These Dark Things (25 page)

“Bloodthirsty?” Natalia fixed her friend. “Don’t do anything impetuous, Lola. Think of your two children.”

“I do, and I think of my third boy too. He comes to me in my dreams, all black and burning. It’s my fault he’s dead.”

“Lola, you can’t assume the blame for others’ actions.”

Lola snapped her fingers and a waiter appeared. She ordered coffee for them both and checked out the other patrons as she lighted a thin black lady’s cigarette. “What’s so important that you have to ask me?”

“The prime suspect in Teresa Steiner’s murder. We haven’t located him as yet.”

“The blind monk? Gambini’s nephew?”

“Right. Might you know if he’s hiding somewhere in Naples?”

“You think Gambini is helping him hide?”

“Very possibly. Blood is blood.”

“Too bad it wasn’t your old professor. Yeah, I might know someone who might know.”

The waiter hovered a few feet away. Lola glanced over. “He’s a little too interested in our conversation, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think you have an admirer, is all. He can’t take his eyes off you.”

“Must be the grief. It’s like pregnancy. Makes you shine like a moonbeam. He’s cute. Looks a little like Frankie at that age.”

“He looks like a thug.”

“Exactly.” Lola dialed a number on her red-lacquered cell phone. “Give me a minute,” she said, rising from her seat. Hand over her other ear, she conversed with someone, then returned to the table. The call had taken seconds. “You’re right. He’s at Cavelli’s. In a room on the second floor.”

“Gambini’s brothel on the waterfront?”

“Right. Via Cortese.”

“You don’t waste time,” Natalia said.

“My time’s running out too fast to waste it. There are things that need doing.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“And I yours,
cara mia
. I couldn’t have survived this without you and Mariel.”

Natalia said, “This is more trouble for you if Gambini finds out you tipped me.”

“It’s trouble for
you
if your bosses find out you’ve been hanging out with an undesirable like me.” Lola stubbed out her cigarette. “He can’t do anything more vindictive than he’s done already. The kids and grandma are gone. Hidden. He won’t be able to trace them.”

Natalia and Pino walked into Cavelli’s Bar. A second unit was blocking the back door used by patrons for discreet exits. The bartender was unpacking a carton of liquor, arranging amber and green bottles on the mirrored shelves. Higher up hung a black-and-white photo of a girl in a string bikini. Next to her, a faded reproduction of Giotto’s
Madonna and Child
.

“
Fratelli Bianchi
,” he said in a loud voice. The White Brotherhood. What the nether dwellers call militarized police, usually out of earshot. The bartender made it a public announcement more than a greeting. Not that anyone was in the place yet.

A banquette hugged one wall. Three tables occupied the middle. The jukebox pulsed with the Mario D’Esposito Ensemble. An ordinary bar. Only the
conoscenti
knew about the rooms upstairs.

Brothels had operated in Naples for centuries. Only once, during the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s, had they been closed down by the authorities. The women had been tested for the disease. Those in good health had been issued condoms and lectured, regular inspections instituted. Underage females had been sent home. Since then, the vice arm of the Carabinieri had grown preoccupied with white slavery and other Camorra business and paid little attention to the sex trade. Customers were likewise lax, paying a bit more to forgo condoms and sometimes for rough coupling. Johns and prostitutes were occasionally found floating in the bay. “You here for the pickpocket?” the bartender asked. The lone customer at the bar was snoring. “Sounds like a woodpecker, don’t he? I keep warning him to keep his hands in his pockets, but—” The bartender gestured widely. “Hey,” he called to the man. “Dummy.”

“Don’t bother,” Natalia said. “He’s not our concern today.” She pointed upward. “We’d like to take a look upstairs. Please step out from behind the bar.”

Cheeks puffed like a blowfish, he came out from the well. Natalia hoped he hadn’t already set off any warning alarm and wanted him away from it. Corporal Giulio had followed them in. Pino pointed the bartender to the nearest table.

“Sit. Corporal, watch him.”

Natalia and Pino proceeded into the kitchen. Boxes of liquor were stacked all around. It was cramped, illuminated only by a fluorescent strip nailed to the wall. A folding table doubled as a counter next to the stove, at which a man in torn jeans and white undershirt stirred a pot of stew meat, his cigarette ash poised to fall in at any moment.

“
Giorno
,” Pino said. The man said nothing.

The door leading upstairs was painted red. Natalia opened it and Pino led the way up. Air freshener saturated the passage, not quite masking the odor of mold. The stairs were carpeted, the walls overlaid with gold brocade paper, peeling and smoke-stained. At the top, a foyer led to a large, well-appointed bar with black leather booths along one wall. At the end of the bar sat the madam, a Nigerian by the look of her. She was doing her books, writing up orders to restock the bar. If she was surprised by the appearance of carabinieri in the place, she didn’t show it.

“You early,” she said.

“We’re looking for a young man—blind.”

On the wall by the corridor was a photo-array of women in various poses, and their room numbers and nationalities: Ukrainian, Albanian, Russian, Brazilian, Nigerian.

Natalia and Pino proceeded down the hallway. Natalia eased open the first door. Inside, two girls in Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and T-shirts slept on a king-size bed. In the mess atop the dressing table were a set of handcuffs and lace thongs. The girls woke. The ash blonde sat up. The dark one too. She was skinnier and younger, her eyebrows shaved. A diamond piercing glittered in her nose.

“How old are you girls?” Pino asked. He pulled open a drawer in the vanity table.

“Fuck you,” the blonde said.

“Look,” Natalia said, “if you ever want help getting out of this.…” She placed two cards on the bed. “We can arrange a place for you in a halfway house.”

“And pay our bills?” the blonde said. “Cook our food? Tuck us in?”

The second room was empty of girls or customers. A mirrored ceiling reflected back the satin quilt on the double bed. A basket of masks sat on the floor next to it.

The third door was a bathroom. They heard male voices behind the fourth door. Natalia pushed it open with her drawn weapon. Benito Gambini sat on the bed, Father Pacelli in a chair next to him wearing his clerical collar and a purple ceremonial stole, bible open, their heads bowed. Benito stirred. “Who is it?”

“Don’t worry, my son,” Pacelli said, reaching out for him. “It’s the Carabinieri.”

“Benito Gambini,” Pino said, “we are placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

“Please. Benito Gambini is an innocent man.”

How does he know that? Natalia wondered. And why was he protecting Benito so fiercely? Were he and Benito lovers? An hour or two of passion stolen from their grim lives? The distance from devoted acolyte to fervent lover was no more a distance than from chin to mouth. Or was she getting carried away? The priest seemed so certain about Benito’s innocence. How could he be?

“I’ve sinned,” Benito said, “but I’ve not killed.”

Pino ordered Benito to stand and handcuffed him in front. Natalia didn’t object to the breach of regulations.

“What about him?” Pino said, meaning Pacelli.

“Would you accompany us, Father?” Natalia asked. “We have some questions for you too.”

“Of course,” Pacelli said, and he preceded them out into the corridor and down into the bar.

Outside, Natalia directed Corporal Giulio and the backup unit to transport Pacelli, while she and Pino took Benito. Back at the station, Pacelli and Benito Gambini were placed in separate interview rooms and left to stew. Word spread quickly of the arrest and the priest’s detention. The observation rooms filled with a steady stream of carabinieri wanting to see the blind killer-monk and the cleric nabbed in a brothel in his priestly uniform.

Cervino volunteered to wear the monk down for Natalia and Pino, to be the unfamiliar face, the unsympathetic stranger pressing and probing. Natalia accepted, and Cervino had the young man tearing up and shaking in minutes, mostly by invoking his victim. She and Pino stepped next door to observe Pacelli. No one else was there watching the priest through the backside of the mirror. Pacelli, eyes closed, was meditating.

“Should we question the Jesuit together?” Pino asked.

“No. One-on-one. Let me go first.”

Natalia slipped into the room. She didn’t bother with the tape recorder so she wouldn’t have to officially announce that the questioning had begun and possibly inhibit him.

“Sorry for the interruption.”

“You have your job to do.”

“Some questions.”

“Please.”

“How did you know Benito was at the brothel?”

“I heard it from the ladies at the train station. Ida, actually. So I went to the brothel a few days ago to see what help I might render. I found him, of course, and tried to comfort him. Benito was still distraught at Teresa’s death, at being accused, hunted. I calmed him and assured him that no one would think him guilty of hurting her.”

“You are that convinced of his innocence?”

“Yes.”

“You went to see him again today.”

“He asked me to come every day, and I did. Until you found us.”

“Admirable loyalty.”

Pacelli shifted in his chair. “I am his priest.”

“That’s all?”

“What are you implying?”

Natalia waited, sensing something she was uncertain of. “What will you do with Benito?” Father Pacelli asked finally.

“Charge him formally. Try him. Most likely imprison him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Pacelli said. “He’s innocent.”

“You keep saying that with such conviction. Forgive me, Monsignor, but how the hell can you say that so confidently?”

“He’s suffered enough. Castigated for being Gambini’s nephew. Losing his sight.”

“Nonetheless.… The evidence may be circumstantial, but there’s a goodly amount of it.”

“Benito is simple. A country boy. The girl’s death, the tableaux—its reference to deep history, the pagan history, if you will—well beyond his abilities. The killer is not some naïf, as I’m sure you’ve figured. The use of the ex-voto, for instance.”

Natalia sat up. The ex-voto was not public information. Nor were the other details of the tableaux. Natalia had scooped up the small silver heart before even Father Cirillo had noticed it.

“How did you know about the ex-voto?”

“I can’t remember—probably Gina Falcone.”

“No. She was out of there before she could identify anything but the dead girl.”

“Sinners burning in hell,” Father Pacelli muttered.

“What?”

“So dramatic, the tiny figures and the flames.”

“The street shrine outside San Severo,” Natalia said. “You have the key to San Severo, don’t you, Monsignor? It was you Lattanza saw with Teresa Steiner. For once he was telling the truth. You murdered Teresa Steiner, and you were willing to let an innocent man stand in for your punishment.”

“I have tried to convince you of Benito’s innocence all along. You wouldn’t believe me.” Pacelli raised his head. “Sins of the flesh,” he said quietly. “For fifty years I did not give in to temptation. And then I did.”

Natalia pulled the control panel closer and pressed the button to begin recording. She cited the date and time, identified herself for the tape, and further noted Father Pacelli’s presence.

Pacelli held up a hand in surrender. “I was intimate with the girl, Teresa Steiner. We transgressed in my room, once in the chapel at her insistence. She came to me originally for confession. But it was a false confession. She offered herself instead. Ironic, isn’t it? The Jesuits were the first to hear confessions of women. They were to take place in churches, well-lighted spaces. Even so, Father Francis Xavier heard the confession of a female in 1537, and soon after she was found to be pregnant.

“For Teresa it was a thrill. The thrill of the illicit. For me it was something different. We went to Rome together, to the Jesuit library. I fell in love. I told her I would leave the monastery, the Church, to marry her. She was amused at first, pleased, I think, with her conquest. But it was all a game for her. Still, I didn’t give up.” He turned away for a moment, then continued.

“After Rome she refused me. Said Gambini wouldn’t like it. She taunted me with the pearls he’d given her. Can you understand?—to have paradise and then have it taken away?”

“What happened the night she died?”

“I was in the communal kitchen when she turned up. She’d come to see Benito about something, or so she claimed, though she knew he would have retired already, following the monks’ hours. I was the only one who might be awake. I pleaded with her to reconsider. She cursed me. She stormed out. I … followed her into the street. I still had the kitchen knife in my hand.”

“You stabbed her.”