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Rhyme said, "We need another search of Natalia's apartment, Ercole. Particularly the smoking station. I'll bet that's where Mr. X was waiting to keep an eye on Frieda. The roof next door too. And we need to examine Garry's apartment--to see if the drug residue was planted to incriminate Garry...Two simple searches. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. Oh, tops."
Both he and Sachs were staring intently at Ercole Benelli, who had taken to reassembling the file, as if by closing it he'd put this matter to rest forever. Finally, he could avoid them no longer and he looked up. "Quello che chiedete e impossibile. Do you understand? Impossibile!"
Chapter 29
The party where the rape had occurred had been held in an apartment in the Vomero neighborhood of Naples.
The area was atop a high hill that could be reached via funicular or a drive up steep, winding streets. From the crest, you had an Olympus-like view--of the bay, Vesuvius in the distance, and the infinite patchwork of colors and textures and shapes that was Naples.
This was, Sachs's chauffeur, Ercole Benelli, had told her, considered the nicest part of the city. The Vomero was dotted with Art Nouveau architecture and modern-style offices and residences, while mom-and-pop stores and vintage-clothing shops were found next to the chicest designer retail locations that Italy had to offer...and Italy, of course, had chic down cold.
As they'd begun the drive, after a persuasive argument by Rhyme, Ercole had been sullen. His "impossibile" eventually became "forse"--perhaps--and then what must have been the Italian equivalent of a grudging, "Oh, all right." Eventually his easy spirits had returned and as they careened through Neapolitan traffic, Ercole seemed resigned to the risk of being pummeled by Spiro, and he turned tour guide, pelting Sachs with sound bites of the history of the city, present and distant past.
GPS finally got them to Natalia's apartment, a classic Mediterranean-style structure on a small residential street, Via Carlo Cattaneo. They parked and Ercole led the way. Some children stared at them, enthralled, their attention seized by his uniform and the NYPD gold shield on her hip. Some boys tried to catch a glimpse under their jackets, hoping, she guessed, to spot a weapon. Others were more cautious.
Sachs was startled as a teenager sped past them at a run.
Ercole laughed. "Bene, bene...It's all right. In certain other neighborhoods in Naples, he would be going to warn his father or brother there is a cop present. Here, though, he is simply running. To a game or to a girl...or because he wants to be star runner someday. There is crime in Naples, yes. No doubt. Pickpocketing, purse snatching, auto theft. You must be careful in some places. The Camorra are in the suburbs of Secondigliano and Scampia and in the Spanish Quarters in the city. The African gangs closer to Pozzuoli. But here, no."
Natalia Garelli's building was in need of paint and plastering on the outside but through spotless glass it appeared the lobby was starkly elegant. Ercole hit the intercom button. A moment later a woman's voice clattered through the tinny speaker. The front door unlocked and they entered the lobby, dominated by an abstract painting, a swirl. A steel sculpture hung on another wall. An angel? Or a dove? Or purely fanciful? They took the elevator to the top floor, the fifth. There was a single apartment on this story.
Ercole lifted an eyebrow and kissed his fingertips, apparently meaning this was quite the posh place.
He rang the bell on a pale wooden frame and a moment later a very slim and very beautiful woman in her early twenties opened the door.
Ercole introduced himself and Sachs, and the woman nodded, smiling in a friendly way. "You are a policewoman from America, yes. Because Garry is American. Of course. Come in, please. Sono Natalia."
Hands were shaken.
From the girl's jewelry and clothes--leather pants, a silk blouse and enviable boots--Sachs deduced family money. The apartment too. Surely her parents had arranged for the place: student housing a lot better than most kids dwelled in. This place could have been the setting for a Prada fashion shoot. The walls were done in lavender stucco and hung with huge, boldly colored oil paintings, in two styles: abstract and nudes of both sexes. The couches and chairs were dark-green leather and brushed steel. A glass bar dominated one wall and a huge high-def TV the other. Silent music videos jerked across the screen.
"Lovely place."
"Thank you," she said. "My father works in design in Milan. Furniture and accessories. I am studying the subject here and will go into the profession too, when I graduate. Or fashion. Please, tell me, how is Garry?" Her English was perfect with a faint icing of accent.
She answered, "As well as can be expected."
Suitably ambiguous.
Ercole said, "We are looking into follow-up questions on the case. We will take little of your time."
Natalia said, "It was terrible, what happened! And
, I will tell you, it had to be someone not with our group. They are all simply the nicest people. Someone from the next building--there are Serbians living there." Her nose creased in distaste. "Some men, three or four of them. I have often thought they might be up to trouble. I told your colleagues about them."
Ercole said, deferentially, "The residents of that building--everyone--were interviewed and dismissed as suspects. The police found the men you are speaking of were out of town that night."
"Still. Someone from the school? It is impossible."
"But someone might have tagged along with a student. You know what I mean."
"I do, yes. I should have been more careful, I suppose." Her beautiful lips, dark purple, tightened.
"Do you know Frieda well?"
"Not well. Only for a few weeks, when classes began. My boyfriend and I met her in European Political History."
"Did you see her with anyone at the party you didn't recognize?"
