by Donna Leon
‘What did he do when you said you couldn’t remember?’
‘Heck, he wanted me to go up there with him, drive all the way up there with him some Saturday and look for the place, see if I could remember where it was we parked the car.’
‘And did you go back with him.’
‘Not on your life. I’ve got three kids, a wife, and, if I’m lucky, one day off a week. I’m not going to go spend one of them running around the mountains, looking for some place I once had a picnic in. Besides, that was the time when Danny was in the hospital, and I wasn’t about to leave my wife alone all day, just to go on some wild-goose chase.’
‘How did he behave when you told him?’
‘Well, I could see that he was pretty angry, but I just told him I couldn’t do it, and he seemed to quiet down. He stopped asking me to go with him, but I think he went up there, looking, by himself, or maybe with Doctor Peters.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, he went and talked to a friend of mine who works in the dental clinic. He’s the X-ray technician, and he told me that, one Friday afternoon, Foster went into the lab and asked him to lend him his tab for the weekend.’
‘His what?’
‘His tab. At least that’s what he calls it. You know, that little card thing they all have to wear, the people who work with X-rays. You get overexposed, it turns a different colour. I don’t know what you call it.’ Brunetti nodded his head, knowing what it was. ‘Well, this guy lent it to him for the weekend, and he had it back to him on Monday morning, in time for work. Good as his word.’
‘And the sensor?’
‘Wasn’t changed at all. Same colour it was when he gave it to him.’
‘Why do you think that was why he borrowed it?’
‘You didn’t know him, did you?’ he asked Brunetti, who shook his head. ‘He was a funny guy. Real serious. Real serious about his work, well, about just about everything. I think he was religious, too, but not like those crazy born-agains. When he decided that something was right, there was no stopping him from doing it. And he had it in his head that …’ He paused here. ‘I’m not sure what he had in his head, but he wanted to find out where it was Danny touched that stuff he’s allergic to.’
‘Is that what it was? An allergy?’
‘That’s what they told me when he came down from Germany. His arm’s an awful mess, but the doctors up there said it would heal up pretty good. Might take a year or so, but the scar’ll go away, or at least it’ll fade a fair bit.’
Ambrogiani spoke for the first time. ‘Did they tell you what he was allergic to?’
‘No, they couldn’t find out. Said it was probably sap from some sort of tree that grows up in those mountains. They did all sorts of tests on the boy.’ Here his face softened and his eyes lit up with real pride. ‘Never complained, not once, that boy. Got the makings of a real man. I’m not half proud of him.’
‘But they didn’t tell you what he was allergic to?’ the Carabiniere repeated.
‘Nope. And then the dang fools went and lost Danny’s medical records, leastwise the records from Germany.’
At this, Brunetti and Ambrogiani exchanged a look, and Brunetti asked, ‘Do you know if Foster ever found the place?’
‘Couldn’t say. He got killed two weeks after he borrowed that sensor thing, and I never had occasion to talk to him again. So I don’t know. I’m sorry that happened to him. He was an OK guy, and I’m sorry his doctor friend had to take it so hard. I didn’t know they were that …’ Here he failed to find the right word, so he stopped.
‘Is that what people here believe, that Doctor Peters gave herself that overdose because of Foster?’
This time, it was the soldier who was surprised. ‘Doesn’t make sense any other way, does it? She was a doctor, wasn’t she? If anybody knew how much of that stuff to put in a needle, it should have been her.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Brunetti said, feeling his disloyalty even as he spoke.
‘Funny thing, though,’ began the American. ‘If I hadn’t ’ve been so bothered with worryin’ about Danny, I maybe would have thought of something to tell Foster. Might have helped him find the place he was looking for.’
‘What’s that?’ Brunetti asked, making the question casual.
‘While we were up there that day, I saw two of the trucks that come here, saw them turning into a dirt road off down the hill a ways from where we were. I just didn’t think of it when Foster asked me. Wish I had. Could have saved him a lot of trouble. All he’d have to do is go ask Mr Gamberetto where his trucks were that day, and he would have found the place.’
‘Mr Gamberetto?’ Brunetti inquired politely.
‘Yeah, he’s the fellow’s got the haulage contract from the post. His trucks pull in here twice a week and take away the restricted stuff. You know, the medical waste from the hospital, and from the dental clinic. I think he picks up stuff from the motor pool, too. The oil they take out of the transformers and from the oil changes they do. The trucks don’t have his name on them or anything, but they have this red stripe down the side, and that’s the kind of trucks I saw up by Lake Barcis that day.’ He paused and grew reflective. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it that day, when Foster asked me. But Danny had just gone up to Germany, and I guess I wasn’t thinking all that clear.’
‘You work in the contracting office, don’t you, Sergeant?’ Ambrogiani asked.
If the American found it strange that Ambrogiani would know this, he gave no sign of it. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Do you ever have occasion to speak to this Mr Gamberetto?’
‘Nope. Never laid eyes on the man. I just know his name from seeing the contract in the office.’
‘Doesn’t he come in to sign the contract?’ Ambrogiani asked.
‘No, one of the officers goes out to his office. I imagine he gets a free lunch out of him, then comes back with the signed contract, and we process it.’ Brunetti didn’t have to look at Ambrogiani to know he was thinking that someone might be getting a lot more out of Mr Gamberetto than a free lunch.
‘Is that the only contract Mr Gamberetto has?’
‘No, sir. He’s got the contract to build the new hospital. That was supposed to start a while back, but then we had the Gulf War, and all building projects got put on hold. But it looks like things are beginning to loosen up, and I imagine work will begin in the spring, soon as the ground is ready to be broke open.’
‘Is it a big contract?’ Brunetti asked. ‘Certainly sounds like it, a hospital.’
‘I don’t remember the exact figures, it’s been so long since we handled the contract, but I think it was something in the neighbourhood of ten million dollars. But that was three years ago, when it was signed. I imagine it’s increased a fair bit since then.’
‘Yes, I should certainly think so,’ Brunetti said. Suddenly they all turned towards the sound of wild barking from the house. As they watched, the front door opened a crack and a large black dog came catapulting from the door and down the steps. Barking dementedly, she ran directly to Kayman and jumped up at him, licking at his face. She turned to the two men, checked them over, then ran off a few metres to squat on the grass and relieve herself. That done, she was back at Kayman, leaping up, aiming her nose at his.
‘Get down, Kitty Kat,’ he said, no firmness at all in his voice. She soared up again and made contact. ‘Get down now, girl. Stop that.’ She ignored him, ran off, the better to gain momentum for her next leap, turned, and raced back. ‘Bad dog,’ Kayman said in a tone that meant the opposite. He pushed the dog down with both hands and latched them in the fur at her neck, where he began to scratch her roughly. ‘Sorry. I wanted to get away without her. Once she sees me get into the car, she goes crazy if she can’t come along. Loves the car.’
‘I don’t want to keep you, Sergeant. You’ve been very helpful,’ Brunetti said, putting out his hand. The dog followed his hand with her eyes, tongue lolling to the left of her mouth.
Kayman freed one hand and shook Brunetti’s hand, but he did it awkwardly, still bent down over the dog. He shook Ambrogiani’s, then, when they turned away and went back towards the gate, he opened the door to the car and allowed the dog to leap in ahead of him.
As the car backed towards them, Brunetti stood by the metal gate. He waved to Sergeant Kayman to indicate that he would see to closing the gate and did just that. The American waited long enough to see that the gate was closed, put his car in gear, and drove off slowly. The last they saw was the head of the dog, poking out of the rear window of the car, nose prodding at the wind.
20
As the head of the dog disappeared up the narrow road, Ambrogiani turned to Brunetti and asked, ‘Well?’
Brunetti began to walk towards the parked car. When they were both inside and the doors closed, Ambrogiani sat behind the wheel without starting the engine.
‘Big job, building a hospital,’ Brunetti finally said. ‘Big job for Signor Gamberetto.’
‘Very,’ the other agreed.
‘The name mean anything to you?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Ambrogiani said, then added, ‘he’s someone we’ve been told to stay away from.’
When Brunetti gave him a puzzled glance, Ambrogiani explained, ‘Well, it’s never been given as a specific order – nothing like that ever is – but the word has filtered down that Signor Gamberetto and his affairs are not to be examined too closely.’
‘Or else?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh,’ Ambrogiani said with a bitter chuckle, ‘it’s never as crude as that. It is simply suggested, and anyone who has any sense understands what it means.’
‘And stays away from Signor Gamberetto?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Interesting,’ Brunetti offered.
‘Very.’
‘So you treat him like he’s just a simple businessman with dealings in the area?’
Ambrogiani nodded.
‘And by Lake Barcis, it seems.’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’
‘You think you could find out about him?’
‘Well, I think I could try.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that, if he’s a medium-sized fish, then I’ll be able to find out about him. But if he’s a big fish, then there won’t be much to find out. Or what I do find out will tell me that he’s no more than a respectable local businessman, well-connected politically. And that will merely confirm what we know already, that he is a man with Friends in High Places.’
‘Mafia?’
Ambrogiani shrugged one shoulder by way of answer.
‘Even up here?’
‘Why not? They’ve got to go somewhere. All they do is kill one another down South. How many murders have there been so far this year? Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty? So they’ve started moving up here.’
‘The government?’
Ambrogiani gave the special snort of disgust that Italians reserve for use only when speaking of their government. ‘Who can tell them apart anymore, Mafia and government?’
This vision was more severe than Brunetti’s, but perhaps the nationwide network of the Carabinieri had access to more information than he did.
‘What about you?’ Ambrogiani asked.
‘I can make some phone calls when I get back. Call in some favours.’ He didn’t tell Ambrogiani of the one call he thought would be most successful, one that had nothing to do with calling in a favour; quite the opposite.
They sat there for a long time. Finally, Ambrogiani reached forward and opened the glove compartment. He began to rifle though the stack of maps that lay inside until he finally pulled one out. ‘Have you got time?’ he asked.
‘Yes. How long will it take to get there?’
Instead of answering, Ambrogiani pulled open a map and spread it open in front of him, braced against the steering wheel. With a thick finger, he roved around the map until he found what he was looking for. ‘Here it is. Lake Barcis.’ His finger snaked to the right on the lake and then cut sharply down in a straight line leading to Pordenone. ‘An hour and a half. Maybe two. Most of it is autostrada. What do you say?’
By way of answer, Brunetti reached behind him and pulled his seat belt across his chest, snapping it into place between the seats.
Two hours later, they were driving up the snake-like road that led to Lake Barcis, one of at least twenty cars caught behind an immense gravel-filled truck that crawled along at about ten kilometres an hour, forcing Ambrogiani constantly to switch gears from second to first as they stopped on curves to allow the truck to manoeuvre its way around them. Every so often, a car swept past them on the left, then cut narrowly between two of the cars crammed behind the truck, forcing an opening with its front end and horn. Occasionally, a car pulled sharply to the right and sought a parking space on the too-narrow shoulder. The driver would pop out, pull open the bonnet, and sometimes make the mistake of opening the radiator.
Brunetti wanted to suggest that they pull over, since they were in no hurry, had no destination, but, even though he wasn’t really a driver, he knew enough not to suggest what to do. After about twenty minutes of this, the truck pulled off the road into a long parking area, no doubt designed for just this purpose, and the cars shot past, some waving their thanks, most not bothering. Ten minutes later, they pulled into the small town of Barcis, and Ambrogiani turned off to the left and down a sharp driveway that led to the lake.
Ambrogiani hauled himself out of the car, obviously rattled by the drive. ‘Let’s have something to drink,’ he said, walking towards a café that filled an enormous veranda behind one of the buildings beside the lake. He pulled out a chair at one of the umbrella-shaded tables and dropped into it. Before them stretched the lake, water eerily blue, mountains shooting up behind it. A waiter came and took their order, returned a few minutes later with two coffees and two glasses of mineral water.
After Brunetti had finished his coffee and taken a sip of the water, he asked, ‘Well?’
Ambrogiani smiled. ‘Pretty lake, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, beautiful. What are we, tourists?’
‘I suppose so. Pity we can’t stay here and look at the lake all day, isn’t it?’
It unsettled Brunetti not to know if the other man was serious or not. But, yes it would be nice. He found himself hoping that the two young Americans had been able to spend the weekend up here, regardless of the reason for their trip. If they were in love, this would be a beautiful place to be. Himself his own editor, he corrected that to read, if they were in love, anywhere would be beautiful.
Brunetti summoned the waiter and paid him. They had decided on the ride up not to call attention to themselves by asking questions about trucks with red stripes turning onto side roads. They were tourists, even if they were in tie and jacket, and tourists certainly had the right to pull off at a picnic site on the way down and look at the mountains as the traffic sped past them. Because he didn’t know how long they would be, he stopped at the counter inside and asked if the barman could make a few sandwiches to take with them. The best he could do was prosciutto and cheese. Ambrogiani nodded, told him to make four and to put in a bottle of red wine and two plastic cups.
With this in hand, they returned to Ambrogiani’s car and drove down the hill, back in the direction of Pordenone. About two kilometres from Barcis, they saw a broad parking area on the right-hand side and pulled into it. Ambrogiani swung the car around so that they could see the road, not the mountains, killed the engine and said, ‘Here we are.’
‘It wasn’t my idea of how I’d spend my Saturday,’ Brunetti admitted.
‘I’ve had worse,’ Ambrogiani said and then talked about a time when he had been assigned to look for a kidnap victim in Aspromonte and had spent three days up in the hills, lying on the ground, watching through a pair of field glasses as people went into and out of a shepherd’s hut.
‘What happened?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, we g
ot them.’ And then he laughed. ‘But it was someone else, not the one we were looking for. This girl’s family had never called us, never reported it. They were willing to pay the ransom, only we got there before they had the chance to pay a lira.’
‘What happened to the other one? The one you were looking for?’
‘They killed him. We found him a week after we found the girl. They’d cut his throat. The smell led us to him. And the birds.’
‘Why did they do it?’
‘Probably because we found the girl. We warned her family, when we took her back to them, not to say anything. But someone called the papers, and it was all over the front pages. You know, “Joyous Liberation”, complete with pictures of her with her mother, eating her first dish of pasta in two months. They must have read about it and figured we were looking for them, getting close. So they killed him.’
‘Why not just let him go?’ Then, because it had not been said, Brunetti asked, ‘How old was he?’
‘Twelve.’ There followed a long pause, then Ambrogiani answered the first question. ‘Letting him go would be bad business. It would let other people know that if we got close enough, there might be a chance for them. By killing him, they made the message clear: we mean business, and if you don’t pay, we kill.’
Ambrogiani opened the bottle of wine and poured some into the plastic cups. They each ate a sandwich, then, because there was nothing else to do, another. During all of this, Brunetti had kept himself from looking at his watch, knowing that it would be later, the longer he waited. Unable to resist, he looked. Noon. The hours stretched ahead. He rolled down the window, looked over at the mountains for a long time. When he glanced back, Ambrogiani was asleep, head canted to the left, resting against the window. Brunetti watched the traffic going down and coming up the steep gradient. All of the cars looked pretty much the same to him, different only in colour and, if they were moving slowly enough, in number plate.