The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"Prego." Then, after a dawdle: "It is possible for un autografo?"

"Is he serious?" Rhyme muttered.

"Lincoln," Thom said in his most admonishing tone.

"I'm a cop. A former cop. Who cares about my autograph? He doesn't know me from Adam."

Thom said, "But you're on the trail of the Composer."

"Si! Il Compositore!" The waiter's eyes were bright.

"He'd be happy to." Thom took the waiter's proffered order pad and set it in front of Rhyme, who gave a labored smile and took the offered pen. In a stilted maneuver, he signed his name.

"Grazie mille!"

Thom admonished, "Say--"

"Don't be a schoolmarm," Rhyme whispered to Thom and then said to the server: "Prego."

"The eggs are excellent," Thom said. "Le uova sono molto buone. Is that right?"

"Si, si! Perfetto! Caffe?"

"E una grappa." Rhyme gave it a shot.

"Si."

"No." From Thom.

The man noted the aide's steely eyes and headed off, with a conspiratorial glance toward Rhyme. He took this to mean perhaps not now, but grappa would figure in the near future. Rhyme smiled.

He glanced through the large plate-glass window and noted Mike Hill's limousine pulling to a stop in front of the hotel. Sachs climbed out and stretched.

Something was odd. Her clothes were dusty. And, what was this? She had a fleck of blood on her blouse. She wasn't smiling.

He looked Thom's way. The aide too was frowning.

The driver, a big, dark-complexioned, hirsute man--so very Italian--leapt out and grabbed her small bag from the trunk. She shook her head--at the unnecessary gallantry; the bag weighed ten pounds, tops. They exchanged a few words and he tipped his head, then joined a cluster of other drivers for a smoke and--as Rhyme had observed about the Italians--conversation.

She joined Rhyme and Thom.

"Amelia!" Thom said, rising, as she walked into the lobby.

"What happened?" Rhyme asked firmly. "You're hurt?"

"Fine. I'm fine." She sat down, drank a whole glass of water. "But..."

"Oh, hell. A trap?"

"Yep. The Composer. He's got a rifle, Rhyme. High caliber."

Rhyme cocked his head. "Ercole? He was with you."

"He's all right too. I thought he'd been hit, but the Composer was probably shooting iron sights, no scope. He missed and Ercole went to cover. He just dropped. Played dead. I got a slug parked near me but then I laid down covering fire and we got off the hill."

"You're all right?"

She touched some scrapes on her neck. Then glanced down at her tan blouse, grimacing. "Got some spray, gravel or something