by Donna Leon
“And?”
“She knows nothing.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Patta said, then gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, Brunetti.” When he was seated, Patta asked, “Have you heard about this?”
It was not necessary to ask him what “this” was. “Yes,” Brunetti answered. “What happened?”
“Someone shot him on the train from Turin last night. Twice, at very close range. Body shots. One must have severed an artery, there was so much blood.” If Patta said “must have,” that meant the autopsy hadn’t been done yet, and he was only guessing.
“Where were you last night?” Patta asked, almost as if he wanted to eliminate Brunetti as a suspect before going any farther.
“We went to dinner at a friend’s house.”
“I was told they tried to reach you at home.”
“I was at a friend’s house,” Brunetti repeated.
“Why don’t you have an answering machine?”
“I have two children.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That if I had an answering machine, I’d spend my time listening to messages from their friends.” Or that he’d spend it listening to his children’s many prevarications as to their lateness or absence. It also meant that Brunetti saw it as his children’s responsibility to take messages for their parents, but he didn’t want to spend his time with Patta discussing the issue.
“They had to call me,” Patta said, making no attempt to disguise his indignation.
Brunetti suspected that he was meant to apologize. He said nothing.
“I went to the train station. The railway police had made a mess of it, of course.” Patta looked down at his desk and pushed a few photos toward Brunetti.
Brunetti leaned forward, picked up the photos, and glanced at them while Patta continued to catalog the many incompetencies of the railway police. The first photo was taken from the door of the train compartment and showed the body of a man lying on his back between the facing seats. The angle made it impossible to see more than the back of the man’s head, but the dark red splotches on the upturned dome of his paunch were unmistakable. The next photo showed the body from the other side of the compartment and must have been taken through the window of the carriage. In this one, Brunetti could see that the man’s eyes were closed and that one of his hands was closed tightly around a pen. The other photos revealed little more, though they had been taken from inside the carriage. The man appeared to be sleeping; death had wiped his face free of all expression and had left what seemed to be the sleep of the just.
“Was he robbed?” Brunetti asked, cutting into Patta’s continuing complaints.
“What?”
“Was he robbed?”
“It seems not. His wallet was still in his pocket, and his briefcase, as you can see, is still on the seat opposite where he was sitting.”
“Mafia?” Brunetti asked, the way one did, the way one had to.
Patta shrugged. “He’s a lawyer,” he answered, leaving it to Brunetti to infer whether this made him more or less likely to merit execution by the Mafia.
“Wife?” Brunetti asked, expressing with the question the fact that he was both an Italian and a married man.
“Not likely. She’s the secretary of the Lion’s Club,” Patta answered, and Brunetti, caught by the absurdity of his remark, involuntarily guffawed, but when he caught the look Patta shot him, he turned the noise into a cough, which turned into a real cough that left him red-faced and teary-eyed.
When he had recovered enough to breathe normally, Brunetti asked, “Business partners? Anything there?”
“I don’t know.” Patta tapped a finger on his desk, calling for Brunetti’s attention. “I’ve been looking over the caseload, and it seems like you’re the one who’s got the least to do.” One of the things that most endeared Patta to Brunetti was his unfailing felicity of phrase. “I’d like to assign this case to you, but before I do, I want to be certain that you’ll handle it in the proper fashion.”
This meant, Brunetti was certain, that Patta wanted to be sure that he would defer to the social status implied by the secretaryship of the Lion’s Club. Because he knew he wouldn’t be there if Patta had not already decided to give him the case, Brunetti chose to ignore the admonition implicit in these words and, instead, asked, “What about the people on the train?”
His talk with the mayor must have impressed upon Patta that speed was more important here than making a point with Brunetti, for he answered directly, “The railway police got the names and addresses of all the people who were on the train when it pulled into the station.” Brunetti raised his chin in an inquisitive gesture, and Patta went on, “One or two of them said they saw suspicious people on the train. It’s all in the file,” he said, tapping at a manila folder that lay in front of him.
“What judge has been assigned to this?” Brunetti asked. Once he knew this, Brunetti would know how much he’d have to defer to the Lion’s Club.
“Vantuno,” Patta answered, naming a woman about Brunetti’s own age, one with whom he had worked successfully in the past. A Sicilian, as was Patta, Judge Vantuno knew that there were complexities and nuances in the society of Venice that would be forever elusive to her, but she was confident enough in the local commissari to give them great liberty in the way they chose to conduct an investigation.
Brunetti nodded, unwilling to reveal even this minimal satisfaction to Patta.
“But I’ll expect a daily report from you,” Patta went on. “Trevisan was an important man. I’ve already had a call from the mayor’s office about it, and I make it no secret that he wants this settled as quickly as possible.”
“Did he have any suggestions?” Brunetti asked.
Accustomed to impertinence from his inferior, Patta sat back in his chair and peered at Brunetti for a moment before asking, “About what?” putting sharp emphasis on the second word to imply his disapproval of the question.
“About anything Trevisan might have been involved in,” Brunetti replied blandly. He was quite serious about this. The fact that a man was mayor did not exclude him from knowledge of the dirty secrets of his friends; in fact, the opposite was more likely to be the case.
“That is not a question I thought fit to ask the mayor,” Patta answered.
“Then maybe I will,” Brunetti said evenly.
“Brunetti, don’t go stirring up trouble with this.”
“I think that’s already been done,” Brunetti said, dropping the photos back into the file. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Patta paused a moment before he answered. “No, not now.” He pushed the file toward Brunetti. “You can have this. And don’t forget that I want a daily report.” When Brunetti made no acknowledgment of this, Patta added, “Or give it to Lieutenant Scarpa,” and kept his eyes on Brunetti long enough to see what response he’d give to the name of Patta’s universally despised assistant.
“Certainly, sir,” Brunetti said neutrally, took the folder, and got to his feet. “Where have they taken Trevisan?”
“To the Ospedale Civile. I imagine the autopsy will be done this morning. And remember, he was a friend of the mayor’s.”
“Of course, sir,” Brunetti said and left the office.
6
Signorina Elettra looked up from her magazine when Brunetti emerged from Patta’s office and asked, “Allora?”
“Trevisan. And I’m to hurry because he was a friend of the mayor’s.”
“The wife’s a tiger,” Signorina Elettra said, then added by way of encouragement, “she’ll give you trouble.”
“Is there anyone in this city you don’t know?” Brunetti asked.
“This time I don’t actually know her. But she used to be one of my sister’s patients.”
“Barbara,” Brunetti said involuntarily, remembering where it was he had met her sister. “The doctor.”
“The very same, Commissario,” she said with a s
mile of real delight. “I wondered how long it would take you to remember.”
When Signorina Elettra had first arrived, he remembered, he had thought her last name familiar; Zorzi wasn’t at all a common name, but he would never have thought to associate the quickwitted, radiant—the other adjectives that presented themselves all suggested light and visibility—Elettra with the calm, understated doctor who numbered among her patients his father-in-law and now, it seemed, Signora Trevisan.
“Used to be?” Brunetti asked, leaving the question of Elettra’s family to be considered at another time.
“Yes, until about a year ago. She and her daughter were both patients. But one day she went into Barbara’s office and made some sort of a scene, demanding that Barbara tell her what she was treating her daughter for.”
Brunetti listened but asked nothing.
“The daughter was only fourteen, but when Barbara refused to tell her, Signora Trevisan insisted that Barbara had given her an abortion or sent her to the hospital to have one. She shouted at her, and in the end, she threw a magazine.”
“At your sister?”
“Yes.”
“What did she do?” Brunetti asked.
“Who?”
“Your sister.”
“She told her to get out of the office. Finally, after some more shouting, she did.”
“And then what?”
“The next day, Barbara sent her a registered letter with her medical records and told her to find another doctor.”
“And the daughter?”
“She never went back, either. But Barbara’s seen her on the street, and the girl’s explained that her mother has forbidden her to go back. Her mother took her to some private clinic.”
“What was the daughter there for?” Brunetti asked.
He watched Signorina Elettra weigh this one. She quickly came to the conclusion that Brunetti would find out about it anyway, and said, “It was a venereal infection.”
“What sort?”
“I don’t remember. You’ll have to ask my sister.”
“Or Signora Trevisan.”
Elettra’s response was immediate, and angry. “If she learned what it was, she never learned it from Barbara.”
Brunetti believed her. “So the daughter’s about fifteen now?”
Elettra nodded. “Yes, she must be.”
Brunetti thought for a moment. The law was vague here—when was it not? A doctor did not have to divulge information about a patient’s health, but surely a doctor was at liberty to provide information about how a patient had behaved, and why, especially in a situation where it was not the patient’s own health that was at issue. Better that he speak to the doctor herself than ask Elettra to do it for him. “Is your sister’s ambulatorio still over near San Bamaba?”
“Yes. She’ll be there this afternoon. Do you want me to tell her to expect you?”
“Does that mean you won’t tell her I’m coming unless I ask you to, Signorina?”
She glanced down at the keys of her computer, apparently found the answer she wanted there, and glanced back at Brunetti. “It doesn’t make any difference if she hears this from you or from me, Commissario. She hasn’t done anything wrong. So, no, I won’t tell her.”
Moved by curiosity, he asked, “And if it did make a difference? If she had done something wrong?”
“If it would help her, I’d warn her. Of course.”
“Even if it meant betraying a police secret, Signorina?” he asked, then smiled to show that he was only joking, although he wasn’t.
She glanced at him, uncomprehending. “Do you think police secrets would matter at all if something concerned my family?”
Chastened, he answered, “No, Signorina, I don’t suppose they would.”
Signorina Elettra smiled, glad that she had again assisted the commissario toward understanding.
“Do you know anything else about the wife?” He corrected himself. “Widow?”
“No, not personally. I’ve read about her in the paper, of course. She’s always involved in Worthy Causes,” she said, making the capitals audible. “You know, like collecting food to send to Somalia, that then gets stolen and sent to Albania and sold. Or organizing those gala concerts at La Fenice that never seem to do anything but cover expenses and give the organizers a chance to get dressed up and show off to their friends. I’m surprised that you don’t know who she is.”
“I have a vague memory of having seen the name, but no more than that. What about the husband?”
“International law, I think, and very good at it. I think I might have read something about a deal with Poland or Czechoslovakia—one of those places where they eat potatoes and dress badly—but I can’t remember which.”
“What sort of deal?”
She shook her head, unable to remember.
“Could you find out?”
“If I went down to the Gazzettino offices and had a look, I suppose I could.”
“Do you have anything to do for the Vice-Questore?”
“I’ll just make his lunch reservation, and then I’ll go down to the Gazzettino. Would you like me to look for anything else?”
“Yes, about the wife, as well. Who is it who writes the society stuff these days?”
“Pitteri, I think.”
“Well, speak to him and see if there’s anything he can tell you about either of them, the sort of thing he can’t publish.”
“Which is always the sort of thing people most want to read.”
“So it seems,” Brunetti said.
“Anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Signorina. Is Vianello here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
“When he comes in, would you send him up to me, please?”
“Certainly,” she answered and went back to her magazine. Brunetti glanced down to see what article she was reading—shoulder pads—and then went back up to his own office.
The file, as was always the case at the beginning of an investigation, contained little more than names and dates. Carlo Trevisan had been born in Trento fifty years ago, had been educated at the University of Padua, from which he took a degree in law and after which he established himself as a lawyer in Venice. Nineteen years ago, he had married Franca Lotto, with whom he had had two children, a daughter, Francesca, now fifteen, and a son, Claudio, seventeen.
Avvocato Trevisan had never interested himself in criminal law and had himself never been involved with the police in any way. Nor had he ever come under the scrutiny of the Guardia di Finanza, which suggested either a miracle or that the avvocato’s tax returns were always in order, this in itself another kind of miracle. The file contained the names of the people employed in Trevisan’s law office and a copy of his passport application.
“Lavata con Perlana,” Brunetti said aloud as he lay the papers down on his desk, repeating the slogan of a liquid detergent that promised to get everything, anything, cleaner than clean. Who could be cleaner than Carlo Trevisan? More interesting, who could have put two bullets in his gut and not bothered to take his wallet?
Brunetti pulled out his bottom drawer with the toe of his right foot, leaned back in his chair, and folded his feet on the open drawer. Whoever did it must have done it between Padua and Mestre; no one would have taken the chance of being caught on the same train when it pulled into the station at Venice. The train wasn’t a local, so Mestre was the only stop between Padua and Venice. It was unlikely that someone getting off the train at Mestre would have drawn any special notice, but it was worth checking at the station. The conductors usually sat in the first compartment, so they would have to be questioned to see what they remembered. Check for the gun, of course; did the bullets match those used in any other crime? Guns were closely controlled, so it might be possible to trace the weapon. Why had Trevisan been in Padua? With whom? The wife, check the wife. Then check the neighbors and friends to see if what she said was true. The daughter—a venereal disease at the age of f
ourteen?
He leaned forward, pulled the drawer all the way out, and reached down for the telephone directory. He flipped it open and found the Z’s. There were two listings for “Zorzi, Barbara, Medico,” one for her home and one for her office. He dialed the office number and got a machine telling him that visiting hours began at four. He dialed the home number and heard the same voice telling him that the dottoressa was “momentaniamente assente” and asking him to leave his name, the reason for his call, and the number at which he could be reached. His call would be returned “appena possibile.”
“Good morning, Dottoressa,” he began after the beep. “This is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I’m calling in regard to the death of Avvocato Carlo Trevisan. I’ve learned that his wife and daughter were—”
“Buon giorno, Commissario,” the doctor’s husky voice broke in. “How may I help you?” Though it had been more than a year since they had last met, she used the “tu” form of address with him, making it clear to both of them by its use that the familiarity established then would be continued.
“Good morning, Dottoressa,” he said. “Do you always monitor your calls?”
“Commissario, I have a woman who has called me every morning for the last three years, telling me I must make a house call. Each morning, she has different symptoms. Yes, I monitor my calls.” Her voice was firm, but there was an undertone of humor.
“I didn’t realize there were that many body parts,” Brunetti said.
“She plays interesting combinations,” Dottoressa Zorzi explained. “How may I help you, Commissario?”
“As I was explaining, I’ve learned that Signora Trevisan and her daughter were formerly patients of yours.” He paused there, waiting to see what the doctor would volunteer. Silence. “You’ve heard about Avvocato Trevisan?”
“Yes.”
“I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to talk to me about them, his wife and daughter.”
“As people or as patients?” she asked, voice calm.
“Whichever you’d feel more comfortable in doing, Dottoressa,” Brunetti answered.
“We could start with the first, and then if it seemed necessary, take up the second.”