A Few Drops of Blood (11 page)

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 started 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.

“They remind him of her,” Natalia said. “What’s the harm in it? It’s so romantic.”

“Romance,” he’d answered, “the ultimate delusion.”

Gino’s other complaint was about her vocation. He did not want her doing such dangerous work. He wanted her instead to travel with him as he toured. As soon as they
were married, she knew the objections and pressure would escalate.

Natalia’s other complaint about Gino was that he was so practical, never exhibiting much in the way of impulsive behavior or romantic sentiments. That he treated her well—better than any of her previous boyfriends—was not in dispute. But the spark just wasn’t there. Pino, on the other hand … Plus, he was a Carabinieri himself and could hardly object to her choice of professions. Though he presented other problems.

Where was the balance? Natalia wondered. Did anyone ever find it?

Outside the bank, a gypsy picked clothes out of the dumpster and laid them on the ground. A young woman wobbled by on her motorcycle, heavily weighed down with a knapsack and the two children she was delivering to school. Natalia wondered if she was happy. But maybe happy didn’t have anything to do with it.

A young man pushed past Natalia and ran. He caught up to a girl in a black halter top, matching jeans and high heels. “Lara! I told you I was at work! I was working!”

“You take me for an idiot? Like your other whores?”

“Lara! That’s no way to talk. Come on, sweetheart.” His fedora was pushed back on his head. He put his arms around her, and she shoved him away. Natalia could see the mascara streaked where she’d been crying.

Angelina was waiting for her outside the building, as they had arranged.

“I’m sorry,” Natalia said, as Stefano Grappi opened the door. “We didn’t call before we came. Is this a convenient time?”

It took him a second to adjust to their uniforms. “No, it’s
fine,” he said and led them into the living room. It was as pristine as it had been during Natalia’s last visit except for boxes piled in a corner.

“I’m organizing Vincente’s collection. A couple of museums have expressed an interest. Frankly, I’m glad for the interruption. Please, sit down.”

Natalia and Angelina sat side by side on a yellow-and-white striped silk chaise lounge. Natalia identified its carved frame as Victorian. She didn’t remember it from the last visit.

She removed her hat. “We need to ask you a few more questions. They’re quite personal. Are you okay with that?”

Stefano nodded.

They had agreed ahead of time that Natalia would take the lead in the questioning.

“Did you and Vincente ever engage in sexual games of a violent nature?”

He didn’t answer right away. “Vincente … liked it—rough. Me, not so much. At the beginning, he dragged me to a few clubs. Finally, I refused to go anymore. I like to look at erotic art in a gallery, I told him. Simulations, even a performance piece, but the actual thing I could do without. For some reason, Vincente was fascinated with mutilation, too. I told him I thought it was self-hatred in disguise. He said it got him off. I’m pretty conservative that way. It frustrated Vincente at times.”

“What did he do about it?”

“Put up with it, mostly. Now and then he went out alone. Sometimes he came back with injuries.”

“What kind of injuries?”

“Cuts mostly. Not that serious. He did need stitches once.”

“When was this?”

“Two years ago.”

“Did he tell you who had done it to him?”

“I didn’t want to know. We had an arrangement. It worked. Sort of. God—” Stefano teared up. “Sorry.”

“No. Take your time.”

“I’m okay. Go ahead.”

“Can you tell us the name of some of these clubs where Vincente used to go?”

“Sure. Give me a minute.” He went into another room.

Natalia and Angelina made eye contact but didn’t speak. Angelina looked down to write something in her notebook; Natalia surveyed the room. A tidy man, Stefano—everything orderly. A mural of giant yellow blossoms adorned a wall. Beneath it a pitcher of wild flowers artfully arranged and color coordinated, the leaves stripped from the stems, not crammed in as Natalia would have done. A man who liked order and wore slippers inside to keep his floors pristine. Was he, like Director Garducci, made angry if things didn’t go neatly? From the window, a view of rooftops and the cathedral across the street. Peaceful.

“Sorry,” he said. “It took me a minute.” He handed Natalia a sheet of linen stationery listing the clubs.

“I found receipts for the clubs and this art place—CAM, it’s called. The director is—was—a friend of Vincente’s. He came to a couple of our dinner parties. I don’t think there was anything between them, though I’m not sure. Anyway, he knows all about the gay scene in Naples and psycho-sexual art. His gallery is at the heart of it.”

Natalia folded the list and put it in her bag. “Are you aware the other murder victim, Carlo Bagnatti, left his worldly possessions to Vincente?”

“The gossip columnist?”

“Yes, the tabloid reporter.”

“No.”

“So you’re unaware that you are the named second beneficiary in the event of Vincente Lattaruzzo’s demise?”

“I’m at a total loss. Why would Bagnatti have me in his will? I’ve never even met the man.”

“Yes, it is curious. Well, I’m sure his executor will be in touch. Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry if we upset you.”

“No. It’s all right. My doctor said I shouldn’t repress it, so this is good. I’m trying to cope with it, you know? There are good days and bad.”

Back on the street, Natalia paused at the car and looked back at Stefano Grappi’s building.

“What do you think?” Angelina said.

“I don’t know what to think. He’s either innocent, or he’s a good actor.”

Natalia drove them to Casoria and the gallery that Stefano had indicated did cutting edge performance pieces involving homoerotic themes. The CAM Gallery stood tucked in between a couple of factories on a nondescript block at the edge of the financial district. Trucks occupied most of the street, but they found enough space to park right by the ornate front emblazoned with street art done in competing styles.

“What do you have to be to get in here,” Angelina said, “a muscle builder?” as she tugged on a thick iron bar camouflaged amongst the scrawl of graffiti. Entering, they stepped into one large room with high ceilings—an enormous white cube. The walls appeared empty of art, other than for something hanging on the far side of the room. While Natalia answered her phone, Angelina went ahead to look. A few moments later, Natalia followed, gazing at the single art piece as she crossed the empty, open space.

It was a reverse mirror, its frame made of crushed bottle caps. As Natalia approached, her reflection receded into it until she darkened and disappeared.

“Infinity,” someone said.

They hadn’t heard him come up. Shorter than Natalia, the skinny man wore a ubiquitous black t-shirt and tight fitting black pants and, on his face, round tortoise-shell glasses.

“Fascinating, isn’t it? It’s Paolo Vertucci. He’s going to be big. I’m Domenico Bertolli,” he said, maintaining eye contact.

“Captain Natalia Monte. My associate, Angelina Cavatelli. We’re here about Vincente Lattaruzzo … and this man.” She held up a morgue photo of Carlo Bagnatti. “Do you recognize him?”

“Afraid not, no. How may I be of use?”

“You had a show,” Angelina said and looked up from her notes. “Back in November, wasn’t it? ‘Homo Sapiens’?”

“Two performance pieces and the rest … photographic studies.”

“There was some protest,” she said. “A couple of officers from the municipal vice squad put in an appearance.”

Domenico Bertolli looked miffed. “Yes, well, so far Italy is not a police state, try as it might. Where are we going with this? I’m quite busy today.”

Angelina held up a hand. “There were images in the show involving genital mutilation. Any chance we can see them?”

“Sold out, I’m afraid. They’re in the hands of private individuals. So, no, it would not be convenient.”

“Convenience isn’t really of consequence,” Natalia said. “We’ll need the names of the owners then and the photographer. According to the press coverage, he was anonymous.”

“And still is. The artist prefers to remain unknown.”

“Surely not to you.”

“
Au contraire
. I am equally in the dark.”

“How were arrangements made?”

“Through a third party. Look, I’m sure the exhibition isn’t relevant to your investigation. So what’s this about?”

“That’s not your call,” Angelina said.

Natalia said, “No artist named, no provenance. How did that affect pricing?”

Domenico shrugged. “Fifty-thousand euros a print.”

“My, my. And no one batted an eyelash?” Natalia remarked. “Were you and Vincente Lattaruzzo lovers?”

She’d switched gears. Angelina cast her a furtive glance. Bertolli seemed surprised, too.

“Is that pertinent?” he snapped, irritation turning to hostility.

“What do you think?”
Asshole
. Natalia almost said it out loud. “Did you have relations with him?”

“Once or twice.”

“Which?”

“I don’t keep track of every dalliance.”

“Any rough play?”

“None of your business. However, generally I prefer my anatomy whole, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Was Vincente Lattaruzzo in any of the photographs?” she said.

He didn’t answer immediately.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You must have some record, if only a set of contact prints or Polaroids.”

Domenico ushered them into his office just off the gallery and reached into his lower desk drawer. Out came an oversize catalogue.

“I want it back.”

Angelina snatched it up. “We’ll be in touch.”

They marched back across the gallery in step like soldiers, their footfalls sounding in the hollow space.

“Creep,” Angelina said as they walked out to the car. “You think he was involved?”

“No, though you can’t rule him out automatically. Damn. The list of suspects is supposed to be narrowing. Instead it’s growing. You want to drive?”

“Sure.” Angelina came around to the driver’s side. “I may need some navigational assistance.”

“No problem.” Natalia slid into the passenger’s seat.

“I’ve never understood modern art.” Angelina said. They snapped their seatbelts in place, and Angelina started the engine. “Am I missing something?”

“Don’t judge by that. You should have had my favorite professor. Cesa loved art—the more modern, the better. Before her, I wouldn’t look at anything past the Impressionists. She really opened my eyes. You should have seen the woman: combat boots, frothy blouses, wild hair. One of just a handful of female professors at the university. Her ‘Sexuality in Art’ lectures had a waiting list every term.”

Natalia hadn’t thought of Cesa in a long while. She had been pushed out by the cabal of male professors who ran the department.

“My Giuletta took some painting courses in college,” Angelina said. “She’s always trying to drag me to galleries. I said to her: ‘What’s wrong with my liking just Caravaggio?’ ”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah. But I should try to be more open-minded, no? Broaden my horizons? Plus, maybe it would help the relationship.”