AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Oh." He bent and retrieved them then ran up the hall to Rossi.
The inspector said, "It seems the information you requested from America about the kidnapping has arrived."
Ercole was confused; the expression on Rossi's face was even more troubled than a moment ago. "And isn't that good for us, sir?"
"It most certainly is not. Come with me."
Chapter 14
Lincoln Rhyme looked around the well-worn lobby of Naples police headquarters.
Though he'd never been here, the building was infinitely familiar; law enforcement doesn't need translation.
People came and went, officers in several, no, many, different styles of uniforms--most of which were spiffier and more regal than the U.S. equivalent. Some plainclothes officers, wearing badges on hips or lanyards. And civilians too. Victims, witnesses, attorneys.
Busy. Like Naples outside, Naples inside was hectic.
He studied the architecture once more.
Thom said to Rhyme and Sachs, "Prewar."
It occurred to Rhyme that in Italy the phrase would, in most people's minds, refer to the Second World War. Unlike America for the past eighty years, Italy had not regularly dotted the globe with tanks and infantry and drones.
Thom followed his boss's eyes and said, "Fascist era. You know that Italy was the birthplace of fascism? World War One. Then Mussolini took up the standard."
Rhyme had not known that. But, then, by his own admission, he knew very little that was not related to criminalistics. If a fact didn't help him solve a case, it was a nonfact. He did, however, know the origin of the word. He shared this now. "The word 'fascist' comes from 'fasces.' The ceremonial bundle of sticks carried by bodyguards to signify power in Roman officials."
"As in speak softly, and carry a big one?" Sachs asked.
Clever. But Lincoln Rhyme was not in the mood for clever. He was in the mood to get on with the unusual, and infuriating, case against the Composer.
Ah, at last.
Two men, focusing on the Americans, appeared in the hallway, one in his fifties, rumpled and solidly built, sporting a mustache. He wore a dark suit, white shirt and tie. With him was a tall younger man, around thirty, in a gray uniform with insignia on the breast and shoulder. They shared a glance and moved quickly toward the trio.
"You are Lincoln Rhyme," said the older. His English was heavily accented but clear.
"And this is Detective Amelia Sachs. And Thom Reston."
As planned, she proffered her gold badge. Not as imposing as fasces, it was nonetheless some indicia of authority.
Even in the short period he'd been in Italy--about three hours--Rhyme had noted a great deal of hugging and cheek kissing. Man-woman, woman-woman, man-man. Now, not even a hand was offered--at least not by the older cop, the one in charge, of course. He merely nodded, his face stiff with wariness. The younger stepped forward, palm out, but, seeing his superior's reticence, eased back quickly.
"I am Inspector Massimo Rossi. The Police of State. You are coming from New York here, all the way?"
"Yes."
The young man's eyes radiated awe, as if he were seeing a living unicorn. "I am Ercole Benelli."
Curious name, pronounced AIR-colay.
He continued, "I am honored to meet such an esteemed figure as you. And to meet you in person, Signorina Sachs." His English was better and less accented than Rossi's. Generational, probably. Rhyme suspected YouTube and American TV occupied more of the younger officer's time.
Rossi said, "Let us go upstairs." He added, as if he needed to, "For the moment."
They rose in silence to the third floor--it would be the fourth in America; Rhyme had read in the guidebook on the way here that in Europe the ground floor was counted as zero, not one.
Out of the elevator, as they made their way down a well-lit corridor, Ercole asked, "You flew on a commercial flight?"
