Jack shook his head. 'No. It was right at the end of our meeting. To be honest, I was keen to get away from him and was losing interest until he mentioned that he knew her. I thought about that overnight and then when I returned to his hotel he'd already gone.'
Sylvia jumped in. 'I don't see them as a couple. She was gorgeous – truly beautiful. Creed, on the other hand – he looks like a sewer rat.'
'Beautiful women have been dating ugly men since the dawn of time,' said Massimo.
'Thankfully,' added Jack.
Both men laughed.
'Sure, but the ugly men usually have more charm or cash than Creed,' added Sylvia. 'I could more easily imagine him stalking Francesca than dating her.'
'My thoughts entirely,' said Jack, 'and that's what worried me. If Newark hadn't got a snowplough down their runway so quickly I might have had another meeting with him and been able to shed some serious light on this.'
Massimo's willpower snapped. He went back for a bigger slice of the pizza. 'This is my last piece; no one let me take any more.'
'Me too,' said Jack, 'I'm stuffed. When I think of Creed I think of him as being inadequate. He seeks power and control and he has traits that indicate an inferiority complex…'
Massimo nodded as he chewed. 'But that doesn't necessarily mean he's an offender. If it did, then we'd be carrying out surveillance on at least half the male population.'
Sylvia poured Coke. 'You say inadequacy. That worries me. Inadequacy is the kind of thing that can drive scrawny men like Creed to rape and murder.'
'I'm not saying Creed is killer material,' stressed Jack. 'Inadequacy and inferiority are more stalker's traits.'
'But sometimes stalkers become killers,' countered Sylvia.
'Sometimes, but it's rare,' conceded Jack. 'There's something about him. Something about this case that just kicks my gut, and I'm old enough to know that I shouldn't ignore being kicked in the gut.'
Sylvia glanced down at the thick pad of notes she'd taken during their hours together. 'You said in your statement to one of my officers that you thought Creed might be a competent psychological profiler.'
'The stuff he showed me was smart. He knew all about Criminal Geographic Targeting techniques, jeopardy areas, overlapping distance-decay functions. He'd certainly done some studying.'
'So we can't rule out that he's just genuinely interested in solving these cases?'
'No, we can't. At this stage, I don't think it wise to rule anything out – or rule anything in, for that matter.'
'Which makes him one of two things -' said Massimo.
Jack finished the sentence for him. 'I was thinking the same. Misunderstood or murderous.'
All three reached for more pizza. They needed the comfort food.
25
Centro citta, Napoli The black Mercedes S280 slid silently through the streets. Its heavily glazed windows stifled the snarls of city traffic.
Bruno Valsi rode in the back, Sal the Snake beside him, Tonino Farina up front and Dino Pennestri behind the wheel. Farina and Pennestri were both made men in their late twenties. Trusted members of the Finelli Family who'd been delighted to become the first members of Valsi's own crew. In the mind of the new Capo Zona there was nothing that Farina couldn't extort with his brutal fists, and no wheelman that Pennestri couldn't better.
But Valsi's mind wasn't on them. As they drove to his first business meeting of the new week, he was preoccupied with the growing tension between himself and the Don. Having Sal the Snake as a shadow was bad enough, but being denied the right to recruit Alberto Donatello and Romano Ivetta was much worse. It was disrespectful. And then there was the old man's less than coded warning about making sure his fat daughter wore a permanent smile on her face. Prison had taught Valsi to be patient, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could bite his tongue and swallow his pride.
'This is it, boss,' said Pennestri, pulling up outside one of Italy's biggest call girl agencies. The driver stayed put as Farina peeled out of the passenger door. He opened a rear door, his eyes scanning the street before Valsi eased himself out and put on his black suit jacket.
The building in front of them was made of crumbling unpainted stone. It was five storeys high, each storey boasting a row of windows that opened inwards behind rusty iron shutters.
The stairs stank of dog piss. The lighting was so dim they couldn't see their feet. The Finelli Family owned the entire block, spending little on appearances while maximizing the money they milked from sex lines and escort bookings.
Valsi had stayed up all night, studying the operation's payment books. The manager, Celia Brabantia, was on the take. The accounts showed an unusually steady flow of income. There were no ups and downs. No surges during times when the hotels were filled with conventions, exhibitions and tourists. No falls during the bleak winter months. Valsi figured that Celia passed on what she thought was a reasonable whack and then had the nerve to keep the rest for herself. Mussa! Now he'd teach her a lesson. One she'd never forget. The thought pleased him. Excited him. Violence was his drug. It didn't matter whether it was a man or woman who was suffering, just providing he got his fix.
Farina didn't so much open the office door on the top floor as bang it off its hinges. Half a dozen bored and bedraggled women slumped over silent phones jumped in their seats.
'Where's your boss?' hissed Sal.
The girls looked terrified. They all guessed who their visitors were and understood this wasn't a social call.
A Czech woman with short blonde hair and a long nose that spoiled an otherwise pretty face slid out of her seat. 'I'm Kristen. Celia's in the office at the back. Shall I get her for you?'
'We'll get her ourselves.' Sal pushed past her. Farina followed.
Valsi smiled. Sal had no style. No flair. 'You have to excuse him – Mondays are not his good days,' he said as he drew level with her. 'In fact, he doesn't have any good days.'
Kristen smiled back. He had a nice mouth. Good body too. 'Shall I get you some drinks?'
Valsi shook his head. 'Not now. But I'll get you one, when I'm done here.'
Kristen tried not to look too interested. 'I'm working late, and I'm not sure my boss will give me time off.'
Valsi laughed. 'By the time I've finished with your so-called boss, believe me, you'll be able to take the whole damned week off.' He turned away, cracked his knuckles and headed to the office.
26
Laboratorio di Scienze Sorrentino, Napoli Forensic anthropologist Bernardo Sorrentino put his freshly manicured hands around the back of his head and shook out his long, black curly hair. The shoulder-length mane was his trademark. That and the black Gucci sunglasses he always wore whenever there was a photographer or TV camera around. The forty-two-year-old double divorcee had recently had one ear pierced, and wore a small thousand-euro diamond in it. Much to his disappointment this hadn't attracted a single column inch of comment.
The man the media called Il Grande Leone stared down at the monstrous mosaic of blackened bones laid out before him. On one brightly lit, large white marble table, lay the partially articulated skeleton of the woman who had been identified as Francesca Di Lauro. On an adjacent worktop were more of her blackened and splintered bones, some as small and fragile as pieces of eggshell. Given that the police had an ID there was now no point in piecing them together, but Sorrentino would do it anyway. To him it was like not completing a five-thousand-piece jigsaw, you didn't give up just because you could see what the picture was halfway through. His personal assistant, Ruben Agut, was already exhausted but was also committed to finishing the job. Sorrentino had picked the twenty-four-year-old straight from university. He was gay and Spanish and the anthropologist considered him to be yet another exotic accessory that would draw attention to himself. 'I'm going to get a lab coat,' he told him. 'Then we'll take those photographs and shoot more video.'