The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

Rhyme: "Then why is this helpful? And why do I see a goddamn smile on your face?"

Ercole asked, "Are you so often in an unpleasant mood, Captain Rhyme?"

"I'll be considerably more cheerful if you answer my question."

"I am smiling because of the one thing I do not see in this picture?"

Rhyme lifted an impatient eyebrow.

"I do not see any residue of olive stones--the pits, you know."

Sachs asked, "Why is that important?"

"There are two ways to make olive oil. To crush the fruit with the pits intact or to destone them first. Cato, the Roman writer, felt that denocciolato oils--destoned before pressing--were superior. Some swear by this, others say no. I am familiar with the subject because I have, in fact, fined producers for claiming their oil is denocciolato when it is not."

"And," Rhyme said, not exactly smiling himself, but close, "it is a much more time-consuming and expensive process and therefore fewer producers use that technique."

"Exactly," Ercole said. "I would think there are only a few in the area that do so."

"No," Beatrice said, head down as she viewed her computer. "Not 'few.' Solo uno." She stabbed a blunt finger onto the map of Naples, indicating a spot no more than ten miles away. "Ecco!"

Chapter 48

Through the dirty windshield, Amelia Sachs looked over the hilly fields outside Naples.

The afternoon air was dusty, filled with the scent of early autumn. Hot too, of course. Always hot here.

She and Ercole were driving past hundreds of acres of olive trees, about eight to ten feet high. They were untidy, branches tangled. On the nearest, she could see the tiny green ol

ives--fruit, Ercole said they were called.

They were not having much luck in the hunt for the Composer.

The Police of State and the Carabinieri had divided up the fields around the Barbera olive oil factory--the only one making oil from destoned olives--in their search for Khaled Jabril and the Composer. This was the sector Sachs and Ercole had drawn. As they had approached down a long road, she was discouraged to see...well, very little. This area, northeast of Naples, was largely deserted. Farmhouses, small companies--generally construction and warehousing--and fields.

They stopped at the few residences scattered around the Barbera factory. And they learned that, no, a man resembling the Composer was not inside. No, a man resembling Khaled Jabril was not inside, either. And neither of them had been seen recently. Or ever.

Ci dispiace...

Sorry.

Back into the car.

Soon Sachs and Ercole were bounding along a badly kept road. Now there were no businesses or residences at all, just the acres and acres of Barbera company olives.

"Dead end," Ercole said.

"Call the other teams," Sachs said, distracted. She swatted lazily at a bee that had zipped into the Megane. "See if they've had any success."

But after three conversations, Ercole reported unsurprisingly that none of the other search parties had found anything helpful. And he confirmed that the Postal Police were carefully monitoring social media and streaming sites. But: "He has not uploaded the video yet."

So Jabril was still alive. Probably.

They returned to the road.

"Hm." Sachs was frowning as she looked over the fields.

"Yes, Detective? Amelia?"