The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"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.

Only the language was different.

Well, that and another distinction: There were no paper coffee cups, as you'd find littering the desks of American cops. No fast-food bags either. Apparently the Italians avoided this sloppy practice. All to the good. When he'd been head of NYPD forensics, Rhyme had once fired a technician who was examining slides of evidence while he chomped on a Big Mac. "Contamination!" he'd shouted. "Get out."

Rossi led them into a conference room of about ten by twenty feet. It contained a battered table, four chairs, a filing cabinet and a laptop. Against the wall easels held pads of newsprint, covered with handwritten notes and photos. These were just like his own evidence charts, though paper, rather than whiteboards. While there were words he couldn't make out, many items on the list of physical evidence were understandable.

"Mr. Rhyme," Rossi began.

"Captain," Ercole said quickly. "He retired as captain from the NYPD." Then seemed to decide he should not be correcting his superior. A blush.

Rhyme gave a dismissing gesture with his working arm. "No matter."

"Forgive me," Rossi continued, apparently genuinely troubled by this lapse. "Captain Rhyme."

"He is now a consultant," Ercole added, "I have read about him. He often works with Detective Sachs here. That is correct too?"

"Yes," she said.

A cheerleader, like this Ercole, was not a bad idea, Rhyme thought. He was curious about the man. He had both a confidence and a rookie's air about him. And Rhyme had seen throughout the building no gray uniforms like his. There's a story here.

Sachs tapped her shoulder bag. "We have the results of the evidence analysis at the two crime scenes involving the Composer in New York. Crime scene photos, footprints and so on."

Rossi said, "Yes. We were looking forward to receiving it. Have you gathered any more information since you spoke to Officer Benelli?"

"Nothing definitive," Sachs said. "We could find nothing about the source of the musical strings he used for the nooses. His keyboard was purchased with cash from a large retailer. There are no fingerprints anywhere. Or, at best, small fragments that aren't helpful."

Rhyme added, "Our FBI is looking at manifests for fl

ights here."

"We have done so too, with no success. But flight manifests would be, what do you say, a long shot. With no picture, no passport number? And your Composer could have flown into a dozen airports in the EU and moved over borders without any record. Rented or stolen a car in Amsterdam or Geneva and driven. I assume you considered he might not have left from a New York-area airport. Perhaps Washington, Philadelphia...even Atlanta on Delta. Hartsfield is the busiest airport in the world, I have learned."

Well, Rossi was at the top of his game.

"Yes, we considered that," Rhyme said.

Rossi asked, "He's American, you think?"