, in a car parked nearby, he got out and, in an instant, he grabbed the man waiting for the bus and they began struggling!" He brandished his phone. "I called the police but the officer said it would be a half hour before anybody could be here. I remembered I saw your Forestry truck when I rode past. I came back to see if you were still here."

"Any weapons?"

"Not that I could see."

Ercole shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Jesus Christ. Why now? A glance at Albini, his face pouting innocence.

Well, he couldn't ignore an assault. A robbery? he wondered. A husband attacking his wife's lover?

A psycho, killing for pleasure?