A Few Drops of Blood by Jan Merete Weiss Page B

and said nothing substantive. Nataliashowed him out. She was just returning to her desk when a call came in that Angelina picked up.
    “This is Officer Cavatelli. How can I help you? Just a minute.” She punched the hold button. “A gentleman wants to talk to you.”
    “He have a name?”
    Angelina went back on the line. “May I tell her who is calling? Okay. Hold, please. He doesn’t want to give his name. Sounds like a snitch. Want me to run a trace?”
    “Don’t bother.” Natalia took the phone. “Officer Monte.”
    “It’s about your horsemen,” a voice whispered. “The ones in the garden?”
    “What about them?”
    “You want to find the murder weapon?” He’d lost the whisper. His voice sounded familiar, but Natalia couldn’t place it.
    “You have the gun?”
    “I can tell you where to find it.”
    “Who is this?” Natalia asked.
    He chuckled. “You’re the detective.”
    “I don’t have time for games,” she said. “What is it?”
    Usually a snitch passed information for money or a favor. But without asking for either, the caller told her outright where: a shop.
    The new partners changed into plain clothes. They then left immediately. Natalia had their uniformed driver stop a block from the place so she and Angelina could walk the rest of the way and arrive undetected.
    From somewhere a soccer ball landed at Angelina’s feet. She backstopped it.
    “
Scuzza
,” a boy called and started over to retrieve his ball. Before he could, Angelina lined up on it and kicked it back.
    “Another hidden talent?” Natalia said, as she watched the ball’s flight.
    They continued on. An overheated woman dragged a little boy with red curly hair. “Mama,
voglio fare pipi!
” he screeched, insisting he had to pee that instant.
    In another block, they reached the shop. On a sidewalk table in front, a crystal rose glimmered among rusted forks and spoons, buttons, ribbons and ancient keys. On the tray alongside it were twine, a porcelain teapot and an ornate deck of cards. The display window was likewise crammed with puppets and lamps, paintings, mirrors, small sculptures, dolls.
    Inside, the proprietor berated a French couple for taking his photo without offering payment for the privilege. Natalia recognized him: Ricardo Tulio, small-time junk dealer and Camorra dogsbody. Not the smartest rabbit on the planet but mean enough. Picked up for dealing stolen merchandise three years ago, he was offered a deal but refused to inform. He had served twenty months and was duly rewarded for his loyalty on release and exempted from protection payments. Natalia had interrogated him on more than one occasion, but he seemed not to recognize her out of uniform.
    “Fifty euros,” he said, standing too close. His large silver crucifix glinted from its bed of dark chest hair.
    “Fifty euros?” Natalia put the rose down.
    “Okay, forty.”
    “I’ll have to think about it. Perhaps I’ll come by tomorrow.”
    “I’m closed tomorrow,” he said, getting irritated.
    “Wednesday, then.”
    “I may be here. Maybe not.”
    Angelina, behind him, nodded at the glass counter. Ona black velvet cloth rested a small double-barreled shotgun. Natalia stepped closer to admire it.
    “Nice, huh?” he said. “You don’t come across too many of these. A real antique. This one is handmade. See where it’s carved along the barrels? Compact. Easy to carry hidden.”
    “Yes.”
    The short barrels would make the shot go wide. Like the wounds on the two men.
    “You know weapons?” he said.
    “Wherever did you get this?”
    “It would be unprofessional to say.”
    “I’m afraid I’m going to take this off your hands.” She flipped open her ID.
    “Fuck. You looked familiar. I shoulda guessed. How about I give you the rose and I keep the gun? A hundred euros I paid for it, for Christ’s sake.”
    “How about I bring you in for dealing in stolen goods? You know the seller?”
    “Nah. A young stud.”
    “I’ll need a