These Dark Things

by Jan Weiss

  “Don’t worry,” Tomas said. “No one is going to hurt you.”

  The shadow man slipped something into the purse.

  “What is this about, Tomas?” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  “A donation to your favorite charity. A cruise. A car. Anything you want it to be, honey.”

  “What?”

  “There’s an envelope in your handbag with fifty thousand euros.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Work with me here and we don’t have a problem. It’s simple. You don’t have to tire your pretty head. Okay?”

  He was getting irritated. Natalia willed herself not to say anything.

  “Remember where you come from, is all. You’re one of us—like Lola and me—not them.”

  “You’re with Gambini,” she said. “Tomas—”

  “Happy birthday.”

  Her hands came free and he vanished back into the dark from where he had come. A Camorra thug. Her mother was right. But what choice did Tomas really have, born in the slums of Naples? Where had the sweet boy gone with whom she’d lost her virginity? Would she have to meet more old friends clandestinely from now on, as she did Lola, because so many had gone over to illegality and were no longer proper acquaintances for an officer of the Carabinieri? What would she do if they called her on it?

  Natalia located her gun and her wallet. There was the envelope. She took it out and opened it. Bills. Lots of them. Did Gambini truly think he could buy her? Had he succeeded with this gambit with any of her colleagues? She never heard it discussed, but she knew it happened. It was easy to imagine someone struggling financially, in debt. Coping with an ailing parent. A sick child. Carabinieri salaries weren’t much.

  She continued across the small deserted piazza into which Via Altri, her street, dead-ended. Hand on her gun, she opened the door to the courtyard. The windows above were dark. A couple of towels remained on the line. They twisted in the black night, illuminated by the moon.

  Bypassing the elevator, she climbed the three flights. She was out of breath by the time she reached her landing. She slipped her key into the lock and opened her front door, then secured it behind her. Putting down her bags and purse, she took out her automatic and slipped out of her shoes. In the kitchen, she rummaged in the cabinet for an old bottle of scotch, opened it and poured out a shot, slugging it down. Then she stripped off her clothes and fell exhausted into bed, holding her Beretta to her breast like a doll.

  How excited she had been to have her own apartment, and proud that day with Mariel and Tomas when they’d found it, rundown, like all flats in the old neighborhoods, but with marble floors in the kitchen and bathroom and decorative molding along the edges of the high ceiling. She’d enlisted Tomas to bring a ladder, and he had helped her plaster over the cracks and paint the rooms. Buttercup for the kitchen, ochre for the bedroom, a faint red in the living room, and the ceiling a periwinkle blue.

  She’d inherited her parents’ carved bed and a dresser. Mariel contributed the most elegant piece—a dusty-rose velvet couch of her grandmother’s. Natalia remembered the place fondly, and the lazy afternoons in bed with Tomas. There had been no dramatic breakup, more like a slow drifting in different directions. One day he just stopped coming around.

  Natalia hadn’t purchased anything new for the house in years—she who once had fantasized hosting elegant dinner parties hadn’t so much as a coaster to offer guests. Not that there were many. After a day at work, she barely managed to warm some pizza and eat it by herself from a tray.

  Too wound up to sleep, she got up, slipped on a robe, and stepped out on the balcony. The night was warm and quiet. Windows were shuttered. Across the way, Mrs. Bruna’s balcony was thick with potted plants she had carried out from her apartment in anticipation of rain. Her arthritis was more reliable than the weather reports. The perfume of honeysuckle and red lilies reached across to Natalia.

  Down below, a lone parked car hugged the wall of the narrow street. Not a street where anyone parked their vehicle for the night. The tip of a cigarette flared in the windshield on the driver’s side. Heart thudding, Natalia returned inside and found her cell phone. It was three-thirty in the morning when she punched in Pino’s number.

  “Pronto.” His voice was sleepy.

  “Pino?”

  “Natalia. What’s wrong?”

  “I just got hassled by one of Gambini’s men on the way home and now there’s someone sitting in a Fiat downstairs—watching.”

  “I’ll be there in nine minutes.” The phone went dead.

  Natalia put on pajamas and the robe again, took up her pistol and cell phone, and headed downstairs. In the courtyard, she went to the smaller exterior door and opened it a crack. The passenger-side window was open on the Fiat: an elbow protruded. The odor of the garbage at street level was more than pungent. Anger was catching up to her fear and passing it. Natalia calmed herself and stepped out into the street, the Beretta in both hands, finger on the trigger. Safety off, barrel down, she walked slowly toward the car.

  The cigarette flew out onto the cobblestones as she approached. Headlights snapped on. The engine surged as the Fiat backed away fast, turning around at the next intersection with an alley, and screeching off.

  Natalia exhaled, re-engaged the safety, and walked back toward her house.

  “Natalia!”

  She turned toward Pino. “Whoever it was took off.”

  He holstered his weapon and embraced her. “You’re okay?”

  “Yes. A bit shaken, but yeah. How did you get here so fast?”

  “Taxi.”

  “That’s a first.” You must love me, she wanted to tease, but thought better of it. “You told me Buddhists don’t believe in taxis.”

  “Taxes. I said taxes.”

  They wandered slowly back toward the apartment house, her heart still racing, her breathing shallow. Upstairs, Natalia walked into the bathroom, splashed her face with water. Looking into the mirror, she was horrified; she tried to tame her wild curls. “No need to look like hell, cara,” she said, hearing Lola’s voice admonish her. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet’s shelves, she found the untouched tube of glittery lip gloss, courtesy of Mariel, applied it, and returned to the living room.

  “Why don’t I stay for a while—just till you calm down.”

  Natalia flushed. “I don’t know.…”

  “Look,” he said, “it’s okay. Line of duty. I won’t bite. Promise.” He patted the bed.

  “Okay,” she said, yawning. “You win.”

  “Good.”

  He stretched out on the bed. She lay down next to him, resting her head on his chest.

  “Better,” he said, stroking her hair.

  Natalia made a contented noise and said, “Yes.” In seconds, she was asleep. Pino unwedged his 9-millimeter from his belt and slowly drifted off too.

  * * *

  9

  * * *

  Natalia stood on her balcony, trying to wake up. She barely remembered Pino slipping away at first light.

  Blue flowers dotted the hills. It smelled like rain. She gathered up her things, checking her weapon before leaving for work. Shading her eyes, Natalia crossed the street downstairs and walked into a bright piazza. In spite of the heat, there were elderly men bowling small bocce balls down dirt lanes, strategizing between shots. A young girl in a headscarf stood next to a man with a face like a bulldog, both waiting for the light. A boy of four or five did wheelies on a tiny bike. His mother was too preoccupied with a new baby to tell him to stop.

  Natalia’s childbearing years were practically gone. She considered the baby. This perfect creature with impossible skin and opaque eyes.

  A man bumped her. She almost pulled her weapon until she saw that he was listening to an iPod. “Scusi,” he said.

  In the middle of the next block, a young man and woman were kissing, hands in one another’s jean pockets. Natalia stepped around them. Surely these young people were not burdene
d by the superstitions of their parents. Not the girl with bright aquamarine hair, or the boy with her, a score by Liszt under one arm. Did they ever think about blood oaths or the Camorra, the Mafia, the ’Ndrangheta, or the half-dozen other not-so-secret secret societies that catacombed their country?

  Natalia got to the office early. She spent an hour cleaning and organizing her desk as she tried to push away the events of the previous evening and the realization that she had a full-blown crush on her partner. How shocking that her first love had gone over to the enemy and was lost to her, even in memory.

  To distract herself, she dumped three bottles of nail polish, a compact, and two lipsticks into the trash. There was a perfume bottle, a fancy brand, a gift, courtesy of Mariel, when Natalia joined the force. The lid had started to corrode. Most of the perfume must have evaporated over the years it had been in her drawer. She picked it up, managed to open the lid. Then she tipped the bottle over, dabbing the last few drops onto her wrist. She brought it to her nose and inhaled a trace of verbena.

  She put Vivaldi on her CD player. The album was a gift from her last serious boyfriend, Giorgio, a violinist. Had it been three years? They’d parted amicably, and every few months there was a message from him—from Prague or London.

  She’d been thirteen when she was exposed to the beauty of Vivaldi—the same year her mother allowed her to go to the Luchettis’ street festival. Guillermo Luchetti owned the neighborhood bar. Definitely a Camorra man. As a good Catholic, he wanted to minimize his time in purgatory, so every year he threw a huge party to right the balance. How excited she was, the first time she went with Lola. Mariel was so jealous when she found out. They’d eaten an early dinner and started out as the sun was setting. Night took over Naples. Fireworks went off as loud as bombs. The noise scared all the cats off the streets.

  Natalia and Lola joined the crowds and marched with them. On one float in a glass coffin, Jesus was laid out. On another a brass band played. People danced, even though the music was mournful. Father Ponti walked through, smiling and shaking hands. Luchetti hosted the dignitaries, including Signor Gambini. Women held up their babies for the monsignor to kiss. Natalia stayed for hours.

  “Captain, someone is waiting to see you,” Giulio informed Natalia, standing at her door, interrupting her reverie. “A woman.”

  Giulio had been eating pistachios. Natalia could smell them. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “A Signora Ruttola,” he said, wiping salt off his lips. “Says she has information about the Teresa Steiner case.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lattanza’s wife was sitting on a chair in the reception area, wearing a lovely white dress that drew the envious eyes of two female carabinieri who were passing by. But her perfect look was marred by her face, streaked with mascara.

  She dabbed her eyes as Natalia approached. “I had to talk to you.”

  “Come.”

  The two women walked back to Natalia’s office. Natalia pulled out a chair for Signora Ruttola and closed the blinds on her window before sitting down at her desk.

  “What is it?”

  “Marco,” she sobbed. “I was away at a design conference in Milan and came home a day early. Thought I’d play wife for once—make a nice dinner, wear a negligee. Couples get busy and forget to take time for one another. I’m sure you know about that.”

  Natalia nodded, though she couldn’t imagine parading around in a transparent negligee for Marco Lattanza.

  “I walked in on him—them. The bastard didn’t even have the decency to go to a hotel.”

  She straightened before continuing: “He wasn’t home the night the girl was killed—Teresa Steiner. I lied. I’m tired of the lies. He promised me he had nothing to do with her murder. We’ve been together a long time; we have a daughter.” Black beads streamed down her cheeks.

  “You are willing to sign a statement?” Natalia asked.

  “Yes,” Marissa Ruttola said.

  “We’ll need to bring him in for further questioning. Maybe hold him on suspicion. We have witnesses who overheard him threaten the girl. You may want to take your daughter away from the apartment. It probably won’t be until tomorrow. Are you sure you can act ‘normal’ until we can pick him up?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After Marissa read the statement on videotape and signed, Natalia called Pino on his cell phone and informed Colonel Donati’s secretary. It was then that she saw the call slip for a phone call she’d missed. Hope you liked the earrings. Lola, the note said. The PLEASE CALL box was checked. Lola had never called Natalia’s office before.

  Pino finally appeared. He had news as well.

  “The criminalists’ search of Teresa Steiner’s rented room turned up a journal hidden in the hollow brass bedpost.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “There’s more. The search of the bone cleaner’s apartment turned up this—Kiyoshi number 7, the special chef’s knife missing from the monastery kitchen.”

  He held up both in their clear plastic evidence bags, happy as a kid bringing home goldfish.

  Natalia clapped her hands. “Bingo and bingo.”

  Pino waited in the car in the unloading area while Natalia went into the railroad terminal by herself. She crossed the cavernous waiting hall and reached the public toilets. There was a line, as usual. The woman at the head of the line smelled like she hadn’t bathed in a while. The woman directly in front of Natalia was elegant—white capri pants and a bright Gucci blouse. The line proceeded inside.

  Two prostitutes were doing laundry in a sink. One of the women washing her underwear had black stringy hair. Her sundress showed a bony frame and sores along her arm. The other woman, heftier, wore tight pants and a halter top. The woman in front of Natalia clutched her bags and made the sign of the cross as she realized that the large woman was, in fact, a man.

  “Can you tell me where I might find Father Pacelli?” Natalia asked.

  “Sure. Try Track 22, at the far end.”

  Exiting the bathroom, Natalia proceeded to Binario 22, the track farthest from the waiting room. Carabiniere Cesare beamed as Natalia approached. He appeared as happy as ever.

  “Captain.”

  “Carabiniere. Good day. Would you know where the priest is who works with the prostitutes?”

  “The Jesuit. Sure.” He pointed her in the direction of a large door.

  She passed the waiting room, separated from the main hall by a guard and a barrier. One could only enter with a ticket. A godsend for women traveling alone.

  Natalia was aware that she no longer collected wolf whistles and stares from men, the way she had when she was younger. This made her grateful on the one hand, but aware on the other that she was aging. Young girls took it for granted, their smooth skin and easy smiles making the path of daily life in many ways smoother. Teresa Steiner had been at the height of her powers—physically and intellectually. Her killer could very well be someone who had misinterpreted her friendliness for something else. And when he was scorned.…

  And what about Lattanza the serial seducer? He’d had plenty of opportunities. And probably plenty of young girls. But maybe this time he wanted to keep the relationship, and she was ready to move on to younger men. His ego wouldn’t accept it. Maybe Lattanza was feeling the loss of power—sexual and otherwise. He didn’t mean to, things got out of hand. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Pino didn’t like Lattanza for the killer, but Pino did not have a history with him, had not seen him get angry.

  She pushed through the door to Track 22 where an empty train stood idle, and there Pacelli was, sitting on a plastic crate, head bent close to a prostitute seated on another, listening intently to her. Two monks handed out coffee and bread with cheese slices crudely layered on top. It took a moment for her to realize that Pacelli wasn’t deep in a two-way conversation with the whore: rather, he was hearing her confession. In the eighteenth century, the Jesuits had preached to prostitutes, offered them a decent place to live in exchange for their faith, and
founded a hospital for syphilitics in Naples. “Angels of Peace,” the fallen women called the Jesuits.

  The streetwalker crossed herself and rose to her feet. Pacelli resumed his duties distributing refreshments.

  “Monsignor,” Natalia called out.

  “Captain.” Pacelli waved her over as he extended a cup of coffee to the last girl in line. She appeared to be forty.

  “We’re looking for Benito.”

  “You tried his room at the monastery?”

  “Yes. Not there. His clothes either.”

  “He may have gone to his parents’. He was saying something about that the other day.”

  “Thanks. We’ll try him there.”

  “May I ask why you want him?”

  “We’ve come up with some incriminating evidence and need to speak to him.”

  Pacelli looked pained. “He didn’t harm that girl. He couldn’t have.”

  “He was in love with her,” she countered.

  “Obviously. But violent toward her? Not possible.” He pursed his lips, troubled by the conversation. “Yes, he was infatuated. We may be in holy orders, but we are human too.” “My point exactly,” she said. “Monk or not, he is a man.” “Please be kind to him when you catch up.”

  “I will do my best, Monsignor.”

  “I’ll pray for you both.”

  “You take confessions, Monsignor.”

  “Of course. I’m a priest.”

  “The girl who was killed. Did she ever come to you privately? After all, she visited your church many times, according to Benito. She was a lapsed Catholic. When she visited Benito—a perfect opportunity to reconnect with the Church.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “She may have told you something that could help us find her killer.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know her.”

  “No? Such a small parish.…”

  “Nevertheless.…”

  “What about Benito? Did he come to you? Did he confess to you that he’d killed the girl?”