A Few Drops of Blood (5 page)

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

“Well, they come to all of us, these losses. I don’t erase decay from my garden. Some people prune blossoms as soon as they shrivel. Not I. The disintegration is as beautiful as new growth. My husband and I—we had wonderful years together. Nothing to feel sorry for. Forgive me. I don’t have many people I talk to, so I ramble when given half a chance.”

“No, it’s interesting.”

“A polite young woman. Anyway, what can I add?”

“You were here the night before you found the bodies in your garden? But you didn’t see or hear anything.”

“That’s right. I was awake, too—couldn’t sleep. But the villa’s walls are extremely thick and the air-conditioning was on, the double-pane windows shut.”

“You didn’t look out into the garden at any point?”

“When I can’t sleep, sometimes I make myself a cup of tea and bring it out onto the patio.”

“Not the other night.”

“No. Too warm and buggy.”

“Would you be willing to look at some photos to see if you recognize anyone who may have been around your neighborhood yesterday?”

“Why not? Do you wish me to come to your post?”

“That won’t be necessary. Either my partner or I will bring them by and sit with you. One of us will call and arrange a convenient time.” Natalia put away her notebook.

“Come yourself if you can. I’ll give you a tour of the house and grounds.”

“That’s very kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it. I like the company of young people.”

Natalia laughed. “I’m not sure I qualify.”

“Trust me. You do.”

Natalia called Mariel to tell her she was running late and needed to stop at the bank.

“
Nonce problema
,” Mariel said. “I’m unpacking boxes. Take your time.”

Natalia rang off as she passed the black-draped Funerari Sanzari emporium, then noticed the man at work across the street putting up new death announcements. Bent over, holding his pants with one hand, he dipped his brush into a bucket and slapped a large sheet of paper on the wall next to some others: a white poster with no ornamentation, only a name in bold black ink. Vincente Lattaruzzo had officially joined the revered ranks of the dead.

Natalia arrived at her bank just in time to see Lucia Ruttollo, in a chenille housecoat and sagging white socks, assisted out of the small, circular, glass enclosure where customers were scanned before entering. Natalia flashed her Carabiniere ID and stepped through, her weapon setting off beeping momentarily.

Meanwhile Maria Fanno, Lucia Rotollo’s distant cousin, took Lucia’s arm and walked her brazenly past ten customers queued and waiting their turn at the teller’s window.

She positioned old Mama Lucia in front of a young bank clerk, then sat on one of the chairs lined up against the wall. People were grumpy and unhappy with this, but no one dared challenge Maria. Lucia opened her pocketbook with gnarled hands and took out a wad of bills. She peeled off the rubber band and counted the notes before turning them over to the teller.

Lucia Ruttollo’s oldest son was
re
—king—of the Forcella district, and his mother its
madrina
, the godmother and brains behind the Camorra’s operation. She ruled from a rickety wooden stool beside the cash register in the Pasticceria Ruttollo. Over the years she’d rung up sugar cakes and cannoli and ledgered untold millions from heroin. Her other son, however, hadn’t made it past messenger jobs. Bad blood between the brothers, according to the neighborhood gossips. Her daughter, Suzanna, Natalia’s classmate in school, had emigrated to England after a divorce.

Lucia had received the bakery from her parents’ second cousins, a wedding present from the childless couple. Hers was an arranged crime-clan marriage between trusted children of the ’Nrangheta. The bakery and its hidden side enterprises remained massively lucrative. So she could well afford large-size couture, as well as a personal hairdresser, yet she stood at the teller’s window looking frumpy and disheveled, her hair mussed, bathrobe tattered. She could have flaunted diamond rings on all her arthritic fingers, but Lucia Ruttollo’s idea of self-indulgent pleasure was banking her money, year in, year out.

According to her Carabinieri file, she had accounts from Naples to Geneva. And piled high in a warehouse somewhere were large burlap coffee-bean bags filled with cash money in dollars, euros, Swiss marks. Twice a year she went around to check the cache and update her cryptic records.

Bank chores done, Lucia tottered out.

By the time Natalia stepped outside, clouds had overtaken the sun. She passed along Via Tribunali, the narrow, thousand-year-old, east-west main street of Neapolis in the time of the Greeks—not much wider than a chariot—and turned onto Porta Alba. A man selling lottery tickets greeted her, a blue canary perched on the edge of his box.

“Please, so we can eat!”

Natalia handed him a couple of euros and refused the ticket. She crossed the street to Libreria Arco, her friend’s bookshop. Mariel dealt in art books mostly, also literary fiction, and stocked a small section devoted to foreign titles. Natalia, as always, perused the art books on display.
Napoli tra Barocco e Neoclassico
caught her eye: Naples between the Baroque and Neoclassic Era. Though she had not concentrated on architecture during her art history studies at university, Natalia basked in the magnificence of the historic buildings that made her city such a treasure, even the slummy and cramped ancient area at its center.

Natalia watched Mariel through the window shelving books, her friend looking elegant and demure in a grey cashmere sweater and forest green scarf, perfectly knotted, her sleek black hair pulled into a chignon. Natalia momentarily envied Mariel’s tranquil nature, so unlike Lola’s or hers. How had their friend come by this grace? Certainly being raised with privilege helped, though Mariel had suffered misfortune as well in the early loss of both her parents. Mariel didn’t have to work, though. She’d inherited her parents’ wealth and the luxurious
palazzo
where they’d lived and run their art business. Dating from the Renaissance, each of her flat’s ten rooms had marble floors and carved ceilings thirteen feet high. Yet Mariel worked diligently, books and the bookshop her joy.

What was her own, Natalia wondered? She didn’t possess her friend’s tranquil soul, that she knew. Her job required logic and toughness, and she called on both in herself. In only one way was she like Mariel. Both were solitary at heart. But Natalia wasn’t at all at peace or even content.

Entering university, her goals had been clear: to have a career as an art historian. That life upended early on. What did she seek now? Rough justice in her work? A kind of truth? Both were outnumbered and in short supply of late. Crime seemed so senior to the law. Maybe Pino was right to bow out, to concentrate on his inner self and the Buddhist’s path he’d chosen. According to Pino, karma wasn’t a choice but a spiritual destiny embedded in your being. He had a deep faith. Natalia? Perhaps like the Church’s selfless and solitary brides of Christ, she had pledged her life to a higher calling. But all she had guiding her was her vow to the state and a government-issued nine millimeter Glock.

Natalia opened the shop door. A bell tinkled. The noise of the street diminished as she entered further. Mozart played softly on the sound system. Virginia Woolf, warming in the sun, lifted her feline self from the window display where she’d been snoozing and yawned as she stretched, seemingly doubling her length.

“
Cara!
” Mariel abandoned her books and hurried over. “Come.”

She swept Natalia back outside, put a closed sign in the window and locked the door. Arm in arm, they crossed the street to their favorite local café, where their usual waiter led them to their usual table. A plate of artichokes promptly appeared, along with a saucer of seasoned olive oil and a basket of warm bread. The waiter paused to flirt with Mariel before hurrying away.

Men were easily smitten with Mariel, and she seemed
serious about a few of them, but something always interfered. Inevitably her suitors would declare themselves. When she didn’t reciprocate, they grew discouraged and moved on. Perhaps the trauma of losing her parents so young prevented her from risking herself by investing them with her love. Instead, Mariel clung to her solitary routines. She hated any deviation, hated change.

“So, what’s happening in law enforcement?” Mariel said.

“You might have heard about it—the double murder?”

“The curator at the Museo Archeologico and that gossip columnist?”

“Yes.”

Mariel held up a tabloid. Across the front: a large photograph of the two dead men on the sculpted horse. Directly beneath it:
ASSASSINIO BRUTALE
. And the subhead:

“‘Murdered Gay Lovers Ride Bareback in the Garden of the Contessa Cavazza,’” she read.

Natalia groaned. “Where could they have gotten that picture?”

“Bribed the police photographer?”

“Raffi? Never.”

“Servants of the
contessa
? I mean, it’s all over the Internet, too. What a scene—and in the
contessa
’s serene garden.”

“I’m sure she’ll be upset to find this splashed all over.” Natalia checked her watch. “We’d better enjoy our lunch while we can. I’ve been assigned a new partner.” Natalia sopped up some olive oil with a piece of bread.

“So soon?”

“A terrific young Sicilian woman from Palermo.”

The waiter cleared the appetizer plates.

“Another female on the force. That must be nice for you.”

“Yes.” The waiter hovered. “I’ll have the
caprese
salad,” Natalia said.

Mariel smiled at him. “Me, too.”

“With beautiful mozzarella,” he said. “You won’t be sorry.”

Natalia smiled. “Never been sorry in all the years we’ve been coming here.” He went to assemble their salads, her eyes following him. “Why are some men such sweethearts?”

“They just are,” Mariel replied. “Oh, guess who’s back in town after a decade?”

“I need a clue. Male or female?”

“Female. Girl with the biggest hair in tenth grade?”

“Suzanna Scavullo?”

“Ruttollo—Suzanna Ruttollo. She’s using her maiden name again. According to Lola, she sounds British when she speaks in English.”

Natalia cut into the creamy cheese and smeared it on a chunk of bread. “Remember when Ernesto Scavullo sent his limo to pick her up after school?”

“Yeah. Sister Fiore nearly had a stroke.” Mariel squinted, thinking. “She married Ernesto when she was what, sixteen? Same year as Lola and Frankie got hitched.”

“Talk about jealous. Lola had to keep house in that rented hovel, while Suzanna got to order around live-in maids in her mansion. How old was she when Scavullo kicked her out?”

“Maybe twenty-five,” Mariel said. “She was like a crazy person, running down Tribunali screaming, threatening to kill herself.”

Natalia brushed away a curl. “It’s coming back to me now. Lucia set her daughter up with a small heroin distributorship afterward.”

“Small?” Mariel said. “It had to bring in several millions.”

Their waiter brought them their coffee and a plate of biscotti. “My treat,” he said.

“You’re wicked,” Natalia said, immediately dunking one.

“Mmmmm,” Mariel agreed, her mouth full. “What do you hear from the cycling policeman?”

“Pino’s enjoying his leave of absence reading Dante,” Natalia said and wiped crumbs from her lips. “He’s staying at his uncle’s farm near Airola. Does chores and repairs in lieu of rent. Wants me to visit.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don’t know, Em. I miss him. The other night the phone rang late. Scared the shit out of me. He’d dreamt someone was trying to harm me and wanted to come make sure I was okay.”

“And?” Mariel said, her expression hopeful.

“I was tempted … but I couldn’t, Em. Can’t. You know?”

Mariel nodded. “And now he’s practicing
La Smorfia
?”

“That’s what I love about him,” Natalia laughed.

“That he’s following that old, crazy, mystical psychic numbers thing to foresee winning lottery numbers?”

“No. That he doesn’t live in the real world. Monday I found this in the mail when I got home.” She reached into her pocket.

Mariel exhaled loudly. “How come you get the interesting boyfriends? Mine are always checking their Blackberries.”

“What about that German artist?”

“Franz? Who set up a studio in my living room, made my sainted grandmother’s brocade couch look like a Jackson Pollock?”

Natalia smiled. “He was sexy.” She handed Mariel a package. “Sorry for the wrapping.”

“What’s this? It’s not my birthday. Have I ignored so many that I’ve actually forgotten the date?”

“I couldn’t resist. Open it.”

“Yes, Mama.” Mariel unfurled a red silk scarf with Vesuvius embossed in gold. “It’s gorgeous.” She pulled aside her silky hair and knotted the scarf around her neck. “Perfect,” she kissed Natalia. “Who needs boyfriends anyway?”

Mariel picked up the check, and they said goodbye. Natalia took out her mobile to call the countess.

“Captain?”

“Contessa, you should be forewarned. The tabloid press is running a picture of the murdered men on the sculpted horse.”

The countess sighed. “Yes, I’m aware. My maid informed me of it.”

“Excuse me for asking this, but do you think one of your servants might have taken the picture?”

“Impossible. There are only two, and both are dears who have been with me for decades. Besides, they are old like me and technically inept. It’s all we can do to operate the toaster. No. No, it wasn’t them.”

Driving back to work past elite shops displaying the latest Versace and Gucci, Natalia abruptly stopped on Via Petrarca by the fountain she’d recognized as she raced past to Countess Cavazza’s residence and the bodies in her garden.