A Few Drops of Blood

by Jan Merete Weiss

  Rivelare’s offices were even more institutional than the Carabinieri station’s at Via Casanova. Dropped ceilings made of flimsy insulation tiles that may once have been white. Fluorescent overhead lights that bathed everything in a vaguely green tinge that went well with the brown industrial carpeting and tan cubicles spread out in all directions.

  Young reporters in the work stations scrolled their Blackberries and talked on phones, feet up on desks next to their computer screens. Some tapped away at laptops, others stared into their monitors as if hypnotized.

  A secretary appeared to lead them to the managing editor’s glassed-in window office at the end of an aisle. Natalia flashed her ID, but he had already recognized her. “Should I call my lawyer?” he joked as he ushered them in.

  “Not yet,” Natalia said.

  He looked easily a decade older than his staff, his beard a consequence of indolence rather than a fashion statement. Pudgy around the middle, he wore a long-sleeved work shirt and blue jeans. On one wrist a thin silver bracelet. His eyes seemed sad, even when he smiled.

  Though the late Carlo Bagnatti’s pieces for Rivelare were often just titillating gossip, sometimes they contained actual newsworthy information, lifted a rock and exposed the worm beneath. Like the recent story of the interior minister and his seventeen-year-old Neapolitan girlfriend and the prostitutes and parties elected officials paid for with the tax monies of the good citizens. Although it looked like the minister’s cronies would make sure he wasn’t held to account, hope sprang eternal.

  Franco Corso’s desk was messier than Natalia’s. A flaccid-looking sandwich lay in the middle, a bite or two gone, paper espresso cups heaped around it.

  “What can I do for you ladies today?” He cleared a stack of papers from the couch.

  “You ran a picture of a crime scene,” Natalia said.

  “Our Carlo and young Lattaruzzo?”

  “Was one of your photographers there? It had to be someone with a police-band radio.”

  “Our guys monitor the band as a matter of course, but it wasn’t any of them.”

  “Really?” Natalia said. “You must have paid a small fortune for it.”

  “We would have, but honestly, we paid nothing.”

  “How so?”

  “The picture, it just arrived—appeared at our reception desk. A digital disc someone left. My assistant didn’t know who it should go to and opened it on her machine. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “Where is the disc?”

  He opened his desk drawer and produced a transparent case with a disc inside. “Any leads yet?” he said and popped it into a padded mailing envelope, Rivelare printed across it in oversized simulated handwriting.

  “Leads? I wish I could tell you,” Natalia said. “You’d be the first to hear.”

  “Right.” Corso laughed.

  “We need to see what Bagnatti was working on most recently that could have gotten him in trouble.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been expecting that. We haven’t touched his office since we heard.”

  Corso escorted them several doors down. It was surprisingly sterile, Spartan in the extreme: not a sheet of paper showing anywhere other than magazines, each tabbed with a Post-It, indicating a Bagnatti story.

  Angelina fired up Carlo Bagnatti’s computer while Natalia continued conversing with the managing editor.

  “Was he working on anything so hot,” she said, “that it might have potentially put him in harm’s way?”

  Corso gestured expansively, arms out like wings. “Everything Carlo was on to he said was hot and sordid and all of it a scoop. But honestly, no. It was all the usual level of nasty. Though, that said, his latest, greatest leads he kept on a memory stick that he wore around his neck like an amulet.”

  Bagnatti and Lattaruzzo’s bodies had been stripped bare of rings, watches, chains, a bracelet and even a St. Christopher’s medal that, according to Stefano, Vincente Lattaruzzo never took off. No memory stick.

  “Do you know his movements the day he died?” Natalia asked.

  Corso shrugged. “He left work a little early. Said he was meeting a hot source. Always the source was ‘hot.’ That’s the last we saw him.”

  Natalia thanked him for his cooperation, and Corso left them to their search. “Find anything?” she asked her partner who’d been trolling the monitor.

  “A slide show of a three-way at Ernesto Scavullo’s with what looks like fifteen-year-old twins. A list of lovers who frequent his residence and do anyone and everyone in the house. Copies of receipts for ruby brooches and gold pendants purchased for Scavullo’s favorites, including two African beauties he beds, mother and daughter.”

  She rocked back for a moment, away from the screen.

  “Scavullo kept sex scores on everyone, including himself, like it was a bicycle race through the mountains.”

  “Anything about a German nanny?”

  “Mmm. No German name.”

  “Her last name was something like Kleinst. This would’ve been about a year ago. She made some mistake while working for him or witnessed the wrong thing. Died in an accident that most likely wasn’t. But there was no evidence of foul play and we couldn’t touch Scavullo.”

  Angelina shook her head. “Nothing like that here. Just a long, wide stream of sex kittens, coming and going like Scavullo was running a playboy mansion or something. Ah, here are some notes on the Garduccis paying off someone to quash a story on a liaison gone wrong. And the director’s involvement with a male subordinate named … Lattaruzzo.”

  Natalia worked her way through the magazines with Bagnatti’s pieces earmarked, while Angelina backed up his computer onto discs and stickered the machine Impounded.

  “Someone will be by to pick it up this afternoon,” she told Corso’s secretary as they left, wending their way back through the cubicle area and to the elevators. All was quiet. The elevator arrived. Natalia and her partner stepped in.

  “Maybe the techs will find something on the actual computer,” Angelina said. “Something deleted they can recover.”

  Natalia crossed her arms, watching the floor numbers flash by.

  “Corso said Bagnatti left work early to meet a source. Could the hot source have been Vincente Lattaruzzo? And if so, what would Bagnatti have heard from him?”

  Carlo Bagnatti’s funeral was a sad affair, with just five mourners attending, absolutely lost in a side chapel of the enormous cathedral. In the vast dark space, the chapel was lighted only by a few candles. Pietro Fabretti, his old ballet school classmate, must have sent the enormous stand of lilies that flanked the casket. Fabretti stood beside it; next to him, a shriveled-looking woman in a black skirt and sweater.

  Natalia wondered if the handful of people kneeling in the pews had wandered in, unaware of the private service. Probably. Even if Bagnatti had been widely loved, people would have been loath to attend. A Scavullo victim came with a halo of intimidation. No doubt the don had emissaries among the sparse group present to mete out punishment for any misbehavior or inappropriate outbursts denouncing him. Which made Pietro Fabretti a brave man, Natalia realized, despite what he’d said in his interview.

  Dark glasses in place, he made the sign of the cross, kissed the tip of his fingers and dropped a white rose into the casket, then leaned in to kiss his friend’s waxy forehead. A last hymn sounded, and the coffin was rolled out of a side entrance and into a glass-sided hearse. A gold Christ ornamented the hood. The mortician arranged a bank of pink gladiolas around the black coffin.

  Natalia returned to the office where Angelina was poring through copies of Rivelare and La Stella, looking for columns or feature articles that might have led to their author’s murder.

  “Anything?” Natalia asked.

  “Not yet, but listen to this: ‘Italian police say they have seized a crocodile they believe was used by a suspected crime boss to terrorize people into paying protection money. The reptile was one point seven meters long and weighed forty kilos. It was f
ound during a search at a man’s home in the southern town of Caserta, where it was kept on the terrace and fed live rabbits in full view of neighboring homes. The suspect was charged with illegal animal possession. The crocodile has been sent to an animal rehabilitation center.’ ”

  “Lucky animal,” Natalia said.

  “The owner is suspected of running several protection rackets in Caserta.”

  “The perp have a name?” Natalia asked.

  “Negative.”

  “Right,” Natalia said. “Someone was paid off then.”

  “And I thought Palermo was bad.”

  “It is. Here, too.”

  “Will we ever be free of it?” said Angelina.

  “Naples?”

  “Italy.”

  “That reminds me.”

  She phoned the Anti-Mafia Investigations Directorate to see if they had anything new on Ernesto Scavullo. They didn’t. Then she phoned the Agenzia delle Entrate and spoke to the revenue service officers about the suspiciously conspicuous affluence of one Ernesto Scavullo and asked them to look into his fleet of incredibly expensive sports cars and limousines with an eye to income unreported and taxes unpaid. She read off license plate numbers that had accrued in the past six months, all issued to Scavullo, and the makes of the automobiles. The agent thanked her for the tip.

  “Not necessary,” she said. “My pleasure.”

  If she couldn’t yet arrest Ernesto Scavullo, she’d settle for annoying him.

  “You’re going to piss off the don,” Angelina said.

  “One can hope.”

  Mariel’s living room was orderly as usual, books arranged neatly in built-in cases, surfaces polished and clear. A votive candle flickered on the low-slung coffee table, the air perfumed with lilac scent. There were no random pieces of clothing strewn around, no piled up newspapers as in Natalia’s apartment. Not a speck of dust. And to cap it off, there was Mariel herself, resplendent in a rose-colored caftan, welcoming her with a goblet of wine.

  “You ever think about becoming a life coach?” Natalia sank into the yellow brocade couch. “How to live graciously—in my case, on a shoestring?”

  Mariel laughed. “No, I hadn’t. Bad day?”

  “Better now.” Natalia took a sip of the wine. “Yum.”

  “What’s going on?” Mariel sat on a sling-backed chair. One of Natalia’s favorites, with its slender carved frame and crimson cushion embroidered with peacocks and gryphons. “Trouble at work? Or is it Pino?”

  “That, too. The job’s getting to me, Em. I’m thinking twenty more years of this, and what do I have to look forward to—assuming I make it out alive? A lousy pension.”

  “That doesn’t sound like my favorite criminalist. What about our plans? That Christmas cruise we promised we’d take, remember?”

  “I know. We’ll do it yet. I’m probably just tired at the moment. Burned out on this case. It’s really getting to me.”

  “The murder of the two men found on the horse statue?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have the culprit yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How’s the new partner working out?”

  “She’s great. Plus adorable. Quick on the uptake. Doesn’t take any shit from the men.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Not really. There’s possible Camorra involvement so it might not be entirely safe for you to hear me out. But thanks for asking. Hopefully by the next time I see you, it’ll be solved. Oh, this might interest you. I did run into an old admirer of yours.”

  “Not Massimo.”

  “Paolo Mora.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Cross my heart. Remember we were just talking about him the other day? How sweet he was on you, how he waited for you after school? You barely gave him the time of day.”

  “My parents trained me. I was not to socialize with a certain class of people.”

  “How did I slip through the net?”

  “For one thing, you were a girl, so that helped. For another, I loved you. And they would not deny their only child her best friend. Plus they adored you. Paolo—didn’t he marry that girl whose family owned the pizza place on Via Rimini?”

  “That he did,” Natalia took another sip. “I guess working in the pizza shop didn’t do it for him.”

  “He was cute,” Mariel smoothed her hair. “He’s still cute. Are they together, he and she?”

  “Probably. He did ask about you, however.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying it because I’m making you my extraordinary seafood risotto?”

  “I swear.”

  “What did you tell him,” Mariel said, “about me?”

  “That you were as gorgeous as ever. I bet you could crook your finger, and he’d come running—wife or no wife. Hey! She’s blushing!”

  “Am not!”

  “He’s Ernesto Scavullo’s bodyguard.”

  “Christ,” Mariel put her drink down. “That is depressing. So—you don’t have to answer—I take it Scavullo is a suspect in the killings? God, what a slime. Enough about them. Come out on the balcony. I have something to show you.”

  The pigeon had made a nest in a corner next to the railing. Her eggs were incubating on a pile of dirty straw and something that looked like plastic French fries.

  Natalia crouched down. “When did this mama bird arrive?”

  “I’m not sure. When I went out last night to water my plants, she was there. This morning she was off the nest. There are two eggs—perfect ovals.”

  Natalia moved closer to get a look.

  “Careful. I read somewhere they don’t like you to look at them directly in the eyes.”

  “Sounds like some men I’ve dated,” Natalia said.

  The magnolia across the street glowed in the last of the evening light. Its creamy blossoms nestled in the full dark leaves. Mariel persuaded Natalia to stay over and lent her a pair of white silk pajamas. Natalia slipped between the satin sheets in the guest room and laid her head on the down pillow.

  “Stay strong,” Mariel said as the friends kissed goodnight.

  “Sweet dreams,” Natalia closed her eyes. “Sweet dreams, dear friend.”

  Chapter 9

  The morning was cool. Natalia showered and dressed. Up early, she made herself an espresso in Mariel’s sunny kitchen. There was a vase of fresh daisies on the kitchen table, and Mariel had left croissants in a basket and a bowl of strawberries.

  Natalia partook, washed her dishes, scribbled a thank you. She slipped the note under the vase and let herself out as quietly as she could.

  A block along, she bumped into a street market. Lettuce bulged from their crates. A melon that had rolled into the street had been run over, its gold pulp attracting pigeons. Two elderly women helped one another up the steps to St. Felicity for early Mass. She was in her old boyfriend’s neighborhood.

  As far as she knew, Gino’s father was still alive, his apartment steps away. When Natalia and Gino had been together, they ate dinner with the old man once or twice a week.

  Signor Valdutti lived in an ocher palazzo. A baroque gate opened to a stately courtyard. No mops and brooms, no laundry flapping on lines. Pink and black marble stones led to a fountain in the middle. Just inside the building a shiny brass elevator whisked them to the top floor. Everything tasteful and quiet.

  His father’s maid didn’t live in, but she came in each day, shopping in hand, then set about to cook and serve the evening meal. There were the elegant, red, cut-glass goblets for the wine and many leisurely courses served on gold-rimmed plates. The quiet, art-filled apartment should have fostered the illusion that the fangs of the outside world could not reach in to bite you there. But Natalia always felt gloomy at Gino’s father’s place. Perhaps because of the massive old furniture and heavy damask drapes or the dull amber glow cast by the antique lamps.

  Gino’s father had started life as a humble cabinetmaker. After the war his luck changed. He star
ted to repair antiques damaged by the bombing. Because his workshop had been destroyed, he worked on the street. He glued and clamped and curved the frames. If it wasn’t raining, the pieces were left on the streets to dry. In the course of his work, he acquired many treasures sold for a fraction of their worth, given him in lieu of payment or simply abandoned when their owners died unexpectedly.

  With them he started a shop. The wealthy liked doing business with him, and in a few years he himself was well off, though his wealth hadn’t protected him from the loss of his beloved wife when Gino was only three. Father and son were close, despite the fact that Gino had been raised mostly by his mother’s parents in Caserta.

  After several glasses of wine and a couple of shots of anisette taken at the long oak table, the old man would often wax philosophical: something along the lines that when you understood life, it was over.

  It hadn’t made much sense to Natalia then. Did he mean it took a lifetime to understand what life was about? Or was it that a life without mystery was no longer worth living?

  In the florid, well-fed man, there were traces of the hungry boy. He was never as animated as when he regaled Natalia and his son about the war. Did they know that after the war you could buy anything sfuso, loose? This included cigarettes, codfish, bananas, oil. Bottles were scarce. People carried their own to be filled with milk or oil or petrol. The bottles were cleaned and reused as there weren’t anymore.

  And he’d ruined Natalia’s appetite on more than one occasion, describing a wartime meal in which someone had been fed a meal of cat.

  His bedroom was taken up with his and his beloved’s enormous matrimonial bed and two giant wardrobes. In one, he kept all of his wife’s clothing, which he had cleaned once a year. In the lavatory, on a shelf directly over the sink, was a crystal bottle of Chanel perfume half empty, its pink rubber atomizer faded to dusky rose.

  Gino found his father’s shrines morbid. He’d tried to talk to him about them once or twice, told him living in the past did no good. His father needed to get on with his life, even find someone new. The man hadn’t taken it well, and Gino finally realized it was of no use.