A Few Drops of Blood (6 page)

The fountain’s marble cherubs blew the same trumpets she had marveled at as a child, but back then they’d spouted streams of water. Now the basin was dry, the tiles surrounding it, worn and cracked. Like much of Naples, the fountain hadn’t worked properly in a long time.

Natalia returned to the station. She made a few calls then set out on foot to her next interview. On Via San Agostino she saw the familiar figure of Lola’s boss, Bianca Strozzi, trailed by her two daughters, each pushing an expensive baby pram. She kept her distance: an unspoken agreement not to acknowledge one another in public. The ladies went single file where the sidewalk was torn up, careful not to wreck their stilettos, and entered the butcher shop.

Natalia stopped across the street and watched the clerk quickly slice an order of their favorite
prosciutto
, free of charge, while the women collected the weekly
pezzo
, their piece of the shop’s revenues.

Real babies occupied the twin carriages, but Natalia was certain weapons also lay tucked somewhere under the satin coverlets near the two innocents. Bianca’s daughters moved in and out of businesses along the street, collecting 500 to 2,000 euros from the shops and thirty to forty from
the street peddlers. At Christmas and Easter, bonuses would be expected: gifts of gratitude for the Strozzis’ benevolence and protection. Not to mention the purchase of decorations like Christmas lights from the Camorra’s collectors at an absurd 100 euros a set.

Mama stood nearby in case. Collecting the
pezzo
was small time next to their trash business, but it was a traditional racket to which they remained nostalgically attached. Given the number of shopkeepers and vendors, it still came to thousands of euros from each block.

Camorristi
never surrendered so much as a penny once a claim was established, and the Strozzis always exercised their right to collect their due, as they had for several generations. And their inherent right not to pay the politicians a penny of it in taxes.

Even Valentino, the drunkard, wasn’t exempt. He staggered out of his folding chair as the ladies approached. Although hopelessly alcoholic, he nonetheless managed to eke out a living selling fruit to a few customers who didn’t mind the occasional rotten strawberry or apricot: residents loyal to the memory of his father, who had started the business when horse-drawn carts clattered down the cobbled streets.

Further on sat Mr. Prava in a chair on the narrow sidewalk, a new bit of graffitti scrawled in blue on the ancient wall over his head. His place occupied the limbo corner where Bianca Strozzi’s territory ended and Scavullo’s turf began. Prava didn’t look so good, with his eyes puffy, his lovely white hair uncombed, and shirt wrinkled and threadbare.

The doors to his place stood open, tables stacked on the street. The bar inside was under construction and torn up. A workman lacquered its top black. A giant television
screen suspended on the far wall carried a soccer game, but Prava paid no attention. Had he fallen behind on payments? Lost the café? More likely he’d acquired uninvited partners, and they were draining him dry, helping themselves to free food and drink, forcing their knock-off booze and goods into his regular orders at jacked prices and skimming the till as they squeezed every euro out of his pockets. Scavullo showed no mercy for anyone behind on paying him.

For that matter, neither were the
madrina
and her daughters at all lenient. The ladies were running their scams and making out on garbage collection contracts as they worked their way up the criminal food chain. Meanwhile, they maintained their hold on their vendors with these traditional weekly walkabouts.

Natalia had known Mr. Prava for twenty years. She said hello. He looked past her and closed his eyes as the Strozzis passed him by, dutifully respecting the boundary of their rival.

The Strozzis were in the vanguard. With more mob men in jail, their women had moved up to take command. A Neapolitan innovation. The Sicilian mafia would never entertain the idea of having women dons. But Naples’s females often stepped in when their men were sent up. The Camorra took genuine pride in their ruthlessness.

At first, not everyone in town believed they were for real. Enzo Gracci, for one. Violetta Lupe had inherited the Rione del Vasto from Papa Marco. Gracci ran a successful fish market there—wholesale and retail—maybe the largest in Naples. Thinking Violetta a pushover, he held back a couple of payments, referred to her a couple of times as “that bitch.” A week later Enzo sat on a bench in Piazza Dante with his eyes gouged out, quite dead from shock.

Here were the people Natalia had sworn to protect: alcoholic Valentino; Mr. Prava; the cobbler in his dim shop next door with a pile of broken shoes on his worktable; a couple hugging in the shadow of the church, the woman’s lilac-colored bodice stitched with tiny mirrors that pulsed shards of colored light where Natalia walked.

What could she realistically do? The system had ruled since before she was born. Maybe Pino was correct in getting out before he ended up a cynic. Or worse: in a
camp ed coj
, “cabbage patch,” street slang for a grave.

Natalia crossed the road. A baby, wearing pink ice cream on her face, sat in her father’s lap as he navigated their motorbike through traffic. An old lady yelled at them from the sidewalk. He braked, handed the baby to a woman who kissed it several times and got on the bike behind him, the babe in her lap as they sped off.

Two nuns scurried into a liquor shop. A florist arranged a bucket of tuber roses as several pigeons swooped from St. Francis’s bronze shoulders and fluttered overhead. Finally, Natalia reached her destination and rang Stefano Grappi’s intercom bell.

She surprised him, but he was gracious, inviting her up. He met her at the door and ushered her into his living room. She sat and opened her dog-eared notebook.

“We’re pressed for time, Mr. Grappi. Do you mind if I just begin?”

“Not at all. I’m kind of anxious to have the investigation over myself.”

“Vincente and Carlo Bagnatti, were they having an affair? Do you know?”

“They slept together briefly a long time ago, way before he and I were a couple. Vincente was experimenting, just coming out. Bagnatti was older, experienced—charming,
as Vincente put it. Not the viper the public later came to know.”

“You knew him?”

“Only by reputation.”

“There was nothing between them more recently?”

Stefano closed his eyes momentarily. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Did Vincente’s collection include firearms?” Natalia said.

“Yes, several. I don’t know if they work. He was always buying war souvenirs on the Internet. A year ago he stopped showing me his acquisitions. They didn’t really interest me.”

“Are any weapons missing from his collection?”

“Not unless Vincente removed them himself. They should all be there. No one has entered the ‘War Room,’ as he called it. No one ever did without an invitation. Only Beatrice. I’m not even certain I know where he keeps—kept—the key.”

“You didn’t find that odd? The locked room?”

“Not really. Vincente is fastidious about his possessions—about everything. Plus, he does have some very valuable articles.”

“Beatrice is?”

“Beatrice Santini. She comes in to clean for him twice a month.”

“I’ll need to speak with her.”

“She lives in the Rione Mater Dei. I have a number somewhere. But you can find her at the Hotel Neapolis.”

“On Via Giudice?”

“She works there most days, yes.”

The Neapolis Hotel was a floor of rooms within a grand old
palazzo
six stories high. Outside, a minuscule plaza held an
antiquity: a Greek obelisk that daily drew visitors to the tiny square. Natalia took the stairs to the second floor and struggled against a heavy glass door to gain entry. The foyer was quiet, most guests being already out, traipsing through Pompeii or gasping at the art at the Capodimonte Museum.

The desk clerk’s post at the front desk stood empty. A half-sandwich rested on a plate beside leather-bound menus for nearby restaurants. A case behind the counter held art books available for perusal or purchase.

The clerk returned and directed Natalia down a hall, where she found Beatrice Santini folding and stacking towels on a housekeeping cart. A stunning woman, her taut face and chiseled features resembled Greta Garbo’s. The gravelly timbre of her voice, too, as they conversed in Italian.

Had Stefano and Vincente seemed like a happy couple?

“Happy?”

“Did they argue a lot?”

“They got along. At least when I saw them. But … who knows what goes on underneath the surface between two people?”

“Had anything changed between them recently?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“Was Vincente planning to leave Stefano?”

“I wouldn’t know. Mr. Vincente went out sometimes. With other men. They fought about it once when I was there.”

“You cleaned the locked room where Vincente kept his collection?”

“He liked to be present when I did it—to be sure I didn’t break anything.”

“Do you know what a
lupara
is?”

“
Certo
. Sure I do.”

“Did Vincente have one in his collection of war memorabilia?”

“I didn’t see one, no. He only had a military pistol in his collection. No rifle. No shotgun.”

It had only been days since her partner had come aboard, but already Angelina had scrubbed and tidied their office and revived the nearly dead African violets abandoned when Pino left. A rare flowering plant with particularly luminous petals, more delicate and sensitive than ordinary blooms. Like Pino himself.

Angelina had also commandeered two new chairs. “Ergonomic,” she announced.

“We don’t have the budget for ergonomic,” Natalia said. “Where did you get these?”

“Don’t ask,” Angelina said—all mischievous grin—and picked a small Buddha figure from the shelf above her desk.

“Jade, isn’t it? Yours?”

“My partner’s—former partner, that is.”

“Uh oh. Your partner-partner? Maybe you’re not as smart as you look.”

“Carabiniere Cavatelli.”

“Sorry, Capitano,” Angelina said, chagrined. “None of my business. Let’s get to work.”

“I was teasing, I was teasing.”

Angelina spread a map of Naples open across her desk.

“I’m learning my way around,” she explained.

“Good. How’s it coming?”

“Okay,” she said and tapped a spot. “What’s with the Castel Dell’Ovo? Such a weird name.”

“Castle of the Egg? According to legend, Virgil placed an egg beneath the castle.”

“What?”

“He was big into sorcery.”

“Oh.”

“As long as the supernatural egg survived, Naples would as well.”

“Ah, Naples,” Angelina sighed. “So romantic. One of ours did the Teatro San Carlo.”

“Giovanni Antonio Medrano,” Natalia pronounced.

“You do know your stuff,” Angelina said.

“About Naples, yeah. ‘A peak of hell rising out of paradise,’ ” quoted Natalia.

“Virgil?”

“Goethe, according to Pino.”

“Maybe that’s why San Gennaro only worked his miracles in Naples. Though we could have used him in Palermo. Last report: crime rate is ten times higher in Sicily than anywhere else in our fair country.”

“Are you adjusting to our Neopolitan haven?” Natalia said.

Angelina laughed. “I like it. I like not being known by anyone.”

“Good. I have a task for you. Run a background check on Vincente Lattaruzzo and on the Countess Antonella Cavazza. Talk to Carlo Busto in the Municipal Building. He knows the archives like no one.”

A call summoned them to the colonel’s office. Fabio was standing when they entered, a copy of the day’s tabloid edition spread across his desk. He pointed to it.

“We can’t have this,” he said. “Any idea how they got a photo like that?”

“Not our photographer,” said Natalia. “Not Raffi.”

Fabio pressed his index finger to the bridge of his nose. “The mortuary men?”

“Possibly,” said Natalia.

“Her servants?”

“I doubt it.”

“That scandal rag must have paid a small fortune for it. Damn. We’ll tighten security here, and I’ll look into the mortuary boys at the scene. If one of them leaked it, he’ll wish he was his own client.”

The man who wanted to claim Carlo Bagnatti’s body wore a dark suit and lavender tie. A matching handkerchief peeped from the breast pocket. His shoes came to a point long after they should have ended.

“And you are?” Natalia asked as he took the chair alongside her desk.

“Pietro Fabretti.”

“Relation to the deceased?”

“An old friend—one of his only friends, needless to say. The price of being a gossip columnist.”

“Is there next of kin?”

“Carlo was an only child.”

“Is there an estate?”

“Yes. Not huge but quite enough to keep a person carefree for some time. I’m the executor.”

“May I know the beneficiary?”

“Sure. Vincente Lattaruzzo.”

“Hmm. Pity. That’s not going to benefit him now.”

“No.”

“And next, after the late Mr. Lattaruzzo?”

“One beneficiary: Stefano Grappi.”

Natalia made an effort not to reveal her surprise.

“How much is he inheriting?”

“I hesitate to say before the testament is probated and my appointment confirmed.”

“Under the circumstances, I’m afraid I have to insist,” Natalia said.

“Seven hundred thousand euros, a small apartment in Rome, his two-year-old Mercedes convertible.”

“How long have you known the victim?”

“Twenty years? He was seventeen when he announced himself queer. His parents disowned him. Carlo lived on the street for nearly a year. I brought him food occasionally. We started to talk. I was training to be a ballet dancer. He was curious, so one day I brought him along to a class. Turned out he had talent. Not the conventional dancer’s body, but strong.”

“He took up dance with you?”

“Did he ever. We lived that life for several years. But it’s such a monolithic existence. And the body grows tired, even the young one. Carlo got a job in a restaurant. Out of boredom he started to observe the patrons: who was with whom, what they were saying. One thing led to another.”