“I do indeed.” Ercole’s eyes narrowed.

“One thing more I should add. The regulations of the Carabinieri have changed. You may know that in the past, officers were required to be assigned posts far from home. This was so that they might remain undistracted and do their job most efficiently. That is no longer the case. Accordingly, Beatrice Renza, of the Scientific Police, will not have to worry that her new boyfriend will be assigned some distance from Campania. You can be posted here.”

“Beatrice? Oh, Procuratore, no, I…That is to say, yes, we had an aperitivo the other night at Castello’s Lounge. I walked her to her flat.” A huge blush. “Yes, perhaps I stayed the night. And she will be attending my pigeon race tomorrow. But I do not know that there can be any future between us. She is an exceedingly difficult woman, even if she exhibits quite some intelligence and has a peculiar charm.”

His rambling—and red face—amused them all.

“Not Daniela?” Sachs asked. “I thought you were attracted to her.”

“Daniela? Well, her beauty is quite clear. And she is very keen in her police skills. But, how can I say?” He looked to Sachs. “You, as a lover of automobiles, will understand: The gears do not engage between us. Am I making sense?”

“Perfectly,” Sachs replied.

So, Rhyme had been wrong. It had been Beatrice who’d lit the fire in Ercole’s heart, challenging though she was. Well, Lincoln Rhyme himself would take challenge over slipped gears any day, however beautiful the automobile.

The restaurant door opened and a tall woman—with a fashion model’s figure and poise—stepped into the room, smiling to the table. She wore a dark-blue suit and carried an attaché case. Her dark hair was pulled back into a buoyant ponytail. Spiro rose. “Ah! Ecco mia moglie—my wife, Cecilia.”

The woman sat and Spiro signaled to the waitress for the meal to begin.

Tuesday, September 28

VIII

The Dragonfly and the Gargoyle

Chapter 72

May have a problem.”

Thom was speaking over his shoulder to Rhyme and Sachs. He was peering through the front window of the accessible van as it approached the security entrance to the private aircraft portion of Naples airport.

Rhyme cricked his neck to the left—the wheelchair was fixed perpendicular to the direction of traffic—and noted the black SUV, pulling forward and blocking their way.

Behind it were uniformed guards—Italian officers—standing at lackadaisical attention at the gate but they had little interest in either vehicle. This was not their business.

Sachs sighed. “Who? Massimo Rossi?”

“On what theory?”

Thom offered a potential answer. “He and Mike Hill share a certain bigoted philosophy? Brothers in arms?”

Hm. A reasonable theory.

Sachs nodded. “Possible, sure. Though I think Dante’s right and Rossi wants as little publicity as possible about the whole thing now. Besides, I wonder if vans like that are in the Police of State budget.”

They certainly weren’t in the NYPD’s.

But as the ominous vehicle bounced forward over the uneven asphalt, like a boat in chop, closing the distance, Rhyme could see the U.S. diplo license tag.