Dressed for Death

by Donna Leon

  Brunetti had seen enough anger in his life and in his career to know that this was the real thing. Saying nothing, he left the office and went down into Campo San Luca. People pushed past him, rushing home for lunch.

  28

  Brunetti’s decision to return to the Questura was an exercise in the power of the will over that of the flesh. He was closer to home than to the Questura, and he wanted only to go home, shower, and think about things other than the inescapable consequences of what had just happened. Unsummoned, he had violently burst into the office of one of the most powerful men in the city, terrorizing his secretary and making it clear, by his explanation of his behavior, that he assumed Santomauro’s guilty involvement with Malfatti and the manipulation of the accounts of the Lega. All the goodwill he had, however spuriously, accumulated with Patta during the last weeks would be as nothing in the face of a protest from a man of Santomauro’s stature.

  And now, with Ravanello dead, all hope of a case against Santomauro had vanished, for the only person who might implicate Santomauro was Malfatti; his guilt in Ravanello’s death would render worthless any accusation he might make against Santomauro. It would come, Brunetti realized, to a choice between Malfatti’s and Santomauro’s stories; he needed neither wit nor prescience to know which was stronger.

  When Brunetti got to the Questura, he found it in tumult. Three uniformed officers huddled together in the lobby, and the people in the long line at the Ufficio Stranieri crowded together in a babble of different languages. “They brought him in, sir,” one of the guards said when he saw Brunetti.

  “Who?” he asked, not daring to hope.

  “Malfatti.”

  “How?”

  “The men waiting at his mother’s. He showed up at the door about a half hour ago, and they got him even before she could let him in.”

  “Was there any trouble?”

  “One of the men who was there said that he tried to run when he saw them, but as soon as he realized there were four of them, he just gave up and went along quietly.”

  “Four?”

  “Yes, sir. Vianello called and told us to send more men. They were just arriving when Malfatti showed up. They didn’t even have time to get inside, just got there and found him at the door.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Vianello had him put in a cell.”

  “I’ll go see him.”

  When Brunetti went into the cell, Malfatti recognized him immediately as the man who had thrown him down the steps, but he greeted Brunetti with no particular hostility.

  Brunetti pulled a chair away from the wall and sat facing Malfatti, who was lying on the cot, back propped up against the wall. He was a short, stocky man with thick brown hair, features so regular as to make him almost immediately forgettable. He looked like an accountant, not a killer.

  “Well?” Brunetti began.

  “Well what?” Malfatti’s voice was completely matter of fact. “Well, do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?” Brunetti asked imperturbably, just the way the cops on television did.

  “What’s the hard way?”

  “That you say you know nothing about any of this.”

  “About what?” Malfatti asked.

  Brunetti pressed his lips together and glanced up at the window for a moment, then back at Malfatti.

  “What’s the easy way?” Malfatti asked after a long moment.

  “That you tell me what happened.” Before Malfatti said a word, Brunetti explained, “Not about the rents. That’s not important now, and it will all come out. But about the murders. All of them. All four.”

  Malfatti shifted minimally on the mattress, and Brunetti had the impression that he was going to question that number, but he did not.

  “He’s a respected man,” Brunetti continued, not bothering to explain whom he meant. “It’s going to come down to his word against yours unless you’ve got something to link him to you and to the murders.” He paused here, but Malfatti said nothing. “You’ve got a long criminal record,” Brunetti continued. “Attempted murder and now murder.” Before Malfatti could say a word, Brunetti continued in an entirely conversational voice, “There’s not going to be any trouble proving that you killed Ravanello.” In answer to Malfatti’s surprised glance, he explained, “The old woman saw you.” Malfatti looked away.

  “And judges hate people who kill police, especially policewomen. So I don’t see it any other way but as a conviction. The judges are bound to ask me what I think,” he said, pausing to be sure he had Malfatti’s complete attention. “When they do, I’ll suggest Porto Azzurro.”

  All criminals knew the name of this prison, the worst in Italy and one from which no one had ever escaped; even a man as hardened as Malfatti could not disguise his shock. Brunetti waited a moment, but when Malfatti said nothing, he added, “They say no one knows which are bigger, the cats or the rats.” Again, he paused.

  “And if I do talk to you?” Malfatti finally asked.

  “Then I’ll suggest to the judges that they take that into consideration.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.” Brunetti hated people who killed police too.

  Malfatti took only a moment to decide. “Va bene,” he said, “but I want it on the record that I volunteered this. I want it put down that, as soon as you arrested me, I was willing to give you everything.”

  Brunetti got to his feet. “I’ll get a secretary,” he said and went to the door of the cell. He signaled to a young man who sat at a desk at the end of the hall, who came into the room with a tape recorder and a pad.

  When they were ready, Brunetti said, “Please give your name, date of birth, and present residence.”

  “Malfatti, Pietro. Twenty-eight September, 1962. Castello 2316.”

  It went on like this for an hour, Malfatti’s voice never displaying any greater involvement than it did when answering that original question, although the story that emerged was one of mounting horror.

  The original idea could have been Ravanello’s or Santomauro’s; Malfatti had never cared enough to ask. They had gotten his name from the men on Via Cappuccina and had contacted him to ask if he would be willing to make the collections for them every month in return for a percentage of the profit. He had never been in doubt as to whether he would accept their offer, only about the percentage he would get. They had settled on twelve, although it had taken Malfatti almost an hour of hard bargaining to get them to go that high.

  It was his hope of increasing his own take that had led Malfatti to suggest that some of the legitimate earnings of the Lega be paid out in checks to people whose names he would supply. Brunetti cut off Malfatti’s grotesque pride in this scheme by asking, “When did Mascari find out about this?”

  “Three weeks ago. He went to Ravanello and told him something was wrong with the accounts. He had no idea that Ravanello knew about it, thought that it was Santomauro. Fool,” Malfatti spat in contempt. “If he had wanted, he could have gotten a third out of them, an easy third.” He looked back and forth between Brunetti and the secretary, asking them to share his disgust.

  “And then?” Brunetti asked, keeping his own disgust to himself.

  “Santomauro and Ravanello came to my place about a week before it happened. They wanted me to get rid of him, but I knew what they were like, so I told them I wouldn’t do it unless they helped. I’m no fool.” Again, he looked at the other men for approval. “You know what it’s like with people like that. You do a job for them, you’re never free of them. The only way to be safe is to make them get their hands dirty, too.”

  “Is that what you told them?” Brunetti asked.

  “In a way. I told them I’d do it but that they’d have to help me set it up.”

  “How did they do that?”

  “They had Crespo call him and say he’d heard he was looking for information about the apartments the Lega rented and that he lived in one of them. Mascari had the list, so he could check. When Mascari
told him he was leaving for Sicily that evening— we knew that—Crespo told him he had other information to give him, that he could stop on the way to the airport.”

  “And?”

  “He agreed.”

  “Was Crespo there?”

  “Oh, no,” Malfatti said with a snort of contempt. “He was a delicate little bastard. Didn’t want to have anything to do with it. So he took off—probably went and hit the pavements early. And we waited for Mascari. He showed up at about seven.”

  “What happened?”

  “I let him in. He thought I was Crespo, didn’t have any reason not to. I told him to sit down and offered him a drink, but he said he had a plane to catch and was in a hurry. I asked him again if he wanted a drink, and when he said no, I said I wanted one and walked behind him to the table where the drinks were. That’s when I did it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I hit him.”

  “With what?”

  “An iron bar. The same one I had today. It’s very good.”

  “How many times did you hit him?”

  “Only once. I didn’t want to get blood on Crespo’s furniture. And I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted them to do that.”

  “And did they?”

  “I don’t know. That is, I don’t know which one of them did it. They were in the bedroom. I called them and we carried him into the bathroom. He was still alive then; I heard him groan.”

  “Why the bathroom?”

  Malfatti’s glance showed that he had begun to suspect he’d overestimated Brunetti’s intelligence. “The blood.” There was a long pause, and when Brunetti didn’t say anything, Malfatti continued, “We lay him down on the floor, and then I went back and got the iron bar. Santomauro had been saying that we needed to destroy his face—we’d planned it all, put it together like a puzzle, said he had to be unrecognizable so there would be enough time to change the records in the bank. Anyway, he kept saying that we had to destroy his face, so I gave him the bar and told him to do it himself. Then I went back into the living room and had a cigarette. When I came back, it was done.”

  “He was dead?”

  Malfatti shrugged.

  “Ravanello and Santomauro killed him?”

  “I’d already done my share.”

  “Then what?”

  “We stripped him and shaved his legs. Jesus, what a job that was.”

  “Yes, I imagine so,” Brunetti permitted himself. “And then what?”

  “We put the makeup on him.” Malfatti paused a moment in thought. “No, that’s wrong. They did that before they hit his face. One of them said it would be easier. Then we put his clothes back on him and carried him out, like he was drunk. But we didn’t have to bother; no one saw us. Ravanello and I took him down to Santomauro’s car and drove him out to the field. I knew about what goes on out there, and I thought it would be a good place to dump him.”

  “What about the clothes? Where did you change them?”

  “When we got there, out in Marghera. We pulled him out of the backseat and stripped him. Then we put those clothes on him, that red dress and everything, and I carried him over to a place at the other side of the field and left him there. I stuffed him under a bush so it would take longer for him to be found.” Malfatti paused for a moment, summoning memory. “One of his shoes came off and Ravanello stuffed it into my pocket. I dropped it beside him. They were Ravanello’s idea, the shoes, I think.”

  “What did you do with his clothes?”

  “I stopped on the way back to Crespo’s place and put them in a garbage can. It was all right; there was no blood on them. We were very careful. We wrapped his head in a plastic bag.”

  The young officer coughed but turned his head away so the sound wouldn’t register on the tape.

  “And afterwards?” Brunetti asked.

  “We went back to the apartment. Santomauro had cleaned it up. That was the last I heard of them until the night you came out to Mestre.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “Not mine. Ravanello called me and explained things to me. I think they hoped the investigation would stop if we could get rid of you.” Malfatti sighed here. “I tried to tell them things don’t work that way, that it wouldn’t make any difference, killing you, but they didn’t want to listen. They insisted that I help them.”

  “So you agreed?”

  Malfatti nodded.

  “You have to give an answer, Signor Malfatti, or the tape doesn’t register it,” Brunetti explained coolly.

  “Yes, I agreed.”

  “What made you change your mind and agree to do it?”

  “They paid enough.”

  Because the young officer was there, Brunetti didn’t ask how much his life was worth. It would come out in time.

  “Did you drive the car that tried to push us off the road?”

  “Yes.” Malfatti paused for a long time and then added, “You know, I don’t think I would have done it if I’d known there was a woman in the car with you. It’s bad luck to kill a woman. She was my first.” It hit him then and he looked up. “See, it is bad luck, isn’t it?”

  “Probably more for the woman than for you, Signor Malfatti,” Brunetti answered, but before Malfatti could react, Brunetti asked, “What about Crespo? Did you kill him?”

  “No, I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was in the car with Ravanello. We left Santomauro with Crespo. When we got back there, it was finished.”

  “What did Santomauro tell you?”

  “Nothing. Not about that. He just told us it had happened, and then he told me to stay out of sight, if possible to get out of Venice. I was going to, but now I guess I won’t get the chance to.”

  “And Ravanello?”

  “I went there this morning, after you came to my place.” Malfatti stopped here, and Brunetti wondered what lie he was preparing.

  “What happened?” Brunetti prodded him.

  “I told him that the police were after me. I said I needed money to get out of the city and go somewhere. But he panicked. He started shouting that I had ruined everything. That’s when he pulled the knife.”

  Brunetti had seen the knife. A switchblade seemed a strange thing for a banker to carry on his person, but he said nothing.

  “He came at me with it. He was completely wild. We fought over it, and I think he fell on it.” He did, Brunetti remarked to himself. Twice. In the chest.

  “And then?”

  “Then I went to my mother’s. That’s where your men found me.” Malfatti stopped speaking, and the only sound in the room was the soft humming of the tape recorder.

  “What happened to the money?” Brunetti asked.

  “What?” Malfatti said, surprised by this sudden change of pace.

  “The money. That was made from all the rents.”

  “I spent mine, spent it every month. But it was nothing compared to what they got.”

  “How much was it you got?”

  “Between nine and ten million.”

  “Do you know what they did with theirs?”

  Malfatti paused for a moment, as though he had never speculated about this. “I’d guess Santomauro spent a large part of his on boys. Ravanello, I don’t know. He looked like one of those people who invest money.” Malfatti’s tone turned this into an obscenity.

  “Have you anything else to say about this or your involvement with these men?”

  “Only that the idea to kill Mascari was theirs, not mine. I went along with it, but it was their idea. I didn’t have much to lose if anyone found out about the rents, so I didn’t see any reason to kill him.” It was clear that, had he believed he had anything to lose, he would have felt no hesitation in killing Mascari, but Brunetti said nothing.

  “That’s all,” Malfatti said.

  Brunetti rose and signaled to the young officer to come with him. “I’ll have this typed up and you can sign it.”

  “Take your time,” Malfatti said and laughed. “I’m not going an
ywhere.”

  29

  An hour later, Brunetti took three copies of the typed statement down to Malfatti, who signed them without bothering to read the statement over. “Don’t you want to know what you’re signing?” Brunetti asked him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Malfatti replied, still not bothering to raise himself from the cot. He waved the pen Brunetti had given him at the paper. “Besides, there’s no reason to think anyone’s going to believe that.”

  Since the same thing had occurred to Brunetti, he didn’t argue the point.

  “What happens now?” Malfatti asked.

  “There’ll be a hearing within the next few days, and the magistrate will decide if you should be offered the chance of bail.”

  “Will he ask your opinion?”

  “Probably.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll argue against it.”

  Malfatti moved his hand along the barrel of the pen and then reversed his hold on it and offered it to Brunetti.

  “Will someone tell my mother?” Malfatti asked.

  “I’ll see that someone calls her.”

  Malfatti shrugged his acknowledgment, moved himself lower on the pillow, and closed his eyes.

  Brunetti left the cell and went up two flights of stairs to Signorina Elettra’s alcove. Today she was dressed in a shade of red seldom seen beyond the confines of the Vatican, and Brunetti found it strident and out of tune with his mood. She smiled, and his mood lightened a bit.

  “Is he in?” Brunetti asked.

  “He got here about an hour ago, but he’s on the phone and he told me not to interrupt him, not for anything.”

  Brunetti preferred it this way, didn’t want to be with Patta while he read Malfatti’s confession. He placed a copy of the confession on her desk and said, “Would you give him this as soon as he’s finished with the call?”

  “Malfatti?” she asked, looking at it with open curiosity.

  “Yes.”

  “Where will you be?”

  When she asked that, Brunetti suddenly realized that he was completely displaced, had no idea what time it was. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was five, but the hour meant nothing to him. He didn’t feel hungry, only thirsty and miserably tired. He began to consider how Patta was likely to respond; that increased his thirst.