These Dark Things (15 page)

Natalia exhaled, re-engaged the safety, and walked back toward her house.

“Natalia!”

She turned toward Pino. “Whoever it was took off.”

He holstered his weapon and embraced her. “You’re okay?”

“Yes. A bit shaken, but yeah. How did you get here so fast?”

“Taxi.”

“That’s a first.”
You must love me
, she wanted to tease, but thought better of it. “You told me Buddhists don’t believe in taxis.”

“Taxes. I said taxes.”

They wandered slowly back toward the apartment house, her heart still racing, her breathing shallow. Upstairs, Natalia walked into the bathroom, splashed her face with water. Looking into the mirror, she was horrified; she tried to tame her wild curls. “No need to look like hell,
cara
,” she said, hearing Lola’s voice admonish her. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet’s shelves, she found the untouched tube of glittery lip gloss, courtesy of Mariel, applied it, and returned to the living room.

“Why don’t I stay for a while—just till you calm down.”

Natalia flushed. “I don’t know.…”

“Look,” he said, “it’s okay. Line of duty. I won’t bite. Promise.” He patted the bed.

“Okay,” she said, yawning. “You win.”

“Good.”

He stretched out on the bed. She lay down next to him, resting her head on his chest.

“Better,” he said, stroking her hair.

Natalia made a contented noise and said, “Yes.” In seconds, she was asleep. Pino unwedged his 9-millimeter from his belt and slowly drifted off too.

9

Natalia stood on her balcony, trying to wake up. She barely remembered Pino slipping away at first light.

Blue flowers dotted the hills. It smelled like rain. She gathered up her things, checking her weapon before leaving for work. Shading her eyes, Natalia crossed the street downstairs and walked into a bright piazza. In spite of the heat, there were elderly men bowling small bocce balls down dirt lanes, strategizing between shots. A young girl in a headscarf stood next to a man with a face like a bulldog, both waiting for the light. A boy of four or five did wheelies on a tiny bike. His mother was too preoccupied with a new baby to tell him to stop.

Natalia’s childbearing years were practically gone. She considered the baby. This perfect creature with impossible skin and opaque eyes.

A man bumped her. She almost pulled her weapon until she saw that he was listening to an iPod. “
Scusi
,” he said.

In the middle of the next block, a young man and woman were kissing, hands in one another’s jean pockets. Natalia stepped around them. Surely these young people were not burdened by the superstitions of their parents. Not the girl with bright aquamarine hair, or the boy with her, a score by Liszt under one arm. Did they ever think about blood oaths or the Camorra, the Mafia, the ’Ndrangheta, or the half-dozen other not-so-secret secret societies that catacombed their country?

Natalia got to the office early. She spent an hour cleaning and organizing her desk as she tried to push away the events of the previous evening and the realization that she had a full-blown crush on her partner. How shocking that her first love had gone over to the enemy and was lost to her, even in memory.

To distract herself, she dumped three bottles of nail polish, a compact, and two lipsticks into the trash. There was a perfume bottle, a fancy brand, a gift, courtesy of Mariel, when Natalia joined the force. The lid had started to corrode. Most of the perfume must have evaporated over the years it had been in her drawer. She picked it up, managed to open the lid. Then she tipped the bottle over, dabbing the last few drops onto her wrist. She brought it to her nose and inhaled a trace of verbena.

She put Vivaldi on her CD player. The album was a gift from her last serious boyfriend, Giorgio, a violinist. Had it been three years? They’d parted amicably, and every few months there was a message from him—from Prague or London.

She’d been thirteen when she was exposed to the beauty of Vivaldi—the same year her mother allowed her to go to the Luchettis’ street festival. Guillermo Luchetti owned the neighborhood bar. Definitely a Camorra man. As a good Catholic, he wanted to minimize his time in purgatory, so every year he threw a huge party to right the balance. How excited she was, the first time she went with Lola. Mariel was so jealous when she found out. They’d eaten an early dinner and started out as the sun was setting. Night took over Naples. Fireworks went off as loud as bombs. The noise scared all the cats off the streets.

Natalia and Lola joined the crowds and marched with them. On one float in a glass coffin, Jesus was laid out. On another a brass band played. People danced, even though the music was mournful. Father Ponti walked through, smiling and shaking hands. Luchetti hosted the dignitaries, including Signor Gambini. Women held up their babies for the monsignor to kiss. Natalia stayed for hours.

“Captain, someone is waiting to see you,” Giulio informed Natalia, standing at her door, interrupting her reverie. “A woman.”

Giulio had been eating pistachios. Natalia could smell them. “Who is it?” she asked.

“A Signora Ruttola,” he said, wiping salt off his lips. “Says she has information about the Teresa Steiner case.”

“Thanks.”

Lattanza’s wife was sitting on a chair in the reception area, wearing a lovely white dress that drew the envious eyes of two female carabinieri who were passing by. But her perfect look was marred by her face, streaked with mascara.

She dabbed her eyes as Natalia approached. “I had to talk to you.”

“Come.”

The two women walked back to Natalia’s office. Natalia pulled out a chair for Signora Ruttola and closed the blinds on her window before sitting down at her desk.

“What is it?”

“Marco,” she sobbed. “I was away at a design conference in Milan and came home a day early. Thought I’d play wife for once—make a nice dinner, wear a negligee. Couples get busy and forget to take time for one another. I’m sure you know about that.”

Natalia nodded, though she couldn’t imagine parading around in a transparent negligee for Marco Lattanza.

“I walked in on him—them. The bastard didn’t even have the decency to go to a hotel.”

She straightened before continuing: “He wasn’t home the night the girl was killed—Teresa Steiner. I lied. I’m tired of the lies. He promised me he had nothing to do with her murder. We’ve been together a long time; we have a daughter.” Black beads streamed down her cheeks.

“You are willing to sign a statement?” Natalia asked.

“Yes,” Marissa Ruttola said.

“We’ll need to bring him in for further questioning. Maybe hold him on suspicion. We have witnesses who overheard him threaten the girl. You may want to take your daughter away from the apartment. It probably won’t be until tomorrow. Are you sure you can act ‘normal’ until we can pick him up?”

“Absolutely.”

After Marissa read the statement on videotape and signed, Natalia called Pino on his cell phone and informed Colonel Donati’s secretary. It was then that she saw the call slip for a phone call she’d missed.
Hope you liked the earrings
.
Lola
, the note said. The
PLEASE CALL
box was checked. Lola had never called Natalia’s office before.

Pino finally appeared. He had news as well.

“The criminalists’ search of Teresa Steiner’s rented room turned up a journal hidden in the hollow brass bedpost.”

“Fabulous.”

“There’s more. The search of the bone cleaner’s apartment turned up this—Kiyoshi number 7, the special chef’s knife missing from the monastery kitchen.”

He held up both in their clear plastic evidence bags, happy as a kid bringing home goldfish.

Natalia clapped her hands. “Bingo and bingo.”

Pino waited in the car in the unloading area while Natalia went into the railroad terminal by herself. She crossed the cavernous waiting hall and reached the public toilets. There was a line, as usual. The woman at the head of the line smelled like she hadn’t bathed in a while. The woman directly in front of Natalia was elegant—white capri pants and a bright Gucci blouse. The line proceeded inside.

Two prostitutes were doing laundry in a sink. One of the women washing her underwear had black stringy hair. Her sundress showed a bony frame and sores along her arm. The other woman, heftier, wore tight pants and a halter top. The woman in front of Natalia clutched her bags and made the sign of the cross as she realized that the large woman was, in fact, a man.

“Can you tell me where I might find Father Pacelli?” Natalia asked.

“Sure. Try Track 22, at the far end.”

Exiting the bathroom, Natalia proceeded to Binario 22, the track farthest from the waiting room. Carabiniere Cesare beamed as Natalia approached. He appeared as happy as ever.

“Captain.”

“Carabiniere. Good day. Would you know where the priest is who works with the prostitutes?”

“The Jesuit. Sure.” He pointed her in the direction of a large door.

She passed the waiting room, separated from the main hall by a guard and a barrier. One could only enter with a ticket. A godsend for women traveling alone.

Natalia was aware that she no longer collected wolf whistles and stares from men, the way she had when she was younger. This made her grateful on the one hand, but aware on the other that she was aging. Young girls took it for granted, their smooth skin and easy smiles making the path of daily life in many ways smoother. Teresa Steiner had been at the height of her powers—physically and intellectually. Her killer could very well be someone who had misinterpreted her friendliness for something else. And when he was scorned.…

And what about Lattanza the serial seducer? He’d had plenty of opportunities. And probably plenty of young girls. But maybe this time he wanted to keep the relationship, and she was ready to move on to younger men. His ego wouldn’t accept it. Maybe Lattanza was feeling the loss of power—sexual and otherwise. He didn’t mean to, things got out of hand. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Pino didn’t like Lattanza for the killer, but Pino did not have a history with him, had not seen him get angry.

She pushed through the door to Track 22 where an empty train stood idle, and there Pacelli was, sitting on a plastic crate, head bent close to a prostitute seated on another, listening intently to her. Two monks handed out coffee and bread with cheese slices crudely layered on top. It took a moment for her to realize that Pacelli wasn’t deep in a two-way conversation with the whore: rather, he was hearing her confession. In the eighteenth century, the Jesuits had preached to prostitutes, offered them a decent place to live in exchange for their faith, and founded a hospital for syphilitics in Naples. “Angels of Peace,” the fallen women called the Jesuits.

The streetwalker crossed herself and rose to her feet. Pacelli resumed his duties distributing refreshments.

“Monsignor,” Natalia called out.

“Captain.” Pacelli waved her over as he extended a cup of coffee to the last girl in line. She appeared to be forty.

“We’re looking for Benito.”

“You tried his room at the monastery?”

“Yes. Not there. His clothes either.”

“He may have gone to his parents’. He was saying something about that the other day.”

“Thanks. We’ll try him there.”

“May I ask why you want him?”

“We’ve come up with some incriminating evidence and need to speak to him.”

Pacelli looked pained. “He didn’t harm that girl. He couldn’t have.”

“He was in love with her,” she countered.

“Obviously. But violent toward her? Not possible.” He pursed his lips, troubled by the conversation. “Yes, he was infatuated. We may be in holy orders, but we are human too.” “My point exactly,” she said. “Monk or not, he is a man.” “Please be kind to him when you catch up.”

“I will do my best, Monsignor.”

“I’ll pray for you both.”

“You take confessions, Monsignor.”

“Of course. I’m a priest.”

“The girl who was killed. Did she ever come to you privately? After all, she visited your church many times, according to Benito. She was a lapsed Catholic. When she visited Benito—a perfect opportunity to reconnect with the Church.”

“Why do you ask?”

“She may have told you something that could help us find her killer.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know her.”

“No? Such a small parish.…”

“Nevertheless.…”

“What about Benito? Did he come to you? Did he confess to you that he’d killed the girl?”

“You know I can’t divulge the contents of confession.”

“Monsignor!” A tall woman with huge jiggly breasts walked swiftly toward them. Her underwear was visible through her flimsy yellow dress.

But up close, she was another man, with a man’s build, moustache shadowed above pink lips.

“Ida, give me a minute, okay?”

“It’s important.” She scowled at Natalia, snapped open a compact and applied more powder.

“No rest for the weary, I’m afraid,” Pacelli said. “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. But please, don’t be a stranger. Any way I can be of help.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I speak frankly?”