A Few Drops of Blood (2 page)

“Certainly. I’ll get it for you.”

Natalia closed her notebook. “I will have more questions later today or tomorrow.”

“Of course. Just call ahead. My calendar isn’t full.”

Natalia returned to the victims.

“She okay?” Dr. Agari said.

“Seems so. What do we have?”

“Shotgun blast,” Dr. Agari said, indicating Lattaruzzo. “Small gauge. The other victim the same.”

A small gauge shotgun—the traditional execution weapon of the rural mafia, a stubby weapon for hunting small game and two-legged mammals.

“Victim One,” Francesca said, “also has ligature marks around his throat.”

“He was strangled?”

“More likely hung.”

“The other victim too?”

“No. Both also show signs of having been tortured.”

Natalia squatted to look at the wounds more closely and
played her flashlight on Lattaruzzo’s face. Vincente, he was lightly made up.

“Is Bagnatti wearing makeup, too?” she asked.

“Both are, yes. Cheeks rouged, a faint white dot at the outside corner of each eye, lashes thick with mascara, eyebrows penciled. Across the lips, the slightest suggestion of color.”

“Were they killed here?” Natalia said.

“I don’t think so. Not enough blood present.”

“Any clues as to where?”

“You might look for wherever Mr. Lattaruzzo left his privates.”

Vincente Lattaruzzo shared an apartment with a Stefano Grappi on Vico Santa Maria a Cancello. A small
latte
van painted with cheerful images of cheeses and milk bottles cut Natalia off as she turned onto the quiet block. It wasn’t far from his job at the museum: easy walking distance.

“Watch where you’re going!” she yelled and blasted her horn.

The curly-haired driver opened his door and threw her a kiss and a wink.

Right, she sighed. God’s gift to women. Thinks he’s cute. Which he was, she had to admit. Luckily there was a parking spot in front of number 5, a gray
palazzo
, its tall windows ornamented by carved pediments and green shutters. Nice digs. Natalia wondered what Lattaruzzo’s partner did for a living.

The names
LATTARUZZO / GRAPPI
appeared in a fancy font next to a lighted button set in a sleek brass plaque
just outside the iron gates that barred the courtyard. Natalia pressed and waited. No response. It was after ten. Lattaruzzo’s partner was most probably at work. She tried again. Nothing.

It was a relief in a way. She dreaded informing loved ones of such losses.

Natalia drove back to her station on Casanova. In the lobby, a postal worker was distributing mail in the green mailboxes that belonged to the residents two flights above. Casanova was the only station in the city that shared space with civilians. Odd, but no one ever suggested they move. Space was at a premium, and Casanova was not in a fancy neighborhood, so any request would remain a low to zero priority.

The lobby was plain, institutional green walls and brown terrazzo floors. The only flourish: the dark green mosaic tiles that stopped halfway up the walls. When she’d been there a year, Natalia had lobbied for new light fixtures for the hall stairs, as the fluorescents seemed unnecessarily depressing. But there they were, several years later.

She climbed the one flight. Whoever was on desk watch saw her on the monitor and the lock clicked, and Natalia pushed open the heavy reinforced door. Bypassing her own office, she proceeded up an inner stairway and went to see her boss.

She hovered in the doorway. A black fan rotated, gently ruffling the papers on Colonel Fabio Donati’s desk as he sat, phone cradled against his ear, facing the window.

“
Si, si
, of course.” He swiveled and waved Natalia in. “We understand. Correct. Terrible, yes. Yes.
Ciao
.” He hung up the receiver and raised an eyebrow at Natalia.

“That was the director of the museum. A friend of my Elisabetta. He’s shaken, naturally. What do we have?”

“Double murder, two men.”

“Two dead males riding naked on a horse statue, found in some kind of erotic repose? Neapolitan killers are so …” His hand circled the air.

“Elaborate, yes,” she said.

“Clues? Evidence? Conjectures?”

“Judging from the low-gauge shotgun pattern, the murder weapon may have been a
lupara
.”

“Quaint,” the colonel said. “The traditional instrument of vengeance.”

“The murders seemed smoothly done—unnecessarily elaborate, yes, but professional.”

“Camorra, without question,” her boss said.

“That’s what I thought at first. But why do in an art curator?”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t cooperate with a counterfeit,” the colonel said. “If he’s gay, maybe he came on to the wrong man. Camorra aren’t known for their tolerance of gays. You reach his boyfriend yet?”

“No.”

“Anyway, I want you to handle it. The countess is insisting, and who am I to refuse her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, I have a new partner for you to break in.”

“That was fast. Who?”

“Angelina Cavatelli. She requested a female partner.”

“Why do I know the name?”

“She’s from Palermo.”

“Their first Sicilian female officer.”

“Correct.”

“She’s a rookie, no? Why transfer so early? There aren’t enough thugs down there?”

“Confidentially?”

“Someone didn’t appreciate a female colleague, or she stepped on someone’s toes.”

“Something like that.”

“I like her already.”

“Good. She’s reporting for duty later today.”

“What if I had said no?”

“I didn’t think you could resist the idea of a female partner. Besides, Captain, it’s an order.” The colonel’s gaze grew benevolent. “By the way, I’m sorry about you and Pino.”

Natalia nodded. “As am I, sir.”

“I didn’t have a choice once you two got involved. I had to transfer one of you. You had seniority and outranked him. And, frankly, fond as I am of Pino, I could not afford to lose you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, as you’re no longer partnered at work, headquarters might be persuaded to look the other way concerning your domestic arrangements.”

“Thank you, but no, Colonel. I knew the chance we were taking. I should have known better. Matters of the heart … they don’t belong here.”

“All right, Captain.” Colonel Donati leaned on his desk with both hands. “Find those responsible.”

Natalia rang the doorbell. A dog barked.

“
Momento
!” As Lola Nuovaletta opened it, a fierce ball of fur charged past her, jumped up Natalia’s legs and scratched. It was a small designer dog, all the rage: gray and white, shampooed and clipped with a bow in its hair.

“Since when do you have a watch dog?” Natalia asked.

“Down, Micu! Isn’t she cute? Come to mama!” She snatched her into her arms and nuzzled her. “Present from the boyfriend. In case I get lonely when he’s not here.”

“Sounds like Dominick’s getting serious.”

“Maybe.” She kissed Natalia. “Come with me into the kitchen. I gotta feed the princess.”

Natalia followed her back. They were two sides of a coin, she and Lola. They had grown up together, pampered by each other’s grandmothers. As teens, they’d practiced staying upright in high heels, discussed the finer points of kissing and confided their dreams and ambitions. Lola wanted a man. Natalia wanted an academic life but wound up a Carabiniere. Lola had grown up in the Camorra—her family and her husband’s family both went back for generations. She’d never thought to be anything else but a
camorrista
.

Lola took a plastic container from the refrigerator.

“I’m heating her some meatballs. She only eats people food, cooked. You want something to eat? Some lunch?”

“Thanks, Lola. I only have a few minutes.”

“These fucking containers are hell to open. Down, Micu! Want me to break a nail?”

“Can we be serious here a minute?”

“Aye, aye,
Capitano!
What is it?”

“We found two bodies this morning.”

“The faggots on the horse?”

“How the hell could you have heard already?”

“Bianca Strozzi didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Relax. Your boss isn’t a suspect—yet.”

“All I’ve heard is gossip,” Lola said.

“God’s truth?”

“Aren’t we suspicious today,” she baby-talked, as she cuddled her new dog. The dog mewled. Lola looked up. “What about the museum guy’s boss?”

“Director Garducci?”

“Word is he and the deceased Vincente were an item.”

“For real? How do you know this?”

“Frankie’s cousin, Beatrice—Bibi, remember her? She was their maid for a while. According to Bibi, Director Garducci is a very particular guy. Everything aligned and in its proper place, exact—or you’d hear about it. You know the type: pencil up his ass. Screamed at her a couple of times. He and the wife had separate bedrooms. Must have fucked once, though. Their daughter’s thirteen. Bibi says she’s shy, nose always in a book. Like our Mariel. Anyway, her father had male ‘friends’ stay over sometimes. The wife tolerated it. She’s from Milan. No tits, if you know what I mean. So Bibi walks into the bedroom one morning, and one of Garducci’s ‘friends’ is bleeding like crazy all over the Milanese sheets. Bibi and the wife rush him over to Cardelli Hospital. The happy couple paid Bibi a lot of money to keep her mouth shut. Imagine what they paid to keep it out of the papers.”

“When was this?”

“Six, seven months ago. The wife took the kid and left. Went back to Milan. According to Bibi, Vincente Lattaruzzo was a regular guest of Director Garducci’s. There’s your killer. You think?”

“Could be, I suppose.”

“Who’s the other dead guy?” Lola asked.

“Carlo Bagnatti.” Natalia picked up a gold and turquoise cushion. “Nice.”

“A cousin of Frankie’s opened a new shop on Duomo. Everything’s one-of-a-kind. Bagnatti? You’re talking about the dirt diva?”

“One and the same.”

“I wonder who did him,” Lola mused.

Natalia stood and started toward the door. “Are we on for Saturday?”

“Of course.” Lola picked up the dog, and they slobbered over each other for a moment. Then she pointed the creature toward Natalia.

“That’s okay.” Natalia said. “I appreciate the thought.”

“She doesn’t love us, Micu.” Lola kissed the dog’s ear.

“I love you. I don’t love your drooling friend.”

Lola made a face. “You didn’t notice.”

“What?”

“My new earrings.” She fingered one of the dangling jewels.

“Pretty.”

“Diamonds, Nat.”

“A new admirer?”

“Nah. Madam Strozzi. In appreciation for the job I done.”

“Blood diamonds,” Natalia said sarcastically. “Nice.”

“Hey, it’s called working for a living. You know all about that.”

“I do, and I better get back to it,” Natalia said and made for the door.

Rundown apartment buildings and car repair businesses dominated the neighborhood around her Via Casanova station—no delight for eye or soul. Natalia reached her workplace, the blue
CARABINIERE
sign in the box above the door lighting the way to the front door. Entering, Natalia climbed the stairs. Every chair in the waiting room was taken. A small, shriveled man stood at the reception desk.

“I want to report a crime,” he said. He looked like he lived in the street.

Some of the homeless eccentrics were merely lonely, a few were mad. Each was seen and heard. Every so often they provided a lucid narrative and pertinent information about a crime that led to arrests, so each was treated
respectfully. The officer at the desk dutifully recorded the details of the assault on him.

Someone was sitting at Pino’s desk, a black windbreaker draped over the back. For a second, Natalia thought it was a man. But when the person stood, Natalia faced a young woman not much over five feet, thin and muscular, her black hair cut punk style in uneven chunks. No one would ever take her for a Carabiniere, yet she wore the black utility uniform with red piping, slightly bulged by the armored vest underneath. Her wine-red beret lay on the out tray. The red chevrons of a corporal adorned her sleeves.

Natalia hoped she hadn’t inherited a partner even more naïve than the one she’d lost, though this girl was from Sicily and a station in Palermo—no easy duty. Naples was not free of
serieta
, the ancient code of behavior expected of Italian women, but it was more seriously adhered to in Sicily. Women were expected to follow its precepts: marry young, bear many children and remain faithful to your husband. In which case she had the respect and protection of the men. Ignoring it, she forfeited even her small freedoms and couldn’t so much as enter a café by herself or wear short sleeves even if the day was brutal.

A woman who defied these conventions would be accosted in the streets, harassed, ridiculed. To join an all-male organization like the Carabiniere was unthinkable. So the girl had some guts.

The kid had cleared up Pino’s desk and was going through a stack of reports.

Natalia extended her hand. “Natalia Monte. Welcome to the Tenth Carabinieri Battalion.”

“Cavatelli, ma’am. Angelina Cavatelli.”

“Have you had the tour?”

“A Maresciallo dei Carabiniere showed me around.”

“Yeah, the marshal is named Cervino. What did he say?” Natalia got up and closed the door.

“Aside from the pleasantries?”

“Yeah.”

“I got the feeling he was fishing. Who did I know in Naples? Who did I report to in Palermo? Then something about loyalty. That I should come to him if anyone at the station compromised that oath. Like he wanted to recruit me to spy. Weird, huh? But maybe he figured a newbie … he could get me under his thumb right away.”

“Stay clear of him. He’s dangerous. Passed up for promotion more than once. Always looking for dirt. Can’t stand the idea that a woman is higher ranked than he is.”

“I’m familiar with that one. Don’t worry. I’ll steer clear. I did get an overview from our boss, the colonel. Seems like a decent guy.”

“He is,” Natalia said, “for the most part. So who’d you piss off in Palermo?”