There were sweet wrappers, empty Coke and beer cans, a half-empty plastic bottle of hotel body lotion, numerous tissues that looked stiff from semen, several pages from magazines that had been ripped out and then torn into small pieces. Some hotel paper that had been written or drawn on had also been torn up into pieces no bigger than a postage stamp. Anything ripped this small had to be of significance.
Jack was desperate to examine the pieces of paper and magazine but had no evidence gloves. He returned to the bathroom and found what he was looking for – a shower cap. He opened it up, put his hands inside and used it like clumsy mittens.
Working through the cap, it took him almost an hour to assemble just one largish section of the hotel paper and a single page of the magazine. But what he saw was enough to convince him that Luciano Creed could indeed be everything he feared.
By the time he left the hotel, salt and grit had chewed like rats through the city's blanket of white snow. The sun was high and dazzlingly bright as traffic crawled back to normal – or as normal as New York City ever gets.
Jack holed up for a while in a nearby deli. Black coffee and a skinny blueberry muffin quelled his hunger and fed his thoughts.
'You want a refill?' The question came from a surly sumo wrestler masquerading as a waitress.
'Thanks.' Jack proffered his mug.
She walked away and he speed-dialled the cellphone of Massimo Albonetti, Direttore of Italy's Violent Crime Analysis Unit.
'Pronto, parla Albonetti,' said a deep, Roman voice. He sounded distracted, maybe even annoyed at being interrupted.
'Ciao, Direttore. Come stai?'
There was a brief pause, then an eruption of laughter. 'Jack, my friend, you speak little Italian and the few words you have learned, you murder with your horrible American tongue. How are you?'
'Vaffanculo, buddy. I'm fine.'
More Italian laughter. 'Aah, the bad words you can pronounce properly. Fuck you too! You are like a small boy, using such language. Still, it is good to hear you.'
'Thanks, but you might not think so in a minute. I'm in New York, been speaking at a crime seminar, and came across someone from your neck of the woods. Guy called Creed, Luciano Creed.'
Albonetti was on his way into a community meeting. He'd been forced by his boss to address a holy order of brothers about the changing face of criminality in modern Italy. 'This name, it rings no bells.'
'Didn't expect it to. He's from Naples. Says he's a psychologist attached to the carabinieri. Been digging into some Missing Persons files and reckons he's detected a series of murders.'
'Murders in Naples?' Massimo faked surprise as he scribbled Creed's name on the front of a stack of files he was carrying. 'Now, that's a real shock.'
'Yeah. I know they have more killings than Iraq. The local force apparently has them down as MPs but Creed's done some low-level profiling on them and it all comes up looking like a serial murder file.'
'You think so?' Massimo sounded more serious now. He nodded politely at one of the brothers entering the conference room for the planned meeting.
'It's more a perhaps at this stage. But I've seen enough to make me think there's a good chance we're not just looking at runaways. Can I give you some names?'
'Sure, shoot.'
Jack peered at the notepaper that Creed had forced on him. 'Luisa Banotti, Patricia Calvi, Donna Rizzi, Gloria Pirandello and Francesca Di Lauro.'
Massimo read them back to make sure there were no mistakes.
'Do you think you could have a little dig around and check out Creed as well?'
Massimo spelled out his name. 'C-R-E-E-D, and first name, Luciano?'
'You got it.'
'Okay. I am this second starting a meeting – with a bunch of priests, believe it or not – but I'll start digging around within the next hour or so.'
'Thanks. I've got a bad feeling about this guy. He's a bit of a weirdo and he claims to have been personally involved with the last girl to have gone missing.'
Massimo entered the room with his hand over the phone and apologized to his distinguished audience. 'Mi dispiace. Un momento per favore.' The twelve brothers seemed to understand – the officer was a busy man – they would wait patiently.
Massimo spoke to Jack again. 'You'd have him as a suspect? He claims he's working with the police, but you think he might be the offender?'
'That's too big a stretch. But he makes me uncomfortable. I found some pornography and also personal sketches he'd made. He'd ripped them up and left the pieces in the bin in his hotel room. The photographs were hard-core sadism, much edgier than your usual hand-party stuff. They showed a naked woman, cuffed to a metal pole, being whipped and branded with hot irons.'
'Mannaggia! ' The Italian's emotions made him forget the company he was in. 'God Almighty, why do people find such things a turn-on? Whatever happened to a stolen kiss, a hand on the knee and the sweet hope that it might lead to a little more?'
'Not for this guy, Mass. The sketches he'd made were of mutilated genitalia – multiple, obsessive drawings, too far out even for the Guggenheim.'
'Porca Madonna!' exploded Massimo.
The twelve holy brothers looked sharply at him and crossed themselves.
Massimo cupped the phone and whispered to Jack, 'I'll get back to you. I think I'm going to have to say an act of contrition before I start this meeting.'
14
Centro citta, Napoli Nine-year-old Mario Gaggioli mumbled the instructions as he ran. This was an errand that he knew he mustn't get wrong. His long black hair trailed from a specially customized woollen rapper's hat. His wiry body zigzagged fearlessly between the honking mopeds, cars and trams that fought for space down Naples' potholed streets. He was Ronaldinho, sidestepping a sliding tackle. He was Henry, ready to sell a dummy and unleash a fireball from his foot. Above him, wet washing flapped from lines strewn from one balcony to another. Down at his level, old people swore as he bumped and barged his way past them. His foot flashed at a stone and thundered it into the path of traffic. Henry scores!
True to his word, Mario didn't stop running until he reached his given destination. His body zinged with excitement. It was like Ronaldinho taking a penalty in the last minute of extra time. Now was the moment. The time to step up – to be brave – to deliver!
Pounding towards the front steps he remembered the drill. He flipped the woollen hat round so it concealed his face but still allowed him to see through a slit he'd cut in it.
Ronaldinho places the ball and takes three steps back.
Inside the building, he spotted his target.
The Brazilian begins his run.
Behind the reception desk, a man in uniform looked up from paperwork he was helping a pensioner complete.
'La bagascia e morta! ' shouted Mario. He threw the small soft parcel he'd been given into the chest of the carabinieri receptionist and bolted for the door.
Ronaldinho scores! It's all over!
Mario had no idea why he'd been told to shout the bitch is dead, and he had no clue as to what was in the handkerchief. The carabinieri officer picked it up from the floor and opened it.
He wasn't sure what sickened him more, the sight of a severed tongue or the sure-fire fact that another young child's soul had already been lost to the Camorra.
15
Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli The fortified home of the Finelli family, known to the carabinieri as the Viper's Nest, was in a rocky, wooded height at the western end of the Bay of Naples.