These Dark Things (7 page)

“How convenient for you.”

“I’d take a lie detector test on it.”

“Until the case is solved, you are under suspicion.”

“This is such a waste. I am due at the University. I have a lecture this evening.”

Pino stood up. “We’re going to need your passport, Dr. Lattanza.”

“You’re joking.”

“Under the circumstances, you’re lucky that’s all that is required.”

“You are young, Officer Loriano, and perhaps you don’t yet realize how things work in Naples.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“How could I threaten
you
—a carabiniere, an officer of the law? I am, after all, a lowly university professor.”

“You can drop it off downstairs with the officer on desk duty any time within the next three hours.”

Natalia watched him read the transcript and the report, and then sign both.

“Thank you for coming in,” Pino said. “We’ll be in touch.”

As Lattanza’s footsteps faded down the linoleum corridor, Pino came to Natalia in the observation area. “You okay?”

“Do you believe him? About the other man?”

“Maybe he’s telling the truth.”

“That liar?” Natalia said. “But if it’s true, which I doubt—only someone with seniority would have a key to the chapel. A city official, or a priest. Not that I believe Lattanza’s story for an instant.”

“Unless someone lent him their key.”

“Unlikely. San Severo has been moved up to the top of the list of treasures the mayor made up last year to deflect attention from her poor ratings. I remember, because the Fire Department had to get an injunction to obtain access. That brouhaha didn’t do anything for her popularity. What was she thinking?” She nodded. “I hope he did it, the son of a bitch.”

Natalia waited at the front door of Professor Lattanza’s apartment. She could swear that the woman who opened the door to her had recently cried, but her makeup was fresh and she attempted a social smile.

“Yes?”

Even though she was in uniform, Natalia flipped open her identification wallet.

“My husband is not here.”

Natalia nodded, knowing he was on the way to the University to teach a four-hour graduate course.

“I am Captain Monte. May I speak to you then, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure. Come in.”

Natalia was sweating from the walk up the hill. Her uniform trousers were held at the waist with a safety pin under her jacket. She felt less than elegant. Then again, next to Marissa Lattanza, with her pencil skirt, tailored blouse, and high heels, most female mortals felt like slobs.

“A glass of water, Captain?” Madame Lattanza asked.

“Thank you, yes.”

Natalia listened to footfalls receding. Nice to be able to afford this large a space. A carabiniere’s salary was not much, but even she could afford some fresh flowers once in a while.

Marissa returned with two black glasses and yellow coasters, which she put down on the glass top of the coffee table. Natalia drank and carefully placed her glass on the coaster. She took out a notebook. “According to my partner, Sergeant Loriano, you said your husband was home last Thursday, the night Teresa Steiner was killed, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“He didn’t go out?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“We have a witness who places him on Via dei Tribunali after eleven
P.M
.”

“They must be lying.”

“Are you sure, Signora Lattanza? This could be important. A young woman is dead.”

“I know. Yes, it’s terrible,” she conceded. “But people die. This is Naples, after all.”

“Did you know your husband was having relations with Teresa Steiner? Sleeping with her? That he was serious about her?”

“I seriously doubt
that.
It’s an occupational hazard, working at the University. All those young girls. They don’t mean anything to him.”

“He took her on holiday to Procida. We have it from several sources that he was very taken with her.”

She didn’t say anything as she smoothed her perfect hair.

“Signora Lattanza.”

“Ruttola. Signora Ruttola. I kept my own name.”

An opening, Natalia thought. “That’s commendable, that you kept your own name. You have your own profession, I understand.”

Marissa Ruttola adjusted one of her diamond earrings. “Yes. I’m an architect, as I’m sure you already know. If that’s all, I have a meeting with a client in half an hour.”

“Thanks for your time.” Natalia slipped her notebook into her bag. “Beautiful flowers,” she said, getting up.

“Yes, they are,” Marissa Ruttola said. “We have a different kind every week. Marco—my husband—chooses them. They are always a beautiful surprise.”

“Signora Ruttola, I feel I must tell you. I was a student of your husband’s years ago. He made a play for me and I refused. He got me kicked out of the University.”

For a moment, Signora Ruttola didn’t say anything. Then: “Shouldn’t you disqualify yourself from investigating him?”

“I have. At least from that part of the investigation.”

Ruttola threw back her hair. “Okay. Enough polite talk. My husband was obsessed with that girl. There were always young girls, you can imagine, but this was different. The week before Teresa Steiner was killed, Marco told me he wanted to leave us and live with her. I wanted to kill him then, and I probably could have, except for the children. I found Teresa Steiner’s phone number. I called her and arranged lunch with her.”

“You met?”

“Yes. She was a cool one. Surprisingly sophisticated. Wearing a Prada outfit I had found the receipt for among my husband’s credit card charges.” Signora Ruttola waved away a thought and went on. “It was ironic. She said Marco wanted to leave me and go with her. In fact, she had broken up with him. She told me he was more of an experiment.”

“An experiment?”

“Yes. She said he had told her I didn’t mind his having an affair. She apologized. How could I hate her? She told me about her mother’s cancer, and about Gambini. She was too open. She said she didn’t like taking from the shrines, but she hated the Church as much as the mob. If the people thought their prayers were being heard, then it was immaterial where the money went. All that mattered was their belief.” Signora Ruttola gestured at a lone photograph in a gray frame. “She reminded me of my daughter. These young women live life as if it were an outfit, something to try on but not wear.”

She fixed Natalia with an intent look, seemingly hesitant to ask her question. Then she did anyway.

“Tell me, Captain. Do you think he stripped her of her life before she could try on her next lover?”

5

Pino pedaled down Via Toledo in civilian clothes, dismounted, and walked his bicycle into an alley where a few men were flipping cards on an overturned box. Like most of the men around here, they would just as soon have cut his throat as met his eyes. Luckily, they were preoccupied with the cards they’d been dealt.

Naples awakened. Sinner and saved share the same streets. The old saying came to Pino:
Il mare non bagnà Napoli.
The sea does not cleanse Naples.

The alley was so cramped that there was hardly room to hang out laundry. A few women had set up drying racks in front of their doors. A baby’s underwear was arranged by color, socks in proper pairs. A woman in a housedress clanged a pot in her ground-floor kitchen visible from the street. Pino made an effort not to stare into her cramped rooms, though it was hard not to do.

He crossed Via Casarti, pushing past a group of boys playing football. One muttered something for Pino’s benefit. The youth’s gold chain and crucifix, prominent on his torn T-shirt, reminded Pino of Totò Riina, a teenaged thug who had kidnapped an eleven-year-old, the son of a rival gang. For two years they held the boy in the mountains. Neither the police nor the Carabinieri pursued the case in earnest. Finally, Totò strangled the child.

The little fly bumped into Pino and said something he couldn’t hear over the shouting footballers.

“What did you say?” Pino asked. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said, remove yourself from our game or I’ll do it for you.” He grinned, a bandanna strapped to his dark shiny curls, greasy with styling gel and sweat from his exertions. He was maybe twelve. Employed most likely to deliver drugs. He turned to strut for his friends.

Pino could see the kid’s future as clearly as the Tiber cut through Rome. At fourteen, he’d drop out of school. Hook up with the Camorra proper to begin the tests of loyalty on low-stakes crimes they set out. The steps are as serious as entering the priesthood. He would start out among the
picciotti
, a novice for three years serving the Cause, until he had earned the title
picciotto d’onore
. Formal induction would follow. The novice opened a vein with a dagger, dipped his hand in the blood and swore to the assembled to keep their secrets and to do their bidding. Then he stuck the dagger into the table, picked up a pistol and cocked it. With the other hand, he lifted a glass of poisoned water to his lips—showing his readiness to die for the organization. He knelt in front of the dagger. A chief placed his right hand on the supplicant’s head, took the pistol in his left and fired it. Then smashed the poisoned glass and embraced their new member.

Pino ignored the fresh kid. At some point he would meet him again. In his office. In the morgue. The Camorra path was centuries old, older than the Mafia, stretching back to Spain’s ruthless rule of Naples that had inspired its rise. Talking to this boy would be a waste of time, much as he’d have liked to try. Besides, he was due at headquarters in an hour and needed to squeeze in a haircut before Colonel Donati could give him another lecture on appropriate appearance.

Pino continued walking his bicycle. The football grazed his calf, ricocheted off the wall and bounced back to him. He kicked it to the runt of the gang and was repaid for his trouble with catcalls. They gestured obscenely to his retreating back. He hopped aboard and pedaled off. A few blocks further along, young men on
motorini
lounged on the walk outside Salvatore’s barbershop. Some, no doubt, were more dangerous than the gang he just left behind. But these well-dressed gangsters in their twenties and thirties had at least adopted a civilized veneer. Gentlemen of leisure. Unlike Rome, where each would have a cell phone clamped to his ear, they actually talked to one another. Pino was almost certain that Salvatore paid something every month so his windows would remain intact.

The skinny thug in the red silk shirt who watched Pino, affecting an air of civility, had once been a cherub with wide eyes and fat cheeks, kissed and fussed over by adoring females—his
nonna
, mama, older sisters, aunts, and cousins. But there was a price. No weakness. No tears.

A lucky few escaped their families into the priesthood. Others cleaned streets or waited tables. Others hung out around seedy social clubs like casual laborers, looking to pick up the odd job—collection on an outstanding debt, or the beating of a rival gang member. Some ran errands for a boss—sauntered to the corner store for cigarettes and a lottery ticket. Lucky numbers appeared in dreams.

Walking into the shop, Pino caught his reflection in a mirror. Certainly he was not this weary-looking soul with hunched shoulders! He straightened and took a deep breath. The chair was open. Without conversation, Salvatore cut and styled and trimmed Pino’s sideburns, as he had done ever since Pino Loriano had turned twelve. Finishing in the shortest possible time, he shaved the hairline at the back of Pino’s head, sprinkled talcum powder on his neck, and then brushed the powder off with the soft brush—Pino’s favorite part of the process, though he would never voice it.

“Pino.” The barber looked worried.

“Yes.”

“There is talk,” he said, bending to Pino’s ear, “against you and Captain Monte.” He rested a hand on Pino’s shoulder. “I want you and Natalia should be careful.”

“Hungry?” Mariel asked Natalia as they sat down to breakfast outside their favorite café.

Eugenio brought the usual—a basket of bread—and retreated to order their coffees. Eugenio was a boyhood friend and looked after them accordingly.

A girl with a black ponytail walked by, her tiny underpants obvious through her filmy white skirt.