This was, Sachs’s chauffeur, Ercole Benelli, had told her, considered the nicest part of the city. The Vomero was dotted with Art Nouveau architecture and modern-style offices and residences, while mom-and-pop stores and vintage-clothing shops were found next to the chicest designer retail locations that Italy had to offer…and Italy, of course, had chic down cold.
As they’d begun the drive, after a persuasive argument by Rhyme, Ercole had been sullen. His “impossibile” eventually became “forse”—perhaps—and then what must have been the Italian equivalent of a grudging, “Oh, all right.” Eventually his easy spirits had returned and as they careened through Neapolitan traffic, Ercole seemed resigned to the risk of being pummeled by Spiro, and he turned tour guide, pelting Sachs with sound bites of the history of the city, present and distant past.
GPS finally got them to Natalia’s apartment, a classic Mediterranean-style structure on a small residential street, Via Carlo Cattaneo. They parked and Ercole led the way. Some children stared at them, enthralled, their attention seized by his uniform and the NYPD gold shield on her hip. Some boys tried to catch a glimpse under their jackets, hoping, she guessed, to spot a weapon. Others were more cautious.
Sachs was startled as a teenager sped past them at a run.
Ercole laughed. “Bene, bene…It’s all right. In certain other neighborhoods in Naples, he would be going to warn his father or brother there is a cop present. Here, though, he is simply running. To a game or to a girl…or because he wants to be star runner someday. There is crime in Naples, yes. No doubt. Pickpocketing, purse snatching, auto theft. You must be careful in some places. The Camorra are in the suburbs of Secondigliano and Scampia and in the Spanish Quarters in the city. The African gangs closer to Pozzuoli. But here, no.”
Natalia Garelli’s building was in need of paint and plastering on the outside but through spotless glass it appeared the lobby was starkly elegant. Ercole hit the intercom button. A moment later a woman’s voice clattered through the tinny speaker. The front door unlocked and they entered the lobby, dominated by an abstract painting, a swirl. A steel sculpture hung on another wall. An angel? Or a dove? Or purely fanciful? They took the elevator to the top floor, the fifth. There was a single apartment on this story.
Ercole lifted an eyebrow and kissed his fingertips, apparently meaning this was quite the posh place.
He rang the bell on a pale wooden frame and a moment later a very slim and very beautiful woman in her early twenties opened the door.
Ercole introduced himself and Sachs, and the woman nodded, smiling in a friendly way. “You are a policewoman from America, yes. Because Garry is American. Of course. Come in, please. Sono Natalia.”
Hands were shaken.
From the girl’s jewelry and clothes—leather pants, a silk blouse and enviable boots—Sachs deduced family money. The apartment too. Surely her parents had arranged for the place: student housing a lot better than most kids dwelled in. This place could have been the setting for a Prada fashion shoot. The walls were done in lavender stucco and hung with huge, boldly colored oil paintings, in two styles: abstract and nudes of both sexes. The couches and chairs were dark-green leather and brushed steel. A glass bar dominated one wall and a huge high-def TV the other. Silent music videos jerked across the screen.
“Lovely place.”
“Thank you,” she said. “My father works in design in Milan. Furniture and accessories. I am studying the subject here and will go into the profession too, when I graduate. Or fashion. Please, tell me, how is Garry?” Her English was perfect with a faint icing of accent.
She answered, “As well as can be expected.”
Suitably ambiguous.
Ercole said, “We are looking into follow-up questions on the case. We will take little of your time.”
Natalia said, “It was terrible, what happened! And, I will tell you, it had to be someone not with our group. They are all simply the nicest people. Someone from the next building—there are Serbians living there.” Her nose creased in distaste. “Some men, three or four of them. I have often thought they might be up to trouble. I told your colleagues about them.”
Ercole said, deferentially, “The residents of that building—everyone—were interviewed and dismissed as suspects. The police found the men you are speaking of were out of town that night.”
“Still. Someone from the school? It is impossible.”
“But someone might have tagged along with a student. You know what I mean.”
“I do, yes. I should have been more careful, I suppose.” Her beautiful lips, dark purple, tightened.
“Do you know Frieda well?”
“Not well. Only for a few weeks, when classes began. My boyfriend and I met her in European Political History.”
“Did you see her with anyone at the party you didn’t recognize?”
“It was crowded. I saw her with Garry and some girlfriends of ours. But I didn’t pay much attention.”
“If you don’t mind, tell us again what you remember about that evening,” Sachs asked.
“My boyfriend and I went to dinner around eight and came back here to set out wine and some snacks and dolce. The people started arriving about ten for the party.” She shrugged, touched her hair, patting it into place. Sachs, as a former fashion model, knew beauty and Natalia was one of the most stunning women she’d ever seen. That would help immeasurably in a career in the industry, even if she chose simply to design, not model. The way of the world.
Beauty rules.
“Garry was in one of the first groups to arrive. I do not know him so good. I spoke to him. I like to hang out with the Americans and English and Canadians to improve my language. More and more people arrived and about midnight I saw Frieda and Garry together. They were very close. You know, the way people are when they meet and are flirting. Touching, kissing, whispering close. I saw them go up to the roof, carrying their drinks. They were both drunk.” She shook her head. “Sometime later I saw Garry downstairs. He was, how do you say, groggy. Stumbling. I remember thinking I hope he doesn’t drive home. He was not looking good. He left before I could say anything.
“The party went on and by about four, everyone had left. Dev, my boyfriend, and I were cleaning up. And we heard cries from the roof. I went up and found Frieda beside the wall separating the roofs. She had fallen. She was in a terrible state. Her skirt torn, scrapes on her legs. I helped her up. She was hysterical. She knew she’d been attacked but could remember nothing. Dev called the police and they were here soon.”
“Can you show us where that was?”
“Yes.”
Natalia took them to spring-loaded stairs that led to a trapdoor in the ceiling of the back hall. Even the stairs—a wire-and-steel contraption, which pulled down from overhead—were stylish. The climb would be a bit risqué in a skirt, Sachs thought. Like the hostess, though, she was in pants—jeans in her case, not thousand-dollar leather. On the roof was a wooden deck and several ten-foot-high sheds that may have been holding water tanks or tools. A sitting area, about twelve by twelve feet, contained metal chairs and tables, on which sat ashtrays.