Thom pointed out two pudgy workmen painting the building next door. Ercole and he approached. The men regarded the officer’s uniform and climbed from the scaffolding. Ercole asked if they’d seen anyone at the back yard in the past few days. They replied they’d noticed only some boys playing football yesterday or the day before.
Thom had Ercole ask if they kept ladders here overnight, one that an intruder might borrow. But they did not. They took all their equipment with them. A person wishing to break in might have brought his own ladder, of course. Ercole now borrowed one of the workmen’s and used it to climb to each of the windows. They were locked or painted shut. He returned the ladder and stepped into the backyard.
Standing with hands on hips, he gazed at the rear of Garry’s building. There was trash in the yard, and not much else. Under the deck were two large plastic flower pots, empty. There was no rear entrance on this level — only one tiny window to the right of the deck. Like the others, on the sides, it was painted shut.
He pulled on latex gloves and wrapped his feet with rubber bands. Thom did the same. They climbed to the deck, jutting from the first floor. On it was a lawn chair, faded and torn, and three more large flower pots, filled with dry, cracked dirt but empty of plants, living or dead. A windowed door led into the upper apartment. He tried it. Locked, as were these windows. Through the dust-and mud-spattered glass he could see a kitchen but no utensils or furniture. The counters were covered with undisturbed dust.
Thom squinted too. ‘Unoccupied. So, no witnesses in the form of Garry’s upstairs neighbors.’
‘No. That is too bad.’
Climbing down from the deck into the backyard once more, Ercole followed Daniela’s advice and stepped away from the building, a good ten yards. He turned and surveyed the structure in its entirety. She’d explained that this gave you context.
Where were the doors, the windows, for entrance and exit? Where were alcoves and alleys — places where one could lie in wait and plan a break-in?
Where were the vantage points from which people inside could look out and where, from outside, could people peer in?
Were there trash bins that might contain evidence?
Were there hiding places for weapons?
The questions piled up. But there were no helpful answers. He shook his head.
Which was when Thom said in a soft voice, ‘You become him.’
‘Him?’
‘The perp.’ The aide was looking his way and had apparently noted Ercole’s stymied expression. ‘You know the word?’
‘Yes, yes, certainly. “Perp.” But become him?’
‘It’s why Lincoln was the king of crime scenes when he ran forensics at NYPD. And why he picked Amelia as his protégée years ago. I don’t understand it myself.’ The aide added after a moment, ‘But the process is getting into the mind of the killer. You’re not a cop anymore. You’re the killer, the burglar, the rapist, the molester. You’re like a Method actor: you know, getting into the minds of the characters they play. It can be pretty tough. You go to dark places. And it can take some time to climb back out. But the best crime scene investigators can do it. Lincoln says that it’s a fine line between good and bad, that the best forensic cops could easily become the worst perps. So. Your goal isn’t to find clues. It’s to commit the crime all over again.’
Ercole’s eyes went back to the building. ‘So I am a criminal.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Allora, my crime is putting the evidence in the apartment to make Garry Soames seem guilty.’
‘That’s right,’ Thom said.
‘But the front door is open to a busy street and many neighbors. I can’t break in that way. Maybe I could pretend to be interested in letting the apartment upstairs and, when the real estate agent lets me in, I sneak down to Garry’s flat and leave the evidence.’
‘But would you, as the criminal, do that?’ Thom asked.
‘No. Of course not. Because I would leave a record of my presence. So, I have to break in through the side or the back. But the doors and windows are locked or painted shut. And there are no signs of—’
‘Ah, Ercole, you’re thinking as an investigator. After the fact of the crime. You have to think like the criminal. You have to be the criminal. You’re the real rapist who has to blame Garry. Or you’re the girlfriend that he treated badly and who wants to get even. You’re desperate. You need to make this work.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Ercole whispered.
So I am the perp.
I’m desperate or furious. I must get inside, and plant drugs in Garry’s bedroom.
Ercole began to pace through the backyard. Thom followed. The officer stopped quickly. ‘I have to plant the drugs but that’s only part of my crime. The other part is being certain that no one knows I’ve done it. Otherwise, the police will instantly conclude Garry is innocent and begin looking for me.’
‘Yes. Good. You said, “me,” not “him.”’
‘How would I do this? I can’t be a supervillain and abseil down the chimney. I can’t tunnel up into the basement apartment...’
Ercole’s eyes scanned the back of the building, actually feeling a twist of desperation in his belly. I have little time because I can’t be seen. I have no fancy tools because I’m not a professional thief. Yet I have to break in and make sure there are no signs of jimmied doors or windows. He muttered, ‘No signs at all... How do I do that? How?’
Thom was silent.
Ercole, staring at the building he needed to breach. Staring, staring.
And then understood. He gave a laugh.
‘What?’ Thom asked.
‘I think I have the answer,’ the officer said softly. ‘Flower pots. The answer is flower pots.’
Chapter 40
Now was the time for blood.
Alberto Allegro Pronti moved silently from the shadows of an alleyway behind the Guida Brothers warehouse at Filippo Argelati, 20–32, in Milan.
While sitting at an unsteady table, sipping a Valpolicella, red of course, he had heard a noise from half a block away. A rapping. Perhaps a voice.
He’d stood immediately and hurried to where he believed that sound had come from: the warehouse.
He was now behind the old structure and could see what he believed was a flicker of shadow on one of the painted-over windows.
Someone was inside.
And that was good for Pronti, and quite bad for whoever that person might be.
The fifty-eight-year-old, wiry and strong, returned to where he’d been sipping and collected a weapon. An iron rod, about three feet long. At the threaded end was a square nut, rusted permanently onto the staff.
It was very efficient and very dangerous and very lethal.
He called to Mario that he would be handling this himself, to stay back. He then returned to the warehouse, easing quietly to the rear. He peered through a spot on the pane where he had scraped the paint away, when he’d been inside recently, so that he could do just this — spy on whoever might be there and deal with them as he wished.
Pronti glanced through the peephole fast, his pulse racing, half believing that he would see an eye looking directly back at him. But no. He noted, however, that there was a shadow in the entryway, where stairs led from here to the first floor. Yes, a target was inside.
He moved on the balls of his running shoes to the back door and withdrew a key from his pocket. He undid the lock and carefully threaded the chain out of the rings screwed into the frame and door, setting the links down — in a line on the dirt so they would not clink together.
The lock too he set down carefully, away from other metal. He spat quietly on the hinges to lubricate them.
Pronti had been well trained.
Then, gripping the deadly club in a firm hand, he pushed inside.
Silently.
It took a moment for his eyes to get used to the darkness, though Pronti knew the layout welclass="underline" The warehouse was built like a huge horse stable, with six-foot-high dividers separating the ground floor into storage areas. All but one were filled with trash and piles of old, rotting building materials. The remaining one contained a tall stack of cartons and pallets, a recent delivery from a company letting out space here. The floor here was clean, dust-free, and he could walk to the cartons and hide behind them without fear of his target seeing footsteps. He now did so, and he waited, listening to the creaks from overhead, closing his eyes from time to time to concentrate more clearly.
Blood...
His target returned to the top of the stairs, and Pronti could hear him walking down them carefully. As soon as he stepped out of the stairway, he’d return to the front door or walk through the center aisle. Either way he would present his back to Pronti and the wicked club.
His tactically trained ears — like a bat’s — would sense exactly where the son of a bitch was, and Pronti would step out, swinging his murderous weapon. He cocked his head and listened. Oh, yes, just like the old days... in the army. Fond memories, troubled ones too. He would bore Mario with his exploits in the service as they sat together over meals or wine.
He thought now of that time on the Po River...
Then Pronti grew stern with himself. Be serious here.
This is battle.
The footsteps descended the stairs and stopped. The victim was debating which direction to turn.
Left to the door, straight?
Either way, you’re about to feel my fury...
Pronti took the club in both hands. He smelled the iron nut, close to his nose. Blood and rust smell similar and his weapon was about to reek of both.
But then... What’s happening?
There was a thud — a footstep — followed by another, then another. In the back of the warehouse! The intruder had not taken the direct route — past him through the clear center aisle — but had picked one of the areas filled with construction trash, along the side wall. Pronti had assumed it impassable.
Well, no, my friend, you’re not escaping me.
Pronti stepped from his hiding space and, holding the rod in two hands, stalked silently toward the rear of the structure, where his victim would be making for the back door, Pronti assumed. This would work just fine. The man would go to the door... and Pronti would crush his skull.
Quiet... quiet...
When he was nearly there, another footfall — close — made him jump.
Yet no foot was to be seen.
What is this?
Another thud.
And the bit of brick rolled to a stop in front of him.
No, no! His soldierly training had failed him.
The footsteps, the thuds, were not that at all. They were a distraction. Of course!
Behind him, the voice barked a command.
The order, delivered by, of all things, a woman, was in English, of which he spoke very little. But it was not much of a challenge to deduce the meaning and so Pronti quickly dropped the rod and shot his hands into the air.