III

The Aqueduct

Chapter 13

The Questura, the Police of State’s main headquarters in Naples, at Via Medina, 75, is an impressive pale stone building in the fascist style. The letters of the word “Questura” are in a font any Latin student would recognize (the “U”s harshly carved as “V”s), and the building’s architectural elements include nods to Rome (eagles, for instance).

Squinting up at the imposing structure, Ercole Benelli paused on the doorstep and straightened his gray uniform, brushing at dust. Heart thudding with a curious mixture of joy and trepidation, he stepped inside.

He approached an administrative officer, who said, “You are Benelli?”

“I…Well, yes.” Surprised to have been recognized. Surprised too that Rossi was apparently still desirous of his presence.

Her unsmiling face regarded him and, upon examining his ID cards—national and Forestry—she handed him a pass, then told him a room number.

Five minutes later he entered what might be called a situation room for the kidnapping operation. It was a cramped space, the sun sliced into strips by dusty Venetian blinds. The floor was scuffed, the walls too, and a bulletin board was decorated with curling notices of new police procedures replacing old police procedures, and forthcoming assemblies…or, when he read closely, assemblies that had occurred months, or years, ago. Not so very different, Ercole thought, from the Forestry Corps facilities, the large conference room where the officers would meet before a joint raid on an olive oil adulterer, before a mountain rescue, before an assault on a forest fire.

An easel held a large white tablet with photos and notes in black marker. Another—a joke certainly—held a “Wanted” picture of a square-headed Minecraft character, which Ercole was aware of because he played the game with his older brother’s ten-year-old son. The boy had promptly and delightedly slaughtered Ercole in a recent game; young Andrea had switched to Survival—combat—mode, without telling Uncle Ercole.

Two people were in the room. Massimo Rossi was talking to a round young woman with thick wavy black hair, shiny, and loud green-framed eyeglasses. She wore a white jacket that said Scientific Police on the ample breast.

Rossi looked up. “Ah, Ercole. Come in, come in. You found us all right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Beatrice Renza. She is the forensic officer assigned to the Composer case. Ercole Benelli of the Forestry Corps. He was helpful last night. He will be joining us on a temporary basis.”

The woman, in her early thirties, nodded in a distracted way.

“Sir, I have my report.” Ercole handed him two yellow sheets of notes.

Beatrice looked at them, frowning. “You have no computer?”

“I do, yes. Why do you ask?”

“You have a printer?”

“Not at my home.” He felt on the defensive.

“This is hard to read. You might have emailed the information to us.”

He was flustered. “I could have, I suppose. But I didn’t have an email address.”

“The Questura website would have worked, of course.” She turned back to Rossi and handed him a sheet of paper—nicely printed out—and a half-dozen photographs then said goodbye to Rossi. The woman left the situation room, without acknowledging Ercole. Fine with him; he had no time for the self-important, the smug.