These Dark Things (22 page)

“Not even a little. She said he didn’t have the balls to hurt her.”

“Did Gambini know about her relationship with Lattanza?”

“He knew. Lattanza was lucky Gambini didn’t dip him in a boiling fondue. Teresa wouldn’t have it. She liked his wife too much.”

“Did Gambini know she was sleeping with his nephew Benito?”

Lola sat up. “He knew. Didn’t seem bothered. Gambini figured since she was doing research on the shrines already, it was a perfect setup. She said she needed to see them up close and operating. And needed some money for her mother’s medical treatment—a lie. Gambini laughed and laughed when we told him and acted like he was proud of her con. He said her mother had cancer, but had died from it when Teresa was in her last undergraduate year. You knew that too, right?”

“From the beginning. Go on. But don’t tire yourself out, okay?”

“No. It helps to talk. Teresa wanted us to take a bigger cut than Gambini had authorized. To hold out on him. Totally nuts. Suicidal. As if Gambini wouldn’t find out. She was willfully naïve. She thought she had him wrapped around her little finger. Funny thing is, she did. We thought he was gonna drop her in the Mediterranean. Instead, she came back from a holiday wearing a spectacular necklace he’d bought her. Rubies and pearls. We’d never seen him behave like that. Then she sort of hit on Frankie and scared him to death. That was the last straw for him.”

“Was he jealous of her?”

“I suppose. He’d always been Gambini’s boy. His future wasn’t so shiny once she came along. When she came on to him, he got worried about what Gambini would think or do.”

Lola reached for her water. Natalia handed her the glass.

“Thanks.” Lola took it, hand trembling. “Teresa boasted about everything. The necklace she said was worth a quarter of a million. Said we’d be able to buy our own jewels soon enough. She had the names of the German narco contacts. They’d told her they’d be delighted to do business with us. I told her she was crazy. She wanted to know everything about the Camorra. About the Camorra women, how they’d come to power. Teresa called us the ‘new feminists.’ She said this was our chance, our opportunity. We’d make a killing.”

“Easy, Lola.” Natalia took the glass and tipped it gently to Lola’s mouth.

“Thanks. The girl was an idiot. I told her she’d get both of us killed. When I said I wouldn’t go along, she said she’d go it alone. She made fun—teased me. Such a fool.”

“Gambini too, from the sound of it.”

“There was something going on there. When he took her to Frankfurt, he told her everything about our legit business interests there and introduced her to the biggest drug dealers we service. He was planning to put her in it big time. Zazu Gambini invested in Teresa Steiner like no one else, emotionally and otherwise. And she disrespected him. It was a ‘no-brainer,’ as Mariel would say. It was certain he would kill her. He’d have to, given what she was doing. There was no stopping her. I was going to say something, warn him maybe, so it wouldn’t come back to bite me. Frankie said no, keep away. He was trying to slide away himself and go out on his own. I didn’t listen to him.”

“You told Gambini what she was up to?”

“I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t be seen to side with her. Can you imagine—belittling Gambini?” Tears spilled from Lola. “My baby!”

She sobbed convulsively. A nursing nun in traditional habit rushed in and poured her a cup of water and handed her a small yellow pill. Lola swallowed. The sister motioned for Natalia to follow her. As the nun’s dark habit swept away, Natalia was reminded of school, when she and Lola were both still girls. It felt like a million years ago. Just outside the door, she ran into Mariel, who kissed both her cheeks as they embraced.

“She’s just taken a sedative,” Natalia said.

“Ah, not the right moment to visit. You have time for a coffee?”

The friends left together and retired to a café nearby. The University wasn’t far, and the place was crowded. They grabbed the last outdoor table.

“Looks like tourist season has begun,” Mariel said. A troop of red-faced Germans in sun hats marched past, guidebooks in hand, cameras suspended chest-high. The customers on the dark patio were mostly locals and university kids. The tourists were like colorful tropical birds attracted to the shiny chrome in the cafés ringing the upscale piazzas.

“How is she?” Mariel said.

“Not good.”

“Poor baby.”

They ordered espresso from a young waiter with dark wavy hair. “And how is your young swain?” Mariel asked.

“Determined.”

“Excellent. Then all you have to do is maintain your energy and keep up with your young beau.”

“Listen, Em,” Natalia said, rifling through her bag, “while I have you here.…” She extracted the photocopies of primary source material Teresa Steiner had acquired in her research. “What can you tell me about this?”

Mariel took out reading glasses and examined the oversized sheets.

“You need an antiquarian book dealer for this. Ah,
Athanasius Kircher
. Medieval text. Copied from the original at the Collegio Romano—you know, the palace built by Ignazio of Loyola, the soldier who founded the Jesuits.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t think the library is open to civilians. Someone had to intercede for her to get this: her professor, or someone in the order.”

“A Jesuit?”

“Yes.”

Natalia continued: “Teresa Steiner evidently was looking for evidence to support her idea that all the Black Madonnas venerated by the faithful were inspired by depictions of Isis. Likewise the Madonna and Infant Christ seemed inspired by Isis holding her infant in the same pose.”

“Aren’t there several Black Madonnas in Italy? Hey, remember when we were fifteen, we went to Montolvo to see one and the priest wouldn’t let me because I had on a halter top and short skirt?”

“Yes.” Natalia stabbed the air with a finger for emphasis. “And that old crone took pity on you and lent you her shawl. And a hanky to wear on your head.”

“Damn
paparazzi
,” a man shouted behind them. “Get the hell out of my face or I’ll break yours.”

Both women turned. A seated man swiped at a photographer crouched close by, grabbed his camera by the lens and toppled him backward onto his buttocks. Chairs scraped as patrons got up from their tables and helped the elderly man up. It was Luca, the photographer who specialized in crime and the Camorra. He had pestered them for years, catching them unawares, sometimes unconscious, passed out in clubs, often dead in the streets—executed. Three cameras hung from his neck.

“Take another shot and it will be your last,” the patron shouted. Natalia recognized him from a photo array of
Camorristi
recently taken arriving at the airport. This one was in the cement business in Albania, home undoubtedly for a vacation from his overseas assignment for his organization.

“Come on, Luca,” she said, helping him to his feet. “Come sit with me and Mariel.”

“Captain, thank you.”

Natalia turned to the seated mobster. “I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We haven’t
had
our lunch.”

“Thank you for your patronage.” She pushed back her jacket, revealing her 9-millimeter automatic.

“Who are you?”

“Captain Monte. Carabiniere.” She waved away the waiter approaching with their drink order. “Have a nice afternoon.”

The Camorra man rose up, looming over her. “We’ll meet again,
Captain
.”

“I’ll count the minutes.”

The man stalked off with his friend, and Natalia joined Luca and Mariel at their table.

“Thank you for saving me and my cameras,” Luca said, worriedly clicking through the photos.

“Digital camera,” Mariel said.

“Has to be, these days,” Luca said, “to get the photos into the paper. It’s all digital. No more darkrooms and chemicals. Everything’s electronic.”

Natalia sat next to him. “How long ago did you take these?”

“These? Of Zazu? More than a month.”

“Let me see the previous one.”

The shot was of Aldo Gambini and Teresa Steiner. There were several. One in a café—Gambini leaning over, whispering something to her—or kissing her; it was hard to tell. “They let you take this?” she said.

“No way. Five hundred millimeter lens. I was miles away. There are a couple more.”

He flitted through the next series—Gambini and Teresa Steiner violently arguing.

“Is there a market for candid photos of Camorra celebrities?”

“Not much for the live ones,” Luca said. “Most magazines don’t dare run them, unless it’s a public event they’re attending or if it’s with an obituary or crime story. Besides not wanting their faces flashed around, the hoods think I’m bad luck.”

Luca forwarded through another half-dozen. More shots of Gambini in the company of Teresa Steiner, taken at different times. Natalia took her time examining each.

More Gambini lies about how often he’d seen her. Clearly they hadn’t met just twice. Nor were they such casual acquaintances. Never had she seen the look in Aldo Gambini’s eyes that Luca had captured in some of the photos. Warmth. Did uncle and nephew vie for the girl?

“I need copies,” she said.

Luca nodded. “Thought you might say that.”

Luca departed, followed by Mariel. Natalia checked her watch and waited for Pino. One table over was a lithe young black man. Could be a dancer. Tidy dreadlocks hung down his back. He turned and she caught his lovely smile in profile. Milk-chocolate skin. His companion was also young. Plump and blond, dressed in cheerful blue. A creamy complexion. They were laughing, leaning into one another, speaking French, maps and guidebooks among their cups of espresso and café au lait.

Students rushed in and out, as if they were all on important missions, as she had once, when the world was hers for the taking. The same dour
barista
was behind the cappuccino machine, making the coffee. So much time had passed since she’d met here with her professor to discuss her thesis.

Ah, well, but revenge is sweet, she thought, stirring an extra spoonful of sugar into her cup. Professor Lattanza, Marshal Cervino had informed her, was relocating to a leased room in a middle-class section, quite a comedown from his previous digs. Also, an impressive number of graduates had suddenly brought complaints against him to senior faculty for things he had done and threatened them with when they were students.

Pino appeared at the curb. She left payment and wended her way through the youngsters. They would just make the appointment Giulio had arranged with the urban archeologist.

Dr. Michael Heller was Dutch, blue-eyed, tall, too handsome to look scholarly. In a photo above the desk in his tiny departmental office, an Italian beauty held two children.

“What if he didn’t carry her down through the church?” Natalia said. “There’s just no trace evidence that he did.”

Heller nodded. “Another entry. Why not? Naples is undermined with quarries the ancient Greeks excavated for the volcanic building-rock the city sits on. And the empty Roman cisterns, dug before Christ, to serve as underground reservoirs. Huge things. Some were fitted out with bathrooms and beds during World War II. Bomb shelters. And there are mortuary crypts beneath the temples and churches, of course. Also caves used as catacombs. Subway tunnels are down there, too.” He raised a finger. “Give me a moment.”

Heller returned with an oversized volume. “Your church—Il Purgatorio,” he said, laying open the pages that traced the crypts.

“Are there any passages radiating away from the crypts?” Pino asked.

“Hard to say,” Heller replied, peering at the crude schematic. “These plans are unfortunately incomplete. Close by, you can see these passages excavated in the volcanic rock, but they don’t appear to connect with the crypts. Not that that means anything. Only a third of all the labyrinths have been explored and recorded. There are huge caverns, some tunnels so narrow you have to crawl through and hope you can even turn around in if you have to back up. It would be worth your while to go look. Just don’t get lost down there. The excavations under the city go on for hundreds of miles—two thirds of them, like I said, uncharted. There are an awful lot of urban legends of people going down there and not coming back out.”

Heller spent another twenty minutes explaining to them some procedures they might use to avoid getting lost, and then he lent them some equipment.

“It sounds complicated,” Natalia said, starting to feel claustrophobic.

“It is. You know what? I haven’t been down in a while. Perhaps I could accompany you?”

The church was empty. It took them a few moments to find the discreet door to the tunnel leading down to the burial vaults, and then they were on the way, descending. Natalia didn’t relish the prospect of confined spaces. When she was fifteen, her class had gone on a lengthy tour of Naples’s underworld. In the dank air of the narrowest tunnel, her light had gone out. The memory remained fresh all these years later.

Thankfully, Dr. Heller led the way, his light breaking the darkness in front of them. The whole mortuary area consisted of six rooms. Niches carved into the walls were empty.