A Few Drops of Blood (26 page)

“She is, isn’t she?” he said.

“Yes. Early this morning. Pino? Are you there? Are you okay?”

A nun rushed past dragging an old leather suitcase. Natalia spotted a colleague undercover. He took off after the nun, making sure one of the dozens of lowlifes didn’t try something before the good sister was safely aboard her train. He’d be back in minutes, and he’d wonder what she was doing there.

“Pino. I can’t stay on the phone here.”

“It’s my fault. I should have done something to save her.”

“Like what? You’re all powerful? The girl was a mess. A moth headed to a flame. She was carrying a child. A very selfish thing she did.”

“If I’d secured my gun …”

“She didn’t need your gun. Her parents place is an armory by all accounts. For Christ’s sake, she had her own arsenal. I don’t know why she took your piece. To get back at you probably. For not loving her enough.”

“I should have never gotten involved.”

“It’s too late now, Pino. It’s over.”

“When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow. Promise me you won’t go. The one thing you mustn’t do is attend the funeral.”

“I need to.”

“No, you don’t, and you won’t. They see you there? It could get the family wondering.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. You will not go.”

“Maybe I should turn myself in.”

“You won’t do that either.”

“But the gun, my prints are on it. They’ll find it. Forensics will tie the bullet to the Glock and me. I’m done.”

“No bullet’s been recovered, and we’ll have the gun shortly. Hopefully, Francesca will quietly rule it a suicide right after the funeral, and it will all be over.”

“Not for me, Nat,” he said. “Not ever.”

“Look, the kid wasn’t yours, was it?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s sad. Without a doubt. But life goes on.”

“So hard, Natalia. It doesn’t sound like you.”

“And what about you? Shacking up with a teenager? Leaving me to clean up the mess?”

Natalia sat on a bench to collect her thoughts. Never in her career would she have imagined she would tamper with evidence. Up until recently she had understood her role clearly. She had killed in the line of duty. But only
when necessary to protect the innocent. Things were getting murky. She had caused the death of one innocent man recently. Now she’d violated her oath as a Carabinieri in order to protect her boyfriend.

She’d once sailed a course where good and evil were clearly delineated. Suddenly the weather had changed, the clarity obscured as the sky over the rim of Vesuvius when the earth shifted and molten lava surged from its bowels.

Moral ambiguity had been a pet phrase of Sister Benedicta’s. The good Sister often lectured about the toxins released when one made a sinful choice. They used to make fun of the portly Sister, Lola and she. Even Mariel. But now?

She wished she had her mother’s rosary beads. They were safely at home in their velvet case in the back of her drawer. Perhaps when she got home she’d finger the cool pearls, say a simple prayer.

The chapel off Via Caracciolo wasn’t far from the altar to Neptune, a niche decorated with sculpted conch shells. Borne on the shoulders of six burly men, Tina’s white coffin reminded Natalia of something that had drifted in from the sea as well. She watched as they climbed the steps of the church and, in slow motion, disappeared into the dark beyond. She wondered if Pino was among the mourners streaming in.

Outside the church, several limos idled. Angelina, shaded from the powerful sun by a dilapidated red umbrella, sipped her cappuccino, snapping photos of the mourners with her cell phone as they entered the church. Despite a sea breeze, the scent of garbage was strong.

Tina’s white coffin led every online news story of her passing. Newspaper sites had it on their digital front page, and it led the late morning news on RAI and two other channels.

Camorra bosses and underlings, the Archbishop had announced, could no longer stand as godparents at baptisms or first communions. They could not act as witnesses at weddings and were no longer welcome congregants. But so many churchmen were cozy with the
camorristi
who provided funds to repair crumbling sacristies, financed overseas missions, bought them new sacramental robes and cases of aged whiskey for the priest’s residence. Camorra funded church day care centers and subsidized widows who would otherwise go hungry. Judging from the ceremony for Tina, the Archbishop’s decree was not being heeded. As with government announcements in this vein, there was no enforcement.

Natalia and her partner had agreed to rendezvous a few blocks from the chapel after the service was over. Angelina was waiting for Natalia, and they proceeded together to Casanova.

“Quite a spectacle,” Angelina said. “We could have made some good arrests back there.”

“If only,” Natalia took out a pair of dark glasses. “The sun’s getting to me.”

The partners checked in at the station. They climbed to their office and sat down for a brief meeting.

“I’ve been reviewing Scavullo’s files,” Angelina said. “I had some time yesterday.”

“Good girl. Anything I should know? Wait a minute.” She closed the door.

Angelina took a swig of water. “Past couple of years all but two of Papa Gianni’s trusted advisors have been sidelined. Several died. Mostly they were old, but a couple disappeared under mysterious circumstances.”

“Good work. How’s domestic life?”

“It’s a modern miracle we ever got together.” Angelina rocked her water bottle. “Two days after she moves in, I hardly recognized my own place. The woman’s amazing. My underwear is now color coded.”

Natalia had to smile.

Angelina assumed a thoughtful expression. “You know, I keep thinking Ernesto seems so familiar.”

“How so?”

“He’s more like a mafia don than a Camorra clan leader.”

“How’s that?”

“Aside from the obvious lowlife factor?” Angelina said. “They both start out doing their own killing, slaughter being part of the apprenticeship. As you know, Camorra bosses are expected to keep doing the physical stuff. Hands on is very important. Mafia dons, the higher they rise, the less they do that will dirty their hands or expose them to serious felony charges.”

“Ernesto stays squeaky clean?”

“Exactly. He has his boys get bloody. From what I can piece together, after he killed the dockworker—you know, when he was a kid?—There were a couple of incidents, but it was like he retired from active service. We’re talking years here. One of his enemies gets done, the authorities go to question the don and he’s practicing his golf swing—pink shirt, white gloves, for Christ’s sake. They got him for dicing up some ex-girlfriend’s poodle, which
mafiosi
might do, but it was an isolated incident.”

“You are good.”

“That’s what Giuletta tells me.”

“Look at the time,” Natalia said. “I can’t be late. Gotta run.”

She scampered out front for a quick getaway on her
motorino
. Dodging traffic, she reached Picoletto I Pontenuovo, which was torn up more often than not. Today was not
the exception, with workmen drilling into the cobblestone. The orange plastic mesh had become a permanent fixture.

Natalia reached the end of the alley and crossed onto the street. The market was bustling. Enormous loaves of bread and wheels of cheese were displayed in the windows of several shops. Enough to feed a family of twelve. Mops and brooms, whirligigs, toys and shovels on the sidewalk in front.

Women already weighted down with bags of food crowded the vendors. Whiny children tugged at their arms. A slim girl in a pink rhinestone jacket maneuvered her
motorino
through the crowds. The wind zipped through her hair.

Natalia found Ernesto’s father at the Falcone, the café from which he had ruled his crew and business ventures before prison. His hair was white now—freshly trimmed—and his barber had given him an expert shave.

Papa Gianni Scavullo had always been well groomed but never a peacock like Ernesto. Not even when he was young.

His first day out, he had on a beige shirt and brown pants. You could’ve easily mistaken him for the neighborhood shoemaker he had once been. During the time he’d been away, not much had changed in his appearance, except he’d gotten plump. Strange to see him with a cell phone. Spotting Natalia, he finished his conversation quickly, got up and pulled out a chair for her.

“You’re Captain Natalia Monte?” he said when she’d showed him her ID.

“Yes.”

“And they sent you to give me a talking to?” he laughed. “I’ve been out less than twenty-four hours. Give me a chance to get into some trouble here.”

They sat.

“These new phones are something,” he said, “Know who I was talking to? The wife. Reminding me to pick up the
mortadella
Ernesto likes. I’m home for the first time in what—twenty years? She makes a bigger fuss over her son comin’ to dinner, you believe it? What can I get you, a coffee? Or is that not permitted these days?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Good.” He flicked his hand, and the waiter hustled over. “Something to eat?” he slipped on a pair of glasses and perused the menu.

“No, thank you,” Natalia said.

“All you girls are watching your figures. And my son. Won’t even go near caffeine. Me, it doesn’t interest. Two coffees,” he said to the waiter, “and bring me a
sfogliatella
.”

The waiter bowed and took away the menus.

Gianni folded his glasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket. “It’s great to be out, you know?”

“I can imagine,” Natalia said.

“No, you can’t. Not unless you’ve been there. Look at this.” He indicated his mouth. “Went in with a full set. You’d think with my connections I could’ve gotten a decent dentist. Anyway you didn’t come here to talk about my teeth.”

“No.”

“I knew your father, by the way, back when we were kids. Ran into Carmelo when I had an office in the Galleria. A real hard worker. Handsome. A full head of hair, I remember.”

“He didn’t mention he knew you.”

“He wouldn’t, would he?”

“I suppose not.”

“A bird watcher, right?”

“Yes,” Natalia said.

“I tried to get him to work for me, but he turned me
down. In those days he had a small kiosk on a main drag and was selling sundries. Some outfit put the arm on him for protection money. He took off his apron and walked away. Took a job sweeping streets rather than pay.”

“I never knew that,” she said.

“Yeah. He never changed. Same guy as a kid when we were running messages for the partisans.”

“He carried messages during the war?”

“He never told you?”

“No.”

Papa Gianni had a good chuckle. “Typical.” He waved off a hovering waiter. “So what can I do for you this fine day?”

“You need to do something about your son.”

“Pardon?”

“Ernesto. He’s always been vicious. Worse since you got sent away. You know better than I do.”

“I see.”

“I won’t have it in my jurisdiction. I just wanted you to know from me what’s going to happen.”

“That’s quite a threat you’re making, young lady.”

“It’s not a threat. He’s over the line. Either the System deals with him or the Carabinieri will.”

“Just what do you think he’s done?”

“He sliced up teenage girls if they didn’t want to have sex with him. Slaughtered their families if he wanted to make a point. A couple of days ago he slit the throat of a sweet man named Fabretti. Man sold music in a shop near Gesu Nuovo. Never harmed a soul in his life. Ernesto hung, castrated and shot two men dead, and displayed them in Contessa Cavazza’s flower garden.”

“I read about the double murder. But why would my son do that?”

“For you, ostensibly. Make us think he was fulfilling a
long-standing obligation. The bloody shirt, it was like he was advertising the vendetta.”

“That’s your theory?”

“That’s what he wanted us to think.”

“It’s not true?”

“Bagnatti, the gossip columnist, was the real target. He was about to run a critical story on Ernesto that would have cost him dearly. Lattaruzzo was the cover and decoy. I can’t prove it, but I suspect Director Garducci put him up to it, revealing Bagnatti’s upcoming piece that would expose Ernesto’s homosexuality, plus identify the two of them as lovers. Lattaruzzo would serve as the perfect diversion from all this: the wrong avenged after half a century.”

“I see.”

“It’s gone too far. I’m sure you would have stopped it had you been here, but you weren’t and couldn’t. You are now. He’s been butchering people. Something you’d never countenance. He’s overstepped the bounds of the Camorra and the civil community.”

“You’re quite something, Captain Monte. You sure are your father’s daughter. I wish I’d been as lucky. How did my son learn of my rescue during the war by the
contessa
’s father?”

Natalia fixed him with her glare. “What do you mean? From you, of course.”

“I never told him. The Lattaruzzos fled before anyone in my family did anything.”

“From your wife or his grandparents, maybe an aunt or an uncle.”

Scavullo leaned forward. “His grandparents passed in the late 40s. Ernesto never met them. My brother knew better than to talk about it, because my wife and I did not want the story handed down and some innocent become the target of a vendetta.”

“Somebody knew,” Natalia said.

“Secrets,” he said and pushed back his chair. “I always enjoy talking to a pretty lady. If you’ll excuse me.” He touched the rim of his cap.

The waiter escorted him into the street. Trying to get his ear.

What to make of him, Natalia wondered as she took the last sip of coffee. Truth teller or not, Papa Gianni appeared to be relaxing in his twilight years, doing nothing more taxing than spending time with his old pals, consuming coffee and pastries. She was certain, as the swallows returned in the spring, that he’d paid off some priest—sponsored a new roof, a fancy piece of furniture—to insure his place at mass and communion. No doubt he was doubling up on confessions to make sure his exit and whatever came thereafter were sanctioned by God. He certainly showed no interest in ruling his once-empire again. He was old. Tired. Maybe Ernesto was right that his father was over the hill. He’d lost his edge during the years in prison. The enterprise required someone vital and alert and a youthful crew to see after the day-to-day.