The Burial Hour (Lincoln Rhyme 13)

"Yes."

Soon they came to the first village on the list and began canvassing. It was a slow process. They would go into a restaurant or bar, approach the server or owner and Ercole would flash a picture of Maziq and ask if they had seen him on Wednesday night. The first time this happened, a lengthy and intense conversation ensued. Sachs took this as a good sign, thinking that the person he was speaking to had provided a lead.

As they returned to the car, she asked, "So he saw Maziq?"

"Who, the waiter? No, no, no."

"What were you talking about?"

"The government is desiring to build a new road nearby and that will improve business. He was saying that sales have been down lately. Even with the depressed price of gasoline, people don't seem to be taking trips out into the countryside because the old road can get washed out, even in a small rainstorm. And--"

"Ercole, we really should move along."

He closed his eyes briefly and nodded. "Oh. Yes, of course." Then he smiled. "In Italy, we enjoy our conversations."

Over the next two hours they hit eighteen establishments. The results were negative.

Just after noon they finished interviewing people in one small town and marked it off the list. Ercole looked at his watch. "I would say, we will have lunch."

She looked around the small intersection. "I could use a sandwich, sure."

"Un panino, si. Possibly."

"Where can we get one to go? Coffee too."

"To go?"

"To take with us."

He seemed confused. "We...Well, we do not do that in Italy. Not in Campania, at least. No, nowhere that I know of in Italy. We will sit down. It won't take long." He nodded to a restaurant whose owner they had just interviewed. "That is good?"

"Looks fine to me."

They sat outside at a table covered by a vinyl sheet that depicted miniature Eiffel Towers, though French food did not appear on the menu.

"We should start with mozzarella. That's what Naples is known for--pizza, too. We invented it. Whatever they say in Brooklyn."

She blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"An article I read. A restaurant in Brooklyn in New York claimed to have created pizza."

"Where I live."

"No!" He was delighted to learn this. "Well, I bring no offense."

"None taken."

He ordered for them. Yes, fresh mozzarella to start and then pasta with ragu. He had a glass of red wine and she got an Americano coffee, which the waitress thought curious--apparently it was a beverage intended for after the meal.

Before the cheese, though, an antipasto plate, which they hadn't ordered, appeared, meats sliced microscopically thin and sausages. Bread too. And the drinks.

She ate a bite of the meat, then more. Salty and explosive with flavor. A moment later the mozzarella cheese came--not slices but a ball the size of a navel orange. One for each of them. She stared. "You eat it all?"

Ercole, already halfway through his, laughed at the nonsensical question. She ate some--it was the best she'd ever had, and she said so--and then pushed the plate away.

"You don't care for it, after all?"

"Ercole, it's too much. I usually have coffee and a half bagel for lunch."