The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"Mut," Ilir spat out.

The knife vanished and they rose quickly.

Garry struggled to his feet.

"You are saying nothing!" Artin whispered. "Silence, baby-cry." They turned and walked away quickly.

Garry stepped from the wall.

He saw who'd just called to him. It was the assistant director of the prison, a narrow, balding man who wore the uniform of the Penitentiary Police. It was perfectly pressed.

Garry joined the man in front of the doorway.

"You are well? What has happened?" He was regarding Garry's gray, grass-stained jumpsuit.

"I fell."

"Ah, fell. I see." He didn't believe him, but in prison--even in this short period of time, Garry had learned--the authorities don't question what they choose not to question.

"Si?" Garry asked.

"Signor Soames, I have for you good news. The prosecutor in your case has just called and informed me that the true attacker has been identified. He has applied to a magistrate that you be released."

Breathlessly, Garry asked, "For sure?"

"Yes, yes, he is certain. The documents for release have not been signed yet but that will happen soon."

Garry looked back at the doorway to his cell wing, thinking of the two Albanians. "Do you want me to wait in my cell?"

The assistant director debated a moment looking over Garry's torn sleeve. "No, I think that's not necessary. Come into the administrative wing. You can wait in my office. I will bring for you caffe."

Now the tears came. And came in earnest.

Chapter 54

The team had assembled in the situation room near the lab on the ground floor of the Questura.

Sachs and Flying Squad officer Daniela Canton had brought the evidence collected at the farmhouse near the organic fertilizer farm, and Beatrice Renza was completing her analysis. The evidence was here too from the factory in Naples, which had been dubbed by Daniela's partner, Giovanni Schiller, Il Casa dei Ratti.

Spiro stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed. "Where is Ercole?"

Sachs explained that she'd sent him on another assignment; he would be back soon.

Rossi was on the telephone and when he disconnected, he explained that he had located the owner of the farmhouse, who'd rented the place to the Composer. He lived in Rome and had driven to Naples to meet an American, who had given his name as Tim Smith, from Florida. The owner confirmed he resembled the composite picture of the kidnapper. He'd paid cash for two months plus a bonus.

"A bonus," Rossi said with a wink in his voice, "for riservatezza. Discretion, you would say. That's not what the landlord said but it was what I understood. He supposed the man wanted a place for his mistress. He didn't suspect a crime, he insisted. Of course he did but he hardly cared."

The landlord had told Rossi he had none of the cash left--hence, no fingerprint possibility--but he did have a thought about the make of the man's car. Though the renter had parked out of sight, the landlord had coincidentally driven off the main road to get to a restaurant outside town and gotten a look at an old dark-blue Mercedes. A quick search confirmed that the Michelin tire size was compatible with older Mercedes. Rossi put the notice out to all law enforcement agencies to look for such a sedan.

Farmhouse Outside of Caiazzo

--Dell Inspiron computer. --Passcode-protected, sent to Postal Police.

--Western Digital, 1 TB drive. --Passcode-protected, sent to Postal Police.

--Browning AB3 rifle, caliber: Winchester .270. --Serial number indicates stolen three years ago, private residence in Bari, probably sold on the underground market.

--Box of 23 Winchester .270 cartridges, two empty brass shells.