A Few Drops of Blood (13 page)

“What’s it mean?”

Natalia grimaced. “Fabio is applying pressure.”

Going down a long gallery and up a graceful staircase to the second floor, they passed through a collection of Pompeii treasures and followed a wine-colored carpet down a long grey corridor to a door. They disregarded the request to knock and entered. Dr. Garducci’s secretary glowed in the light of his computer screen, his dark hair curly and his eyes like coal.

“May I help you?”

“We’re here to see the director.”

“Have you an appointment?”

Angelina shook her head. “No.”

“Oh … let me check.”

He slipped through a heavy wooden door and disappeared, returned and asked them to follow. Director Garducci’s somber office was rococo and elegant. Heavy damask drapes closed out the sun. A baroque couch and silk-upholstered chairs occupied a large corner sitting area. The director sat at an ornately carved desk, its surface uncluttered, the workspace of a perfectionist used to others taking care of mundane tasks. Behind him hung a fresco from the Villa di Giulia that Natalia recognized from another life.

He rose and showed them to chairs facing him.

“What brings the pleasure of your company, Captain, and …?”

“Corporal Cavatelli,” Natalia said.

“How do you do? Please, sit,” he said. “I thought my part in your investigation was over.” He folded his hands in front of him, a pale contrast to the hand-tooled leather blotter.

“On the contrary,” said Natalia.

Angelina broke in. “Does the name Brazzo mean anything to you—Roberto Brazzo?”

“He was someone I … saw before I declared myself publicly to be gay.”

“According to Mr. Brazzo, you and he
saw
each other a little over a year ago. You wanted an exclusive relationship, though you were still married at the time. When he declined, you lost your temper and struck him, quite severely and repeatedly. Your housekeeper and your wife got him medical attention. There was considerable blood loss and damage to his scalp and face … and your pocketbook.”

Garducci made a steeple of his fingers but said nothing.

“Mr. Brazzo banked quite a lot of money soon after the incident. Paid down to buy his silence perhaps?”

“Are you suggesting that I, in a jealous lover’s blind rage, shot Vincente dead and the other man he was apparently fucking, then hauled the two of them into Contessa Cavazza’s estate in the middle of the night and mounted them atop a bronze steed in a homoerotic pose?” He dismissed the accusation with the briefest wave. “Please.”

Angelina took out her folder and removed a copy of a photograph. She slid it across the empty desk.

“Are you trying to shake me?” Garducci said. “I don’t have the—”

Natalia slid the CAM catalogue across to the director, held open to a page.

“This was a photographic study recently exhibited at the CAM Gallery. The exhibit drew quite a lot of attention. You may recognize someone in the piece.”

“Jesus,” he said, staring at the masked image of his former lover.

“You’d not seen it before?”

“No,” he said, hand to his cheek.

“Something of an exhibitionist—Vincente.”

Garducci didn’t take his eyes from the photograph.

“You said Vincente was preparing to move in with you?”

“Yes.”

“Stefano Grappi says not.”

Angelina said, “Did Vincente change his mind, decide he didn’t want a monogamous relationship, like Mr. Brazzo before him?”

“We’ve been over that,” Garducci said, pushing the photo away, the ruby stud perfect in his sagging earlobe.

“We won’t trouble you further then, Director.” Natalia rose, Angelina following. “Oh,” she said, turning back. “You may want to retain an attorney.”

“I have one, thank you.”

“A criminal defender.” She took an envelope from her shoulder bag and passed it across. “Nearly forgot.”

“What is it?” Garducci said.

“An order to surrender your passport by four o’clock today. You’ve been officially cited as a person of interest in the investigation of two murders. Please don’t make plans to leave Naples without securing permission from us. Meanwhile, I’m officially advising you not to try leaving the country. Border crossings and airports have already been alerted. In such an event, you will be made a guest in our humble accommodations. Remand in your own custody would be unlikely. Good day.”

In the elevator, Angelina checked her phone for text messages. “Your friend Carlo Busto in the Municipal Building is summoning me to the Archives.”

“I’ll drop you. Meet me back at the station when you’re done.”

Returning to Casanova, she went straight to Marshal Cervino’s tiny office. His secretary, in short spandex skirt and gladiator heels, guarded the door. Cervino was the only officer besides Colonel Fabio who had a secretary. Whether because of valor in the field or a debt owed, no one was really sure.

She held up an index finger, phone cradled to her ear, applying purple nail polish at the same time. Natalia brushed past and into Cervino’s lair to stand over him at his desk. A frayed oatmeal-colored carpet and a dead rubber tree were the only decorations besides a teddy bear.

Cervino looked up, unlit cigar in his mouth, and noticed her staring at the bear.

“When I was a kid, my older brother short changed Salvino Grappo two
lire
on a carton of cigarettes. Grappo shot him in the face. Manny was thirteen.” Cervino picked up the bear from his desk and shook it. “This was his favorite creature. Got it on his last birthday. Battery must have run out. Too bad. He dances and says dirty words.”

“Marshal, you’re invading my space.”

“Is this by way of a warning, Captain Monte?”

“More like a trespass notice. Keep off my patch.”

“You’re over your head with this double murder.”

“I’ll let you know when I need your help. Meantime, stay clear. Stop lobbying the colonel.”

“You have a problem, Captain, whenever Camorra is involved.”

“Really.”

“Yes. I grew up with the same scum you did, but I never fraternized with them.”

“Are you offering social advice?” Natalia said.

“It’s common knowledge you bedded your partner. Maybe we chalk that up to inexperience. We were all naïve
once, eh? Matters of internal security are another matter. You need to decide.”

“Decide what?”

“If you are with us or them.”

“Thank you so much, Marshal Cervino, for your concern and wise counsel.”

Natalia returned to her desk and read the unfinished manuscript by Vincente Lattaruzzo that his publisher had emailed over. When Angelina returned, Natalia said, “How did it go?”

“You’d better look at this.” Angelina tossed a sheaf of papers on Natalia’s desk and settled in to wait.

Natalia read the twelve pages of history on the Countess Cavazza and the several photocopies and picked up the phone.

The same bird greeted her with a lovely five-note trill as she entered the long drive lined with magnolias that eventually led to the garden path. The countess rose as Natalia approached the patio. She wore a silver caftan over billowing white pants that set off her coloring well.

“Captain, welcome. You look so … official and imposing in uniform.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Contessa.”

“Not at all. Happy for the company. I hope you haven’t eaten. I thought it would be pleasant to have a bite in the garden—some fruit and cheese?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

The countess reached out and brought a blossom to her face. “What fragrance these have. You know them?” she said. “The garland of Artemis?”

A bird darted from a neighboring branch and was gone.

“Artemis of Ephaseus.” Natalia said. “One of my favorite sculptures when I was a student.”

“Of course,” the countess said. “I remember now. In that article I read about you. You were an art history student before you became a Carabiniere. Isn’t that right?”

“You have quite a memory.”

“Only for what interests me, I’m afraid. So what steered you from your course?”

“It’s a long story.”

“If it isn’t against regulations, perhaps someday you will tell me what happened. Artemis of Ephaseus,” she repeated. “Sometimes I have my driver take me to see the statue on a Sunday, when all the visitors are gone. Being a board member has its perks. Did you know the Museo Archeologico was the only museum standing after the war?”

“So much was lost.”

“It looked like the end of the world,” the countess continued. “The price of an ordinary chicken shot up to three hundred
lire
, and soon a million
lire
couldn’t have bought one bird. Then Allies bombed the port and the city. Twenty-two thousand dead. Many lived in the streets with rags for clothes. Many died from cholera. And many killed themselves. The Allies advanced. The partisans burned farms. Slaughtered innocent people.”

“How awful,” Natalia said.

“It was. On the twelfth of September, 1943, political fugitives who had hidden in the Ospedale Incurabili armed themselves and attacked the fascists’ infantry. Ordinary citizens, Carabinieri, even children, saved the bridge over Via Sanita. As a parting lesson, the Germans torched the university and the magnificent Royal Society library.”

The countess paused, remembering something.

“I was hungry but comparatively healthy even as
destitution and disease reigned. I wanted to do something for the stricken but lacked any medical training. Mercifully so, perhaps. To be perfectly frank, I am better with creatures than with people. So I took up work with the Venus Fixers. You’ve heard of them.”

“Rescuers of art treasures.”

“There I could be of use, especially after the Allies landed. I spoke French and some English. Paltry but enough, and that’s how I became the liaison with the Americans. We catalogued every monument, mural, church, fresco, statue. Americans and Italians working together: artists, art historians, craftspeople. It’s not like now with all the squabbling and intellectualizing. A great deal was saved. Here in Naples, only the Angevin frescoes in Santa Chiara were beyond repair, and I wept for them.”

“I’ve only seen them in photographs,” Natalia said. “A great loss.”

“Enough nostalgia,” said the countess. “Come.”

The plush, flowery cushions on the garden chairs were surprisingly comfortable. The maid brought out a large platter with dishes of mango and pineapple and a variety of cheeses and placed them on the round, glass-topped table alongside two chilled glasses of pinot grigio and a full carafe.

“The bread basket, Ida,” the countess reminded.

“Yes, ma’am.” She set out individual plates and knives.

Natalia sampled the brie. “Delicious.”

“How goes the investigation?” the countess said.

“Well enough, but we haven’t wrapped it up as yet.”

“No doubt you can’t talk about it. I shouldn’t have asked.” She smiled. “Shameless curiosity.”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m hoping to clear some up today.”

The maid appeared with the bread and offered it to Natalia before setting it down.

“Thank you.” Natalia took a slice and added some brie as she addressed the countess. “I can’t help wondering why Vincente and the Mr. Bagnatti were brought to your garden.”

“I’ve wondered myself.”

“I also keep wondering why you omitted mentioning the extent of your friendship with Vincente Lattaruzzo.”

“I thought I’d explained. I’d confided my humiliation?”

“Not association?”

“How do you mean?”

“You’re originally from Cantalupo.”

“Yes,” the countess said, absently winding the stem of her wineglass.

“Vincente Lattaruzzo’s parents were from there as well.”

“Mmm. I believe that’s right.”

“Do you know where Ernesto Scavullo is from?” Natalia said.

“Cantalupo.”

“Yes … so you knew that, too?”

“Most certainly. If I didn’t already know, the newspapers remind us at every turn, almost as if Naples were trying to disown him.”

“Apparently Scavullo’s father—Gianni—was like you, barely in his teens during the war—among the region’s youngest resistance members. He worked closely with your father.”

“Papa was a farmer with large holdings. Gentry. He and the Scavullos didn’t have much in common except their hatred of the Black Shirts and Mussolini. They conspired against the fascists. Later fought side by side against the Germans as partisans. Young Gianni Scavullo took up arms
to kill fascists, which he did with great efficiency. He was a very good strategist and an even better shot.”

“At twelve?”

“Twelve … fourteen. Somewhere in there. My father befriended him. When the Allies invaded, father took on the task of helping escaped prisoners of war, hid them. In the forests, on farms, sometimes out in the open, working as field hands. They rescued so many.”

“Brave men,” Natalia said.

“That they were. The Germans hung him. My beloved papa. With piano wire.”

Natalia returned to the station and found Dr. Agari waiting.

“I just spoke with the
contessa
,” she said, as she followed Natalia into the office. “How did it go?”

“The
contessa
is quite an amazing woman,” Natalia answered, “as I’m sure you know.”

“Quite a story, isn’t it?”

Natalia nodded. “You knew all of it?”

“Not all. Not until I was grown. She opened up to you,” Francesca said. “That is unusual. My grandmother was aware, of course,” she went on. “Even though Nella rarely spoke of her father’s arrest and execution or the dreadful man who denounced him to the Germans. Her mother lost her mind. She was institutionalized. An aunt here in Naples took Nella in, and she turned up one day at the school my grandmother attended. Nella wouldn’t speak to anyone.
My
nonna
eventually won her trust, and she befriended me as well. We all remained devoted friends. It was my
nonna
who introduced Nella to the
conte
. They married and were happy for forty years.”

“There weren’t any children, I take it.”

“No. What’s not in the official files is that Nell, in her teens, was arrested by the Italian fascists after her father’s imprisonment and discovered to be with child. She had sought solace in a wartime romance and gotten pregnant. They operated on her, aborted the fetus, and deliberately sterilized her as punishment.”