‘Come along, Mr Albini. I’m taking you into custody.’
The counterfeiter growled, ‘I have friends. I have friends in the Camorra!’
This was decidedly not true; yes, the crime organization, based in Campania, was involved in rackets surrounding food and wine (and, ironically, the end result thereof: garbage), but no self-respecting gang leader would invite into the fold such a small, weasely operator as Albini. Even the Camorra had standards.
‘Now, come on, sir. Don’t make this difficult.’ Ercole stepped closer. But before he could restrain the criminal, a shout of alarm rang out from the road. Indistinct words, but urgent.
Albini stepped back, out of reach; Ercole too moved away, lifting his weapon and swiveling, thinking that perhaps his assessment had been wrong and that Albini was indeed connected with the Camorra, and that there were conspirators nearby.
But he saw that the shout had come from a civilian bicyclist, a young man pedaling a racing bike toward them quickly, bounding unsteadily over the rough terrain. Finally, the cyclist gave up and dismounted, laying down his bike and jogging. He wore an almond-shell helmet, and his kit was tight blue shorts and a black-and-white Juventus football team jersey, emblazoned with the stark sans-serif Jeep logo.
‘Officer! Officer!’
Albini started to turn. Ercole growled, ‘No.’ He lifted a finger, and the chubby man froze.
The breathless cyclist reached them, glancing at the gun and the suspect. But he paid neither any mind. His face was red and a vein prominent in his forehead. ‘Up the road, Officer! I saw it! It happened right in front of me. You have to come.’
‘What? Slow down. Take your time.’
‘An attack! A man was waiting at the bus stop. He was just sitting there. And another man, in a car parked nearby, he got out and, in an instant, he grabbed the man waiting for the bus and they began struggling!’ He brandished his phone. ‘I called the police but the officer said it would be a half hour before anybody could be here. I remembered I saw your Forestry truck when I rode past. I came back to see if you were still here.’
‘Any weapons?’
‘Not that I could see.’
Ercole shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Jesus Christ. Why now? A glance at Albini, his face pouting innocence.
Well, he couldn’t ignore an assault. A robbery? he wondered. A husband attacking his wife’s lover?
A psycho, killing for pleasure?
The Monster of Florence’s cousin?
He scratched his chin and considered his options. All right. He would cuff Albini and leave him in the back of the Poker, then return.
But the counterfeiter had sensed a good opportunity. He sprinted to the truck and leapt into the seat calling, ‘Farewell, Officer Benelli!’
‘No!’
The engine started and the tiny vehicle puttered past Ercole and the bicyclist.
The officer raised the pistol.
Through the open window Albini shouted, ‘Ah, would you shoot me over a truffle? I do not think you will. Farewell, Mr Pig Cop, Mr Cow Cop, Guardian of the Endangered Muskrat! Farewell!’
Ercole’s face burned with anger and shame. He shoved his pistol back into the holster and began trotting toward the Ford. He called over his shoulder to the bicyclist, ‘Come, get in my truck. Show me exactly. Hurry, man. Hurry!’
Chapter 10
The vehicles began to arrive at the bus stop.
Two officers from the Naples Flying Squad — in a blue Police of State Alfa Romeo — as well as several in a local comune police Fiat from the closest village. The Police of State officers climbed out and one, a blond woman with her hair in a tight bun, nodded to Ercole.
Despite his despair about losing his truffle thief, and the shock of stumbling into a case of this magnitude, his heart thudded, seeing such beauty: her heart-shaped face, full lips, the fringe of wispy flaxen hair at her temples. Eye shadow the blue of her car. He thought her movie-star-worthy and noted her name was Daniela Canton. She wore no wedding ring. He surprised her when he reached out enthusiastically and shook her hand in both of his; he thought immediately that he should not have done so.
He greeted her partner with a handshake too, a gesture the young man took without a thought. Giacomo Schiller, slightly built and solemn. He had light hair and, given the last name, might have hailed from Asiago or somewhere else in the north, where many Italians were of Germanic or Austrian descent, thanks to a history of shifting borders.
Another car was here too, unmarked, driven by a uniformed officer and containing a passenger in the front seat, a man wearing a suit and tan raincoat. Detective Inspector Massimo Rossi, Ercole saw at once. Though a Forestry Corps officer, Ercole on occasion had worked with the Police of State in and around Naples, and knew of Rossi. The man, whose face was burnished with permanent stubble, it seemed, and whose head was topped with a thick pelt of black hair, side-parted, was around fifty years of age.
Resembling the actor Giancarlo Giannini — handsome, heavily browed dark eyes, thoughtful — Rossi was well known, and not just here, in Campania, but throughout all of southern Italy. He’d successfully arrested many suspects over the years, resulting in convictions of senior Camorra officials and Albanian and North African drug smugglers, as well as money launderers, burglars, wife (and husband) killers, and psychotic murderers. Ercole, whose Forestry Corps duty required him to wear a uniform, was impressed that Rossi was not a fashionista, as were some inspectors, who wore stylish designer (or, more likely, faux-designer) suits and dresses. Rossi wore the clothes of a journalist or insurance office worker. Modest, as tonight, his outfits were dusty and not well pressed. Ercole guessed this was to keep the suspects off guard, make them think he was slow or careless. The truth might simply be, however, that Rossi’s mind was engaged in embracing cases and he didn’t even notice that his look was unkempt. Then too he and his wife had five children, in whose rearing he was active, so there was little time for cultivating a trendy look.
Rossi completed a call, climbed from the car. He stretched and took in the scene: the dusty road, the unsteady bus-stop enclosure, the trees. The shadowy forest. The bicyclist.
And Ercole.
He now approached. ‘Forestry Officer Benelli. You have stumbled on something more than a poaching, it seems. You marked off the scene. Clever.’ He looked over the area around the bus stop once more. Ercole was rarely involved in crime scenes, so he carried no tape, but he had used a rope meant for rock climbing — not a hobby but an occasional necessity in his job, which included rescuing hikers and climbers.
‘Yes, sir, Inspector. Yes. This is Salvatore Crovi.’ Ercole handed over the bicyclist’s ruddy identity card.
Rossi nodded, reviewed the card, and handed it back. Crovi reiterated the story of what he’d seen: a hulking man in a dark-colored sedan, no make or model, no number plate visible. He could see little of the attacker. Wearing dark clothing and cap, the perpetrator had flung the victim to the ground. They had struggled and the bicyclist had hurried away to find Ercole. The victim was a man, dark-complexioned and bearded, wearing a pale-blue jacket.
The detective withdrew a notebook and jotted in it.
Ercole continued, ‘But when we arrived back, there was no one. No victim, no attacker.’
‘You searched?’
‘Yes.’ Ercole pointed out a large perimeter. ‘All that way. Yes. He might have gotten farther. But I called out. No one answered. Mr Crovi assisted. He went in the opposite direction.’
‘I saw nothing, Inspector,’ the bicyclist offered.