Death and Judgment

by Donna Leon

  “No.”

  “And so you were home alone last night?”

  “I’ve already told you that, Commissario.”

  “Ah, yes, so you have.”

  Martucci stood abruptly. “If you have no further questions, I’d like to leave.”

  With a soft wave of his hand, Brunetti said, “Just a few more questions, Signor Martucci.”

  Seeing the look in Brunetti’s eyes, Martucci sat back down.

  “What was the nature of your relationship with Signor Trevisan?”

  “I worked for him.”

  “For him or with him, Avvocato Martucci?”

  “Both, I suppose you could say.” Brunetti prodded him with an inquisitive look and Martucci continued, “First one and then the other.” He looked at Brunetti, but seeing that this was not enough, continued, “I began working for him, but last year we agreed that, at the end of this year, I would become a partner in the firm.”

  “An equal partner?”

  Martucci kept both his voice and his eyes level. “We hadn’t discussed that.”

  Brunetti found this an unusual lapse, especially on the part of lawyers. A lapse or, given that the only other witness to the agreement was dead, something else.

  “And in the event of his death?” Brunetti asked.

  “We didn’t discuss that.”

  “Why?”

  Martucci’s voice hardened. “I think that’s self-evident. People don’t plan to die.”

  “But they do die,” Brunetti remarked.

  Martucci ignored him.

  “And now that Signor Trevisan has died, will you assume the responsibility for the practice?”

  “If Signora Trevisan asks me to, I will.”

  “I see,” Brunetti remarked and then, turning his attention back to Martucci, asked, “So you’ve, in a sense, inherited Signor Trevisan’s clients?”

  Martucci’s attempt to retain his temper was visible. “If those clients wish to retain me as their lawyer, yes.”

  “And do they?”

  “It is still too soon after Signor Trevisan’s death to be able to know that.”

  “And Signor Lotto,” Brunetti said, changing course, “what was his relationship to or involvement in the practice?”

  “He was our accountant and business manager,” Martucci answered.

  “Of both you and Signor Trevisan, when you worked together?”

  “Yes.”

  “And after Signor Trevisan’s death, did Signor Lotto remain as your accountant?”

  “Certainly. He was intimately familiar with the business. He’d worked for Carlo for more than fifteen years.”

  “And were you planning to retain him as your accountant and business manager?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did Signor Lotto have any legal claim to the practice or to part of it?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  This seemed strange to Brunetti, not only because the question was straightforward enough but because Martucci was a lawyer and certainly should have understood it. “Was there any way in which the legal practice was incorporated, and did Signor Lotto own any part of it?” Brunetti asked.

  Martucci thought about this for a while before he answered. “To the best of my knowledge, no, but they might have had some sort of separate agreement between themselves.”

  “What sort of agreement might that have been?”

  “I have no idea. Whatever they decided on.”

  “I see,” Brunetti said. He then asked, voice entirely conversational, “And Signora Trevisan?”

  Martucci’s silence showed that he had been expecting the question. “What about her?”

  “Did she retain any interest in the business?”

  “That would depend upon the stipulations of Carlo’s will.”

  “You didn’t draw it up?”

  “No, he did that himself.”

  “And you have no idea of its contents?”

  “No, of course not. Why should I?”

  “I thought that, as his partner …” Brunetti began and allowed a vague, encompassing flourish of his hands to complete the sentence for him.

  “I was not his partner and would not have been so until the beginning of next year.”

  “Yes, of course,” Brunetti agreed. “I thought that, given your association, you might have had some idea of the contents.”

  “None at all.”

  “I see.” Brunetti got to his feet. “I think that will be all for now, Signor Martucci. I’m very grateful for your cooperation.”

  “That’s all?” Martucci asked as he stood. “I can go?”

  “Of course,” Brunetti said and then, as if in proof of his good faith, went to the door and held it open for the lawyer. After mutual good-byes, the lawyer left the office. Brunetti and Vianello waited a few minutes and then left the building, heading back toward Venice.

  By the time the police launch delivered them to the landing in front of the Questura, Brunetti and Vianello had agreed that, though Martucci had seemed prepared for questions about Signora Trevisan and had responded to them coolly, the questions about her late husband and their partnership had obviously made him nervous. Vianello had worked with Brunetti for so long that he didn’t have to be told to run the usual checks—neighbors, friends, wife—on Martucci’s story to see if there was any confirmation of his presence in his own home the previous night. The autopsy hadn’t been performed yet, and because of the intense heat in the car and its effects upon the body, the exact time of death would be difficult to determine.

  As they were crossing the broad entrance hall of the Questura, Brunetti stopped in his tracks and turned to Vianello. “The gas tank,” he said suddenly.

  “What, sir?” Vianello asked.

  “The gas tank. Have them measure how much gas is left in it, and then find out, if you can, when he last got it filled. That might give us some idea of how long the motor ran. Might help them calculate when he was shot.”

  Vianello nodded. It might not narrow things down much, but if the autopsy failed to give a clear indication of the time of death, it might help. Not that, at this point, there was any compelling need to ascertain the time of death.

  Vianello went off on his errand, and Brunetti went up the steps toward his office. Before he got to the top of the steps, however, he met Signorina Elettra, emerging from the end of the corridor and turning down the steps toward him. “Oh, there you are, Commissario. The Vice-Questore has been asking for you.” Brunetti stopped and gazed up at her as she descended the steps toward him. A long saffron scarf, as light as gossamer, trailed behind her, borne aloft at the level of her shoulders by the streams of hot air that flowed up the staircase. If the Nike of Samothrace had stepped from her pedestal, regained her head, and begun to descend the steps of the Louvre, she would have looked much like this.

  “Hmm?” Brunetti said as she reached him.

  “The Vice-Questore, sir. He said he’d like very much to speak to you.”

  “Like very much to,” Brunetti found himself repeating, impressed by the phrasing of the message. Paola often joked about a Dickens character who predicted the arrival of bad things by announcing that the wind was coming from a certain quarter; Brunetti could never remember which character, or which quarter, but he did know that, when Patta “would like” to talk to him, the wind could be said to be coming from that same quarter.

  “Is he in his office?” Brunetti asked, turning and going back down the stairs beside the young woman.

  “Yes, he is, and he’s spent much of the morning on the phone.” This, too, was often a sign of a looming storm.

  “Avanti,” Vice-Questore Patta called in response to Brunetti’s knock. “Good morning, Brunetti,” he said when his subordinate entered the office. “Have a seat, please. There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.” Three civil remarks from Patta even before he sat down put Brunetti immediately on his guard.

  He crossed the room and
took his usual seat. “Yes, sir?” Brunetti asked, taking his notebook from his pocket, hoping thus to display the seriousness with which he wanted Patta to believe he treated this meeting.

  “I’d like you to tell me what you know about the death of Rino Favero.”

  “Favero, sir?”

  “Yes, an accountant in Padua who was found dead in his garage last week.” Patta waited a length of time he would consider a pregnant pause and added, “A suicide.”

  “Ah, yes, Favero. I was told that he had Carlo Trevisan’s phone number written in his address book.”

  “I’m sure he had many phone numbers written in his address book,” Patta said.

  “Trevisan’s was listed without a name.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “There were some other numbers. We’re trying to check them.”

  “We, Commissario? We?” Patta’s voice was filled with nothing more than polite curiosity. A person less familiar with the Vice-Questore would hear only that, not the implied menace.

  “The police in Padua, that is.”

  “And have you found out what these numbers are?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you investigating Favero’s death?”

  “No, sir,” Brunetti replied honestly.

  “Good.” Patta looked down at his desk and placed a telephone memo to one side, then looked at the paper below it. “And Trevisan? What have you to report there?”

  “There’s been another killing,” Brunetti said.

  “Lotto? Yes, I know. You think they’re related?”

  Brunetti took a long breath before answering. The two men were business partners and were killed in the same way, perhaps with the same weapon, and Patta asked if the crimes were related. “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “I think, then, that you had best devote your time and energies to investigating their deaths and leave this business of Favero to the people in Padua, where it belongs.” Patta moved a second piece of paper to the side of his desk and glanced down at a third.

  “Is there anything else, sir?” Brunetti asked.

  “No, I think that will be all,” Patta said, not bothering to look up.

  Brunetti put the notebook in his pocket, got up, and left the office, unsettled by Patta’s civility. Outside, he stopped at Signorina Elettra’s desk. “You have any idea who he’s been talking to?”

  “No, I don’t, but he’s having lunch at Do Forni,” she said, naming a restaurant once famous for its food, now for its prices.

  “Did you make the reservation for him?”

  “No, I didn’t. In fact, one of those phone calls must have contained a better invitation because he asked me to cancel his own reservation at Corte Sconto,” she said, naming a restaurant of similar cost. Before Brunetti could muster the bravado to ask an employee of the police to compromise her principles, Signorina Elettra suggested, “Perhaps I could call this afternoon and ask if they’ve found the Vice-Questore’s notebook. Since he never carries one, that’s unlikely. But I’m sure they’ll tell me who he was sitting with if I explain that I’d like to call whoever he was with and ask if they found it.”

  “I’d be very grateful,” Brunetti said. He had no idea if this information would be important in any way, but he had, over the years, found it useful to have an idea of what Patta was doing and whom he was seeing, especially during those rare periods when Patta chose to treat him politely.

  20

  An hour after Brunetti returned to his office, he received a phone call from della Corte, at a phone booth in Padua. At least that’s what it sounded like to Brunetti, who at times had difficulty hearing what the other man said, so loud was the noise of horns and traffic that followed his voice down the line.

  “We’ve found the restaurant where he had dinner the night he died,” della Corte said, and Brunetti needed no explanation to know that the pronoun referred to Favero.

  Brunetti jumped over questions of where and how the police had found out and asked the only question that had bearing on the case: “Was he alone?”

  “No,” della Corte said eagerly. “He was with a woman, about ten years younger. Very well dressed and, from what the waiter said, very attractive.”

  “And?” Brunetti insisted, realizing how little help that description would be in recognizing her.

  “One second,” della Corte said. “Here, I’ve got it. She was about thirty-five, blonde hair, cut neither short nor long. Just about Favero’s height.” Remembering the description of Favero on the autopsy report, Brunetti realized that this would make her tall for a woman. “He didn’t hear her say much, but she sounded as expensive as the clothing—at least that’s how he described her.”

  “Where were they?”

  “In a restaurant over near the university”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “None of the people who work there reads the Gazzettino, so they didn’t see Favero’s picture when the story appeared. The waiter didn’t see it until this morning when he went to get his hair cut and found it on a pile of old newspapers. He recognized Favero from the photo and called us. I just spoke to them but haven’t gone over to speak to him yet. I thought you might like to come with me when I do.”

  “When?”

  “It’s a restaurant. Lunch?”

  Brunetti glanced down at his watch. It was twenty to eleven. “It’ll take me half an hour to get to the train station,” he said. “I’ll get the first train leaving after that. Can you meet me?”

  “I’ll be there,” della Corte said and hung up.

  And so he was, waiting on the platform when the train pulled into Padua. Brunetti pushed his way through the crowd of university students who milled around on the platform, trying to push their way up onto the train the instant its doors opened.

  The two men shook hands and left the platform, heading down the stairs that would carry them under the tracks and up out of the station to the police car that stood, motor running and driver in place, at the curb.

  As the car crawled through the gagging traffic, Brunetti asked, “Has anyone from your place been in touch with my boss?”

  “Patta?” della Corte asked, pronouncing the name with a soft explosion of breath that could mean anything. Or nothing.

  “Yes.”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “He’s suggested that I leave the investigation of Favero’s death to you. Of his suicide. I wondered if the suggestion came from the people here.”

  “Could have,” della Corte said.

  “Have you had any more trouble?”

  “No, not really. Everyone’s treating it like it was a suicide. Anything I do is on my own time.”

  “Like this?” Brunetti asked, waving a hand to encompass the car.

  “Yes. I’m still free to eat lunch wherever I please.”

  “And invite a friend from Venice?” asked Brunetti.

  “Exactly,” della Corte agreed just as the car pulled up to the curb in front of the restaurant. The uniformed driver sprang out, opened the door, and held it while the two men got out. “Go and have some lunch, Rinaldi,” della Corte said. “Be back at three.”

  The young man saluted and climbed back into the car.

  Two miniature Norfolk pines in large terra-cotta pots flanked the door to the restaurant, which opened as they drew near. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” a dark-suited man with a long face and basset-hound eyes said as they came inside.

  “Good afternoon,” the captain said. “Della Corte. I called to reserve a table for two.”

  “Your table is ready, if you’d like to come this way.”

  The man paused to pick up two long menus from a desk near the door before leading them into a room so small it held no more than six or seven tables, all but one of which were taken. Through a high arch, Brunetti saw a second room, it too filled with what looked like businessmen. Because the high windows allowed in so little light, both rooms were softly lit from lighting hidden in the oak beams t
hat ran across the ceiling. They walked past a round table covered with antipasti of all types: salami, shellfish, prosciutto, octopus. The man led them to the empty table, held Brunetti’s chair for him, and then placed the menus in front of them. “May I offer you a Prosecco, gentlemen?” he asked.

  Both nodded, and he left them.

  “He the owner?” Brunetti asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he so worried about?”

  “Everyone’s worried when the police come to ask questions,” della Corte said, picking up the menu and turning his attention to it. He held it at arm’s length and read through it, then put it down, saying, “I’m told the duck is very good here.”

  Brunetti studied the menu long enough to see that nothing sounded better. He closed it and set it down beside his plate just as the owner returned with a bottle of Prosecco. He filled the two narrow glasses that stood to the right of their plates and then passed the bottle to a waiter who came up behind him.

  “Have you decided, Capitano?” he asked.

  “I’d like the fettuccine with truffles,” della Corte said. Brunetti nodded to the owner. “And then the duck.” Brunetti nodded again.

  “I suggest the Merlot del Piave,” the owner said. When della Corte nodded, the owner gave the most minimal of bows and backed away from their table.

  Della Corte picked up his glass and sipped at the sparkling wine. Brunetti did the same. Until their first course came, the men talked of much and nothing, della Corte explaining that the recent elections would probably result in a complete upheaval of the police in Padua, at least at the highest levels.

  Brunetti remembered his own poor behavior in the last mayoral election in Venice and said nothing. He had found both candidates unappealing—the philosopher with no government experience proposed by the ex-Communists and the businessman put up by the Lega—and so he had emerged from the voting booth without having been able to vote, something he had never confessed to Paola, who was so happy at the victory of the philosopher that she never bothered to ask him whom he had voted for. Maybe all of these new elections would force things to begin to change. Brunetti doubted it, had been around government and the people who ran it too long to think that any changes would ever be more than cosmetic.