Costa couldn’t believe his ears. “Copycat? What the hell does that mean?”
“Read the stuff I send you,” Leapman barked. “Think about it. This guy’s a perfectionist. He kills these people in a specific way. He lays them out in a specific place, cuts pieces into their backs like he’s a surgeon or something. He doesn’t slash them around, then chop ”em into pieces and stuff them into suitcases. This is just run-of-the-mill stuff. It’s out of his class. Beneath him. Besides…“
Leapman stopped himself, as if he were about to go too far.
“Besides what, Agent Leapman?” the inspector asked.
“Besides… nothing. This is not our man. I’ve been working on this longer than you. I’ve got a feel for this guy.”
Falcone was quiet for a moment, thinking, watching the path team work at the car. “I didn’t think that was the way you people worked. Feelings.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Leapman grumbled. “Come up with the smart stuff. Get it off your chest.”
“Perhaps something went wrong,” Costa suggested. “Maybe he’s losing his self-control. Maybe this wasn’t someone he intended to kill.”
Leapman screwed up his face in disbelief. “Don’t you people understand a criminal profile when you see it? Don’t you have a word for ”modus operandi“ in Italian?”
Falcone’s eyebrows rose in amusement.
“I’ll check,” he said dryly. “Where’s the girl, Peroni? I thought she was in your care.”
The big man grimaced. “I don’t know. I thought I’d got her trust. I didn’t realize we needed to keep her under lock and key. I’ll happily go looking if you want.”
“What’s the point?” Leapman snarled. “Immigrant brat like that. She can run rings round you guys. Not that it seems hard. I mean… letting a material witness go-”
The expression on Peroni’s face cut him short. Nic Costa had to hand it to his partner sometimes. The big cop surely knew how to scare the daylights out of people.
Peroni prodded Leapman in the chest and muttered, “I wasn’t aware I was talking to you. Sir.”
Leapman bridled and eyed Falcone. “You got a discipline problem here too, Leo?”
Peroni breathed deeply, gave the American a stony stare, then turned and walked inside the empty McDonald’s. The three of them watched as he marched to the deserted counter, jabbed a finger at something on the rack, then returned with a burger, which he unwrapped steadily on the way, tossing the paper into the street with the casual nonchalance that drove Nic Costa crazy.
Peroni rejoined them, with the burger now steaming in his hand.
Costa knew what was coming next.
“Whoa!” the FBI man yelled as loud as he could manage, so loud even Teresa Lupo turned to listen from the wrecked Renault. “Do you people own some weird work practices or what? I mean, you’ve got a dead woman here carved up in suitcases. You got uniforms wandering round throwing up like punks at a prom. And the best this guy can do is go feed his ugly face. I mean what the fu-”
Peroni stepped forward, seized Leapman by the collar of his winter coat, then crammed the burger full into the American’s gaping mouth, pushing damn hard so that the bun, the mayo, the vegetables and the grey, greasy meat splattered all over his face, down to his bright white cotton shirt and expensive black wool coat.
Leapman reeled back, spluttering, hands waving, food falling down his front, eyes fixed on Peroni, scared of what the big man would do next.
“Ah, ah,” Peroni warned, waggling a finger in his face. “The next burger goes up your ass and that won’t be pretty.”
“Morons!” Leapman yelled, beside himself with fury. “Utter fucking morons! They’ll hear about this, Falcone. I’m warning you!”
“About what?” Falcone wondered placidly.
“About him!” Leapman screamed, stabbing a finger at Peroni.
Falcone folded his arms over his camel-hair coat. “Oh, him.”
He exchanged a single, sly glance with Peroni.
“Officer,” Falcone said in a flat monotone, “that was quite unacceptable behaviour. Do you have an explanation for it?”
Peroni pulled Teresa’s report out of his pocket. “Yeah. This.”
Leapman stared at the sheet of paper, puzzled, suddenly a little worried. “What the hell’s that? I don’t read Italian too well.”
“Forensic report,” Costa answered. “When we looked at the cord he used to kill the woman in the Pantheon we found it wasn’t a cord at all. It was a piece of material, cut into those shapes he likes, then rolled up tight like rope.”
Leapman blinked. He couldn’t decide whether to be defensive or furious.
“You were supposed to hand over everything you had to us,” he snapped. “I gave you that goddamn order.”
Falcone sniffed and stared at Leapman. “Your men left the item behind when they came to collect the body. What were we supposed to do? Chase after them? You can send someone round for it whenever you like.”
“Dammit, Falcone…” Leapman muttered, then went abruptly quiet, probably realizing the three Italians surrounded him now.
Peroni began to read the report. “The fabric in question is all one-inch by three-quarter-inch textile webbing. Desert brown and green 483, mildew resistant, type X, class 2B, made in accordance with MIL-W-5665K, whatever the hell that is. Maybe the shape it’s got. The shape all American military webbing’s got. You know that shape, Agent Leapman?”
“It’s just how it is,” the American replied.
“Is that the best you can do?” Peroni demanded. “This is the shape of US military webbing. He’s killing them with it. He’s cutting it into their backs when they’re dead. And this is US Army issue. No one else uses it. It never gets near to being sold to the public in any way.”
“Hey!” Leapman yelled. “What the fuck do you guys know about the US military? Stuff leaks out of the army like candy from a store. Everything’s for sale if you want it.”
“I’ll take your word on that,” Falcone intervened, before Peroni could reply. “The problem we have, Joel, is this. The forensic evidence is quite clear. It’s not just that the only people who use this material are your military. It’s a new fabric too. It was produced for desert warfare. It only went into production a year ago. From what we can gather, the only place it’s been deployed in the field is covert operations in Iraq.”
Leapman glowered at him. “You knew about this all along, Falcone. This is just some stupid setup.”
Costa pulled out Teresa’s evidence bag, with the latest cord noose inside it. “This came from the car here. We never knew about the cord until a few hours ago. It certainly never found its way into the press. So you see, Agent Leapman, this isn’t a copycat at work. This is the same man. It has to be. So we were wondering, is this what you found with the others, too? And, if it is, why didn’t you tell us? Because surely this man’s been near some US military facility. Recently, too.”
The FBI man was lost, shaking his head.
“Maybe,” he murmured. “But who the hell is the woman here? It doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t…”
He clammed up, as if he’d said too much already.
“You know, I’m sorry about that,” Peroni said, brushing some of the burger off the lapels of Leapman’s coat. “I sort of lost my temper. It’s a shame, Leapman. We could all get along really well.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. If it weren’t for one thing.”
Leapman waited.
Peroni bent forward and removed a slice of pickle off the American’s collar.
“You’ve got to start telling us the truth,” he said. “Maybe not me. Maybe not even my partner. But Inspector Falcone here. He’s a good guy. A reliable guy. He deserves your trust, don’t you think?”