Good Blood

contacted us. So I called our expert—our forensic anthropologist—in Rome and talked to her before doing anything. And at the site I took pains to have my men follow her instructions to the letter. We did everything: photographs, drawings, layered excavation with trowel and brushes, sifting the soil into buckets, everything. It took us six hours, but we recovered every scrap of bone there was and sent it off, numbered, bagged, and cross-recorded, to the criminalistics lab. They said it was the most thorough job they’d ever seen.”

“Did you ever catch the killer?” Julie asked.

“Unfortunately, no, but I have good reason to believe that the perp”—a quick, wry glance at Phil—“was a red fox that had been seen in the area.”

“A red—?”

“The skeleton was that of a rabbit,” Caravale said impassively. “I understand it was a source of amusement at the laboratory for some time and is now something of a legend there.”

Julie and Phil made sounds of commiseration but Gideon was annoyed at the undertone of reproach. Whose fault was it that the thick-jowled Caravale, let alone this Italian doctor of his, couldn’t tell the difference between a human child and a rabbit? To be fair, though, it was far from the first time he’d run across a physician who didn’t know animal bones when he saw them. It really wasn’t surprising. Differentiating human from nonhuman bones wasn’t part of any medical school curriculum that he knew of, and why should it be? But for cops it was a different story.

If you’d taken the session I put on at the International Conference on the Forensic Sciences when it was held in Rome a few years ago, Gideon thought but didn’t say, you’d have taken one look at the pelvis, or a scapula, or any long bone, and saved yourself five hours and fifty-nine minutes of work.

“There are some fairly simple ways to differentiate animal and human bones,” he contented himself with saying. “I can recommend a book or two if you’re interested.”

“I don’t think so, thanks, not today.” The launch thudded gently against the Stresa dock and came to a stop. Caravale was the first to stand. “However, if any further skeletons turn up, I’ll be sure to call upon you.”

“Do that,” Gideon said. “Just make sure it’s sometime in the next week.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Caravale. He made a formal little bow to the three of them, grunted his good-bye, and pulled himself up onto the pier.

“Well, that certainly went well,” Phil said brightly.

Gideon made a grumbling sound deep in his throat. “Let’s go get some lunch.”

NINE

THE kidnappers’ answer came on Thursday morning, twenty-four hours after the advertisement had appeared. It was in the form of a padded envelope that had been slipped through the after-hours courier-delivery slot at Aurora Costruzioni’s field office in Intra during the night. The clerk who found it lying on the floor, seeing nothing on the front but vincenzo de grazia in block letters—no business logo, no return address—was immediately suspicious. Following instructions from the carabinieri, she didn’t touch it, but called them at once.

Within minutes the envelope was dusted for fingerprints (none) and opened. Inside was a one-page letter folded around a cassette tape, both of which had also been wiped clean. The letter, envelope, and tape were placed in separate plastic sleeves for further examination and taken to carabinieri headquarters.

Half an hour later Vincenzo, working distractedly and intermittently at home on a proposal for a waste-water treatment facility near Bergamo, received a telephone call

from Caravale. “We’ve heard from them.” “What?” Vincenzo put down the proposal. “How?” “It came to your office in Intra. There’s a letter and an

audiotape that’s supposed to be of Achille. Can you come

in to headquarters to—” “What do they say?” “As far as we can tell, Achille is all right—” “What do they say?” Caravale took the last puff from his morning cigar and

breathed out the smoke before answering. “They say ‘no.’”

SITTING opposite Caravale at carabinieri headquarters, Vincenzo mumbled his way through the brief message.

“‘We are not interested in negotiating. Five million euros only. Do not waste our time by telling us this is not within your means or that you need more time. On the upper story of your villa, directly over the front entrance, is a window that is now kept shuttered. If you intend to cooperate, you will open those shutters as a signal, and we will then give you final instructions and tell you where to wire the money. As soon as we have the money, your son will be freed unharmed. If the shutters have not opened by noon on Friday, we will assume you do not wish to comply’.”

He looked up at Caravale. “Friday. Tomorrow.”

The colonel nodded. “Yes.”

Vincenzo flicked at the sheet of paper with his finger

nails. “Shutters, shutters...but doesn’t this tell us that the kidnappers are right there, on Isola de Grazia? Either that, or they have an accomplice—”

“No, not necessarily. The front of your villa is visible from the shore here. With a pair of binoculars, they

wouldn’t have any trouble seeing the shutters.”

“Oh. Of course, yes.” He seemed to drift away, thinking.

“You want to finish the letter, signore.”

Stiff-faced, Vincenzo went back to it.

“‘In that case, your son will be killed at once. Preparations have already been made. This is our last message. You will not hear from us again.’”

He snorted and slid it back across the table. “I want to hear the tape.”