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Authors: Jan Merete Weiss
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Always.”
Natalia exposed the gun, and together they slipped it into a plastic evidence sheath.
“Don’t come across many of these,” he said, studying theweapon. “From the thirties. Hand crafted. Carvings like these I’ve seen maybe twice. Beautiful, aren’t they?”
A peacock preened on one side of the stock, and the sun fanned out on the other. Vine etchings crept along the barrel.
“I suppose.”
“A real mafia heirloom, trotted out for traditional honor killings and major vengeance. Any prints?”
“Probably clean but we haven’t checked it yet.”
“Figures.”
Such a devastating weapon to shoot a human being. The carvings were lovely, if you could say that about an instrument intended for killing.
“Tulio had it for sale,” she said.
“Ricardo Tulio is back in business?”
“It seems so, with a little help from his friends. Payment for his silence.”
Portero sniffed the barrels. “Recently fired.”
Back downstairs, she reported to Colonel Fabio.
“We’re following a lead in the double murder at the
contessa
’s. Tulio was selling what’s possibly the murder weapon used on Vincente Lattaruzzo. A traditional
lupara
.”
“The bloody shirt, the traditional weapon,” he said. “This has all the markings of a blood feud. Something left unaddressed from a long time ago.”
“So it would seem.”
“A peasant’s shirt?” the colonel observed.
“Smacks of the countryside, yes sir. Why they would display the bodies in the
contessa
’s garden remains a mystery. We’re investigating the victims’ backgrounds … and the
contessa
’s.”
“The
contessa
?” The colonel blinked rapidly, caught off guard.
“I know she’s a personal friend, sir, but nonetheless … She needn’t know about it at this point.”
“I appreciate your discretion. Do what you need to do, obviously. And let me know as soon as you find anything, as soon as she’s in the clear.”
Back in her own office, Natalia rested her head in her hands for a moment, drew a long breath and called it a day. Angelina had already clocked out. Natalia needed an early night. Disrupted sleep was taking its toll.
She walked home, her feet sore and heavy, made it upstairs to her door and undid the double locks. She dropped her keys in the foyer, placed placed her weapon in the top drawer of the hall table and shed her clothes on the way to the bedroom, where she flopped into bed and slept.
She came awake as the upstairs neighbor clacked across the floor. Down in the narrow old street that fronted her building a truck transferred trash from a dumpster, winching it aboard. Metal screeched, then boomed. A toilet flushed upstairs, and the night grew quiet again.
She got out of bed, undressed and slipped on one of Pino’s t-shirts and her pajama bottoms to step out onto the balcony. High clouds faintly haloed the moon. Not one star. She wished Pino were with her.
In some ways, things had improved. The latest garbage strike had been over for months. Neapolitans no longer wore gas masks in the street, and Rome had finally dispatched the militia to help clean up the aftermath and deposit large metal containers around the poorer neighborhoods to accommodate the huge backlog of refuse. But collection continued day and night, often ruining sleep.
Another victory for the Camorra gangsters. They’dcaused the problem in the first place when their Don Aldo Gambini ordered his garbage collectors not to pick up any more trash after the city proposed purchase of an incinerator to cut hauling costs. When Gambini very conveniently was shot dead, Bianca Strozzi’s company won the removal contract from the city—the venture Lola ran for Bianca’s gang.
A scrawny dog moved into the shadows across the courtyard. Then the burning arc of a cigarette tossed aside. Someone there walked quickly away farther into the alley. Afraid suddenly, she retreated back inside, carefully barring the louvered shutters.
Had she ruffled some
Natalia exposed the gun, and together they slipped it into a plastic evidence sheath.
“Don’t come across many of these,” he said, studying theweapon. “From the thirties. Hand crafted. Carvings like these I’ve seen maybe twice. Beautiful, aren’t they?”
A peacock preened on one side of the stock, and the sun fanned out on the other. Vine etchings crept along the barrel.
“I suppose.”
“A real mafia heirloom, trotted out for traditional honor killings and major vengeance. Any prints?”
“Probably clean but we haven’t checked it yet.”
“Figures.”
Such a devastating weapon to shoot a human being. The carvings were lovely, if you could say that about an instrument intended for killing.
“Tulio had it for sale,” she said.
“Ricardo Tulio is back in business?”
“It seems so, with a little help from his friends. Payment for his silence.”
Portero sniffed the barrels. “Recently fired.”
Back downstairs, she reported to Colonel Fabio.
“We’re following a lead in the double murder at the
contessa
’s. Tulio was selling what’s possibly the murder weapon used on Vincente Lattaruzzo. A traditional
lupara
.”
“The bloody shirt, the traditional weapon,” he said. “This has all the markings of a blood feud. Something left unaddressed from a long time ago.”
“So it would seem.”
“A peasant’s shirt?” the colonel observed.
“Smacks of the countryside, yes sir. Why they would display the bodies in the
contessa
’s garden remains a mystery. We’re investigating the victims’ backgrounds … and the
contessa
’s.”
“The
contessa
?” The colonel blinked rapidly, caught off guard.
“I know she’s a personal friend, sir, but nonetheless … She needn’t know about it at this point.”
“I appreciate your discretion. Do what you need to do, obviously. And let me know as soon as you find anything, as soon as she’s in the clear.”
Back in her own office, Natalia rested her head in her hands for a moment, drew a long breath and called it a day. Angelina had already clocked out. Natalia needed an early night. Disrupted sleep was taking its toll.
She walked home, her feet sore and heavy, made it upstairs to her door and undid the double locks. She dropped her keys in the foyer, placed placed her weapon in the top drawer of the hall table and shed her clothes on the way to the bedroom, where she flopped into bed and slept.
She came awake as the upstairs neighbor clacked across the floor. Down in the narrow old street that fronted her building a truck transferred trash from a dumpster, winching it aboard. Metal screeched, then boomed. A toilet flushed upstairs, and the night grew quiet again.
She got out of bed, undressed and slipped on one of Pino’s t-shirts and her pajama bottoms to step out onto the balcony. High clouds faintly haloed the moon. Not one star. She wished Pino were with her.
In some ways, things had improved. The latest garbage strike had been over for months. Neapolitans no longer wore gas masks in the street, and Rome had finally dispatched the militia to help clean up the aftermath and deposit large metal containers around the poorer neighborhoods to accommodate the huge backlog of refuse. But collection continued day and night, often ruining sleep.
Another victory for the Camorra gangsters. They’dcaused the problem in the first place when their Don Aldo Gambini ordered his garbage collectors not to pick up any more trash after the city proposed purchase of an incinerator to cut hauling costs. When Gambini very conveniently was shot dead, Bianca Strozzi’s company won the removal contract from the city—the venture Lola ran for Bianca’s gang.
A scrawny dog moved into the shadows across the courtyard. Then the burning arc of a cigarette tossed aside. Someone there walked quickly away farther into the alley. Afraid suddenly, she retreated back inside, carefully barring the louvered shutters.
Had she ruffled some
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