The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"A copycat crime, surely." Spiro was nodding at the noose.

Ercole said quickly, "No, impossible."

"Impossible?" Spiro growled.

The young man blushed and looked down. "Ah, sir. I would say unlikely. The fact of the noose hasn't yet been released to the press. For the very reason of copycat perpetrators. Someone might have seen the video, yes, but Crovi said it was a heavyset white male in a dark outfit. And the noose? The same as the report from the NYPD about the kidnapper there. I think it must be him."

Rossi gave a chuckle. "You're a Forestry officer. Why were you reading Europol reports?"

"Interpol too. And our own Police of State and Carabinieri alerts from Rome. I always do. I might use something that I learn in my own work."

Spiro muttered, "At Forestry? That must happen as often as a pope's death." He kept his eyes on the blackness of the landscape. Then: "What else did this report say? The video?"

"He posted a video of the victim about to be hanged. With music playing. On a site called YouVid."

"Terrorist?" Rossi asked.

"Apparently not. The report said he is on antipsychotic medication."

"Which is obviously not doing a very good job," Daniela said.

Rossi said to Spiro, "Postal Police. I'll have them monitor the site and get ready to trace it if he posts."

"Postal Police" was an antiquated name for a state-of-the-art law enforcement division in Italy. They handled all, or most, crimes involving telecommunications and computers.

Spiro said, "Any other thoughts?"

Ercole began to speak but the prosecutor interrupted, adding, "Massimo?"

"If he is making a production of the death," the inspector said, "I won't spend much time and manpower searching for the body. Only one team. I will send most officers out to canvass and look for CCTVs in the area."

"Good."

Which cheered Ercole, since this was close to what his own suggestion would have been.

Spiro added, "I must be getting back to Naples. Good night, Massimo. Call me with any developments. I want all the reports, especially the crime scene data. And we should pursue this lead, if that's what it is." He was now looking at the noose. He shook his head and walked to his car. There, before climbing in, he paused at the driver's side, pulled the leather-bound book from his pocket and made notations. He replaced the volume, climbed into the Volvo and sped away. As his car drove off, crunching over the gravel on the shoulder, another sound filled the night. The guttural growl of a motorcycle approaching.

Several heads turned to see the gorgeous Moto Guzzi Stelvio 1200 NTX bounding along the uneven roadway. Astride was an athletic-looking man, with thick hair, clean-shaven. He wore close-fitting jeans, boots, a black shirt and a leather jacket, dark brown. On his left hip was a badge of the Police of State; on the right, a large Beretta, a Px4 .45. No-nonsense, it had been dubbed by officers who carried it, though Ercole had always thought that use of "nonsense" and any firearm was largely contradictory.

Ercole watched the man skid to a stop. He was Silvio De Carlo, assistant inspector, young--about Ercole's age. He strolled up to the inspector and gave a nod that was the equivalent of a salute to a commanding officer. Rossi and De Carlo began discussing the case.

The assistant was the epitome of a young Italian law enforcer--handsome, self-assured, surely smart and quick-witted. Clearly in good shape, too, and probably an ace with that powerful gun of his. Karate or, more likely, some obscure form of martial art figured in his life. Attractive to the ladies--and skilled in those arts, as well.

De Carlo was a citizen of that rarefied world alien to Ercole.

Fashionista...

Then Ercole corrected himself. He was selling De Carlo short. He'd earned his slot with the Police of State, obviously. While, as in any policing organization anywhere in the world, there would be dross at the top--officials coasting on their connections and glad-handing--a young line officer like De Carlo would only have risen on merit.

Well, Ercole decided, he himself had done his job--brought the attack to the attention of the investigators, informed them of the Composer. The truffle counterfeiter was long gone, and it was time to get home to his small flat on the Via Calibritto, in the Chiaia district. The neighborhood was far more chic than Ercole would have liked, but he'd come upon the place for a song and had spent months making it charming and comfortable: crammed full of family heirlooms and artifacts from his parents' home in the country. Besides, he had the top floor and it was a short climb up from his den to his pigeons. He was already looking forward to a coffee on the roof tonight, gazing over the lights of the city and enjoying his partial view of the park and the bay.

He could already hear the cooing of Isabella and Guillermo and Stanley.

He climbed into the front seat of his Ford. He pulled out his phone and sent several email messages. He was about to replace the unit when it sang with the tone. It was not a reply but instead a text from his superior, wondering how the operation was going.

The operation...

The capture of the truffle counterfeiter.