According to Sorensen, the inspector’s name was Giordano, and he was waiting for them at a gangway on the yacht’s leeward side. Slaton saw a modest man in height and build, yet noted a distinct air of gravitas in his deeply grooved jowls and furrowed brow. He wore civilian clothes, heavy trousers and a jacket with worn patches on the sleeves. A pair of round-framed wire glasses rested on a classically Roman nose, and beneath the jacket Slaton noted a subtle slope to the man’s shoulders—as if the weight of Capri itself was resting upon them. Behind him were two uniformed officers, younger and more upright men who, in the time-honored way of Italian males, had their eyes pinned on the attractive blonde next to Slaton.
Sorensen took the lead, greeting Giordano in English, then introducing Slaton. “This is the man I told you about, Inspector. He’s something of a specialist in what we’re dealing with.”
Giordano regarded Slaton for a moment, and when the two shook hands, he said, “I will not ask where you acquired your expertise. I only hope you can explain this mystery to me.”
Slaton could have answered in fluent Italian, and would have done so were he a diplomat or a fellow policeman. Being what he was, he kept his linguistic abilities to himself—he never gave away anything cheaply. “I won’t have every answer, but hopefully I can give you some direction.”
Slaton was encouraged that the inspector seemed amenable to their involvement. He imagined an alternate scenario in which the man had been forced by a supervisor, on the request from some distant government ministry, to handhold a contingent of visiting busybodies. Such forced cooperation was rarely productive. As it was, Giordano appeared legitimately interested in getting help.
The inspector turned toward a stairway that led to the upper deck. The two uniformed officers stayed behind at the gangway. There was no issuance of booties or gloves, which told Slaton the scene had been well gone over for evidence.
As he fell in behind, Slaton studied the ship. He’d become a reasonably seasoned sailor in the last year, and what he saw impressed him. The boat was tidy, the crew keeping up with things. Lines were coiled, the radar antenna turning, and the few deckhands he saw appeared smartly uniformed. It implied a degree of competence and professionalism. More practically, it told him the crew were still getting paid. He wondered how long that would last.
Slaton asked, “Has the ship moved since the night Ivanovic was killed?”
The inspector wagged a finger in the air. “No, the captain has assured me the ship remains in the very same position. The scene you are about to see is precisely what Ivanovic saw that night.”
They followed Giordano up a spotless teak staircase. The brass rails gleamed orange in the setting sunlight, and a brine-scented breeze swept in from the north. When they reached the upper deck, Slaton paused to take in the scene. Aft he saw a sprawling sitting area, and to one side a large wet bar. There was a covered hot tub that would accommodate at least ten people. What looked like a dance floor was surrounded by all-weather sofas. All the furnishings were outdoor contemporary, the frames brushed nickel, the upholstery the colors of the sea. Brilliant white lights were strung overhead in a decorative pattern, creating an atmosphere that was something between an operating room and a Christmas display.
“Has anything been altered?” Slaton asked.
“No. We secured this part of the ship immediately.” Giordano led to the aft section of the starboard rail. “Ivanovic was standing here when he was struck in the chest by a single large-caliber round. He died almost instantly and tumbled into the sea. The body was recovered within minutes by the crew. Unfortunately, we uncovered very little physical evidence. A few traces of biological material were found here,” the Italian said, pointing to a spot on deck that was marked with red tape and lettering.
Slaton looked over the rail and saw a twenty-foot drop to a choppy sea. “What about the bullet?” he asked.
“We’ve inspected the ship thoroughly, but it was not recovered. The post mortem report was very clear on one point—the round passed straight through the victim’s body. Given the angle at which it struck, and where Ivanovic was standing, it almost certainly continued into the sea.”
“Could it be recovered?” Sorensen asked.
“We considered a search. Unfortunately, Cassandra is anchored above a very steep drop-off. In the direction the bullet was traveling, the depth increases rapidly. There is no way to tell how far it might have carried before striking the sea.”
“What kind of bullet are we talking about?” Slaton asked.
“We believe it was a fifty caliber.”
“That’s a big round. Very high-energy.”
“Precisely. Which only further proves the point—any attempt to recover the bullet would require searching nearly one square kilometer of ocean floor, at depths ranging from fifty to seven hundred meters. To find something that size, under such conditions—it is beyond our abilities.”
Slaton nodded. Everything Giordano said was true. “It might not help anyway. A spent round can be matched to a weapon, but by itself it often doesn’t tell you much.” He stared out across the water, and began roaming the deck. Beginning at the starboard rail, he circled slowly to port. Slaton looked forward and aft, then at the distant island of Capri. He estimated the nearest shore to be three miles away. He could ask for the distance to be measured precisely, but he was sure his estimate was good to within ten percent. That was all he needed.
Not a chance.
“You’re sure this is where the ship was anchored?” he said to Giordano.
“The captain has shown me the electronic logs. Cassandra maintains a digital navigation record, and transmits the data regularly—insurance companies demand such assurances these days to protect their interests. The positions are accurate to less than one meter. The only variance at this moment involves the ship swinging on her anchor—which, of course, depends on the wind and the currents.”
“So on the night Ivanovic was killed,” Sorensen surmised, “Cassandra had to be within a hundred yards of where she sits right now.”
“Yes,” said Giordano. “I even cross-checked the insurance company’s data.”
“Did the ship keep a radar log?” Slaton asked.
The inspector smiled for the first time, an awkward process in which facial creases deepened and the eyes behind the glasses narrowed. “You are wondering if there were other boats nearby.”
“Yes.”
“The ship’s radar was active and being monitored—when anchored near a busy channel it is a standard safety precaution. The captain told me he checked the screen himself only minutes before Ivanovic was killed. He saw no other boats nearby.”
“That’s not exactly definitive.”
“This was my thought as well. As it happens, there is also a radar system on the island.” Giordano pointed toward Capri’s highest hill. “The light is poor now, but the antenna is there, overlooking the main channel. There is a good deal of traffic between Capri and the mainland, particularly during the summer. The Guardia Costiera recently installed a radar unit to keep an eye on things.”
“And they keep a record of the traffic … which you’ve already checked.”
Giordano smiled to say that he had. He took off his glasses, held them to the light, and used a small cloth to clean an apparent smudge. “At the time of the killing, the only other vessel in the area was two miles from Cassandra. I was able to track it down rather easily—it turned out to be a local fishing boat. I have already spoken to the man who operates it.”
“And?”
“I grew up with Mario. He was a lazy student, but could always find the red mullet. I can tell you he is a threat to no one.”
Slaton eyed Giordano. “You’ve been thorough.”
“I have been desperate. I went as far as to check the record of air traffic. There were no helicopters or aircraft nearby.”
Slaton grinned, wondering if even he would have gone that far.
Giordano was hailed from below by one of his men. He diverted to the stairs and began a discussion in Italian. Slaton caught a few words, enough to deem it harmless—something relating to another case.
Sorensen edged next to him and spoke in a hushed tone. “Well? Does what he’s saying make sense? Did someone take out Ivanovic with a fifty caliber?”
“Hard to say. It’s not a common weapon—especially outside the military. But it is the kind of gun a long shooter would use.” His eyes remained fixed on the sea and the island beyond. He tried to come up with a scenario that fit what he knew. Try as he might, he couldn’t. Apparently it showed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He turned a slow circle, taking in the horizon all around. After a pause, he simply looked at Sorensen and shook his head. “Everything,” he said. “Everything is wrong.”