These Dark Things (13 page)

“You’re a police!” the youngest announced, pointing at Natalia.

“Not police, stupid. Carabinieri! Don’t you know
anything
?” the older one said.

“We’re national police. It’s almost the same,” Natalia said to the dark-haired one. Her name was embroidered on her jumper. She couldn’t have been much older than three, and she looked like she was about to cry. “Anna, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She smiled, dignity restored. A front tooth was missing.

Natalia and Pino found the address. Natalia went to the downstairs door alone, carrying a box. The kitten inside it, by some miracle, had fallen asleep. Natalia rang Turrido’s bell. There was no intercom. If he didn’t want to answer the door, what could she do? But he did—unshaven and disheveled.

“I went by Nilo. They said it was your day off.”

The kitten stirred. “What’s that?” Turrido said.

“I brought you something. Would you mind if I come up?”

“If you want,” he said, letting her in.

They climbed the stairs without talking. When they got into Turrido’s room, Natalia put the box down.

“I remembered how much you loved cats,” Natalia said, opening the box. A tiny gray kitten jumped out and rubbed languidly against Turrido’s legs.

“See? The kitten wants to stay with you. I brought some food for her,” Natalia said. She took cans out of her bag. “Keep her for a week. If you don’t want her, I’ll take her back. Okay? For me?”

“Okay, I’ll take the kitten. For now.”

There were clothes strewn on the bed. Dirty dishes in the sink. And a rotting sack of garbage. The kitten nibbled on a dead potted plant.

“What happened to your plant?”

“I’m a good cook and baker, not a gardener.”

“What shall we call the cat?”

“Purity.”

The kitten ran right up to him. He picked her up and handed her to Natalia.

“Purity. Good. I brought some extra food. For Purity.”

“Thanks.” Turrido said. “Listen, I’m cooking a chicken. You ever have my chicken? You could stay? It’s my mother’s recipe. Delicious. There’s more than enough.”

“Turrido, maybe you shouldn’t dwell so much on the past. Remember you told me that once?”

He didn’t answer.

“Another time,” she said, “I’d love to. But I’m on duty. We’re in the middle of cases. Remember the Teresa Steiner murder I told you about? The girl who patronized your café?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Perhaps you remember when she’d had a fight with her professor and went to El Nilo for coffee and your wonderful bread—for solace. Was she crying?”

Turrido nodded.

“Did you bring her her coffee?”

Turrido nodded again. “And bread.”

Natalia could see it. He was a shy man. Not attractive to women. But perhaps attracted.

“Teresa was grateful,” he said. “She was nice to me whenever she came in. She kissed me once, the way she would have kissed an uncle. I misunderstood at first. I thought.…” He gave a dejected wave. “I am very sorry she is gone. She cheered up my day.”

A tear trailed down Turrido’s cheek. Purity purred at his feet.

Natalia touched his arm. “Good-bye,” she said, pulling the door tight behind her.

Pino was waiting outside. “Well?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Colonel Donati motioned Natalia and Pino to the handsome wooden chairs that faced his desk. The military haircut was clipped tight at his neck, evidence of his daily trip to the barber. Over the years various people had urged Colonel Donati to modernize his office; he always refused, preferring the Spartan appearance.

“Do you mind?” Donati asked as he shook a cigarette out of a package. “I’ve fallen off the wagon, so to speak.”

He opened the window behind his desk. In the past couple of years, gray had overtaken his thick black hair, and lines now eroded the once-youthful smoothness of his skin.

Once a year, between Christmas and the New Year, the colonel hosted a dinner for the detectives. Everyone drank too much and said things they probably didn’t really mean to. Instead of bonuses, there were gifts. Thoughtful ones, probably selected by Elisabetta: Gucci scarves, leather belts, excellent bottles of wine. Last year, Pino had opened his small gift box and found a laughing Buddha.

“I had a call from Gambini’s lawyer just now.”

“Mmmm.” Natalia pushed forward on her seat. “We believe Teresa Steiner was working for Gambini, collecting shrine money.”

“Was Gambini involved with the girl?”

“There’s no hard evidence of it,” Pino said, “but they met socially before he employed her.”

“And the other suspects?”

“Her thesis adviser, Professor Lattanza,” Natalia said. “A young novice monk related to Gambini. Maybe a cook-and-baker at a café she frequented. Oh, I need you to sign off on a search request for the premises of Gina Falcone and a criminalist’s search of Teresa Steiner’s rented room.”

Donati puffed out a circle of smoke. Natalia slid the search authorizations across to him to sign. The colonel scrawled his signature with a flourish.

“Gambini acts like a civilized man,” he said. “He’s not. Please remember, the Camorra is even bigger and older than our organization. The Carabinieri were born out of distrust—to make sure no one ministry would have all the military and police power. Our forefathers spread it out. Which is why we answer to the minister of the interior and the minister of the exterior and the minister of defense and whoever the hell else they can think of saddling us with. But the Camorra, it is not that—or even like a crime syndicate. It is like a second government. It has its internal rivalries too, but they are far more … final. Be careful.”

“Yes, sir,” Natalia said.

“Filthy habit,” Donati crushed the half-smoked cigarette into a glass tray. “Keep me posted.”

Natalia and Pino went back to their office. She sat down and opened the Vesuvio’s Bakery file.

“Gambini didn’t light the match, Natalia.”

“Gambini never touches the match, the gun, the knife.”

“Yes, that’s why he’s Boss Gambini. And why you’ll never prove he was involved. Besides, it’s not your job to fix everything that’s gone wrong.”

“What
is
my job, then?”

“The Vesuvio’s arson death is in the past, Natalia. Turrido is alive. Teresa Steiner is newly dead.”

“You’re right.” Natalia set aside the folder. Exhaustion was part of every investigation—both physical and emotional—and it was getting to her. “What is the point?” Natalia’s voice surprised her. She shoved her notebook into her bag, hugged herself trying to get warm. “The Camorra are everywhere among us.”

“That’s the wrong question,” Pino said.

“What is the right question, then?”

Pino took off his sports jacket, and hung it next to Natalia’s. He was wearing his shoulder holster today. “I don’t know what the right question is. That is complicated. There is not one question, obviously. But I do know that we have to find out who killed her.”

“Right. We start with Dr. Francesca.” And off they went to the morgue in the basement.

Natalia blinked at the unfriendly fluorescent light, and there was a smell she and Pino both hated—formaldehyde. It was lunch hour. Dr. Francesca Agari was alone in the lab, hunched over a microscope. She got up when they came in, long legs unfolding. She was wearing black stockings and a short black skirt, heels, and a white lab coat over a turquoise sweater. Natalia pulled a frumpy sweater out of her bag. It was missing buttons and there was a moth hole at the neck. Pino shivered, having forgotten his.

“Put this on, Sergeant.” Dr. Francesca took an extra lab coat off a hook on the wall and handed it to him.

“
Grazie.
”

“My pleasure.” A warm smile for him.

Pino, standing close to Dr. Francesca, picked up a scent of her perfume. As usual, Dr. Francesca’s hair was sleek, with a range of tones from brown to gold. Pearl earrings adorned her ears. Natalia recognized the large teardrop design: Mariel had bought a pair in Milan. They were luscious and expensive. Fashion was a hedge against everything, a wonderful distraction. It made sense. Francesca’s job was unpleasant, certainly, but on the positive side she ran her own show and dressed to kill.

Pino and Natalia had an open invitation to attend the autopsies themselves. But, except for the rare occasion when it was crucial to an investigation, they rarely witnessed the procedure. Better to have Francesca fill them in secondhand.

“As suspected,” Francesca began, bringing them up to date on the autopsy of Teresa Steiner, “the knife went deep into the heart, severed major arteries. This caused Teresa Steiner’s death. The bruises on her neck are quite severe, but strangulation did not kill her. Similarly, the frontal stab was almost an afterthought. The first and primary wound was in her back. From a right-handed assailant.” Francesca demonstrated on Pino, holding him as if they were dancing. “Delivered from close in, as if in an embrace.”

“Interesting,” Pino said. He stepped back from Francesca, crossing his arms for warmth.

“There were fibers, but so small that we had to send them to the SCIS labs in Rome. I don’t expect much to come of them, frankly.”

Francesca’s beeper went off. “Sorry.” She snapped open her phone and conversed. “
Pronto. Sì. Sono Francesca
.” She was still listening as she said, “I have to go. Three men were just shot to death in their car, a block from the harbor. Broad daylight. They think it’s in retaliation for attacks last week. Two bystanders were hit as well by the sprayed gunfire.”

Her white coat was off and she was gone before they’d even shed their sweater and lab coat.

They spent the rest of the day typing forms and reports. Catching Giulio before he left for the day, Natalia asked him to find her an urban archeologist. It was early evening by the time Natalia and Pino left the office. A few colleagues, smoking outside, nodded at them as they walked by.

Natalia stretched her arms over her head. “Fancy a spin on my chariot? We could come back for your bike.”

“
Perfetto
,” Pino said, walking with her toward the Vespa.

“Pino!” a female voice called from across the street. A girl was waving her arms at them. Tight yellow pants, midriff showing. Her pink top matched her hair.

“Isn’t that your friend?” Natalia said.

“I’ll be right back.” Pino jogged into the street, intercepting Tina as she headed into traffic, and led her back to the far corner.

Natalia wanted to look away but it was compelling. Her partner seemed to have gotten involved with a kid. The girl acted annoyed. They argued. Pino touched her shoulder. She pulled away from him and ran. He stood for a moment, helpless. “Sorry,” he said as he sprinted back to Natalia. “A mess—sort of.”

“It’s your personal business.”

“She’s infatuated, that’s all. I can handle it.”

“Can
she
?” Natalia unlocked the motorbike and rolled it away from the building.

“It’s ridiculous,” he said. “She’s just a kid.”

“Sergeant Loriano, come on. Love is love.”

“Captain Monte, you’ve made it clear that
you’re
not available—to me, anyway.”

It was only when the Vespa started climbing the hill that Pino put his arms around her waist. Near the top, Natalia pulled into a lookout sometimes used as a lovers’ lane. She cut the engine. They got off the bike and walked to the railing. It was quiet. The harbor glittered, and a few ships. Venus pulsed lavender on the horizon.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Natalia took a deep breath.

“I had my first kiss here,” Pino said.

Natalia laughed. “You too?”

“Natalia.”

“What?” Natalia moved away from her partner.

“Cold?” he asked, slipping off his jacket and offering it to her.

“No, I’m fine. Your coffee,” she said, pouring him a cup from her thermos.

“To us,” he said, raising the cup. “Naples’s best.”

“If you hadn’t become Carabinieri, what would you have done?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Poet, maybe. Wandering monk. Probably a bum.”

“Such a pretty view,” Natalia said. “A nice gift for a birthday.”

“It’s your birthday?”

“Afraid so.”

“
Tanti auguri
. Many good wishes,” he said as he kissed her.

“Natalia?” Pino touched Natalia’s cheek.

“Don’t,” she said. He took his hand away. “For one thing, I am your boss. And even if we wanted to risk that, I think you are confused. The girl is living with you, no?”

Pino looked down. “No.”

“Regardless, she is in love with you. Be careful.”

“It’s not the same as how I feel about you.”

“I’m due at my friend’s for our traditional girls’ birthday evening.”

She dropped Pino at his bike and drove to Mariel’s building. Lola’s grandmother lived on the floor below. On the pretext of visiting her
nonna
, Lola had attended all the birthday celebrations upstairs in Mariel’s flat, including her own, all catered by Lola’s grandmother. It was a thin deception, more for show than to really fool anyone. As everyone knew, the three of them had been friends since childhood.

Mariel lived in the Palazzo, the grand but run-down apartment building where she’d grown up. Her parents ran an art gallery. And Natalia’s mother tended house and her father was a street cleaner for the Municipality of Napoli. Up at five
A.M
., he left the house by six. A year into adolescence, on a class trip to Galleria Umberto II, Natalia had been embarrassed by the man pushing the mop across the vast marble floors who had called her name. She had pretended not to hear.