Fatal Remedies

by Donna Leon

  ‘Did your brother-in-law have any enemies?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘I find that strange,’ Brunetti said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bonaventura demanded, leaning forward in his chair, putting himself into Brunetti’s space.

  ‘Please, don’t be offended, Signor Bonaventura.’ Brunetti put a placating palm between them. ‘I mean that Dottor Mitri was a businessman, and a successful one. I’m certain that in the course of his years he had to make decisions that displeased people, angered them.’

  ‘People don’t kill one another because of a bad business deal,’ Bonaventura insisted.

  Brunetti, who knew how often they did, said nothing for a while. Then: ‘Can you think of anyone he might have had difficulty with?’

  ‘No,’ Bonaventura replied instantly and, after a longer period of reflection, added, ‘No one.’

  ‘I see. Are you familiar with your brother-in-law’s business? Do you work with him?’

  ‘No. I manage our factory in Castelfranco Veneto. Interfar. It’s mine, but it’s registered under my sister’s name.’ He saw that Brunetti was not satisfied with this and added, ‘For tax reasons.’

  Brunetti nodded in what he thought was a very priestlike way. He sometimes believed that a person in Italy could be excused any horror, any enormity, simply by saying that it was done for tax reasons. Wipe out your family, shoot your dog, burn down the neighbour’s house: so long as you said you did it for tax reasons, no judge, no jury, would convict. ‘Did Dottor Mitri have any involvement in the factory?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘What kind of factory is it, if I might ask?’

  Bonaventura didn’t seem to find the question strange. ‘Of course you might ask. Pharmaceuticals. Aspirin, insulin, many homeopathic products.’

  ‘And are you a pharmacist, to oversee the operations?’

  Bonaventura hesitated before answering, ‘No, not at all. I’m just a businessman. I add up the columns of figures, listen to the scientists who prepare the formulas and try to figure out strategies for successful marketing.’

  ‘You don’t need a background in pharmacology?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of Mitri, who had been a chemist.

  ‘No. It’s just a question of making managerial decisions. The product is irrelevant: shoes, ships, sealing wax.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘Your brother-in-law was a chemist, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, originally, at the start of his career.’

  ‘But no longer?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t worked as one for years.’

  ‘What did he do, then, at his factories?’ Brunetti wondered if Mitri had also been a believer in managerial strategies.

  Bonaventura got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry to be abrupt with you, Commissario, but I’ve got things to do here and these are questions I really can’t answer. I think it would be better if you contacted the directors of Paolo’s factories. I truly don’t know anything about his businesses or how he ran them. I’m sorry.’

  Brunetti stood. It made sense. The fact that Mitri had once been a chemist didn’t necessitate his taking a part in the day-to-day running of the factories. In the multifaceted world of business, a man no longer needed to know anything about what a business did in order to run it. Just think of Patta, he told himself, to see how true that was. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said, again extending his hand towards Bonaventura. Bonaventura shook it and led him back to the entrance hall, where they parted, leaving Brunetti to walk to the Questura through the back streets of Cannaregio, to him the most beautiful neighbourhood in the, city. Which meant, he supposed, in the world.

  By the time he got back, most of the staff had gone to lunch, so he contented himself with leaving a note on Signorina Elettra’s desk, asking her to see what she could find out about Mitri’s brother-in-law, Alessandro Bonaventura. As he straightened up and took the liberty of slipping open her top drawer to replace the pencil he’d used, he thought of how much he’d like to leave a message on her e-mail. He had no idea how it worked or what he’d have to do to send her something, but still he wanted to do it, if only to show her that he was not the technological Neanderthaler she seemed to consider him. After all, Vianello had learned; he saw no reason why he couldn’t become computer literate. He had a degree in law; that surely must count for something.

  He looked at the computer: silent, toasters stilled and screen dark. How difficult could it be? But, perhaps, the saving thought came to him, perhaps, like Mitri, he was more suited to be the man behind the scenes than the one who understood the day-to-day workings of the machines. With that salve fresh on his conscience, he went down to the bar at the bridge to have a tramezzino and a glass of wine, and wait for the others to get back from lunch.

  * * * *

  That happened closer to four than to three, but Brunetti had long since abandoned any illusions about the level of industry on the part of the people with whom he worked, so it didn’t trouble him at all to sit quietly in his office for more than an hour, reading that day’s paper, even checking his horoscope, curious about the blonde stranger he was going to meet and happy to learn that he ‘was soon going to have some good news’. He could use some.

  His intercom rang shortly after four and he picked it up, knowing it would be Patta, interested that things could have happened so quickly, curious to learn what the Vice-Questore wanted.

  ‘Could you come down to my office, Commissario?’ his superior asked and Brunetti replied politely that he was already on his way.

  Signorina Elettra’s jacket hung on the back of her chair, and a list of names and what appeared to be numbers stood in neat lines on her computer screen, but there was no sign of her. He knocked on Patta’s door and entered at the sound of his voice.

  And found Signorina Elettra seated in front of Patta’s desk, legs primly pressed together, a notebook resting on her lap, pencil raised as Patta’s last word hung in the air. Because it was only the shouted ‘Avanti’ telling Brunetti to enter, she did not take note of it.

  Patta barely acknowledged Brunetti’s arrival, giving him the slightest of nods, and returned his attention to his dictation. ‘And tell them that I do not want... No, make that read, “I will not tolerate ...” I think that has a more forceful sound, don’t you, Signorina?’

  ‘Absolutely, Vice-Questore,’ she said, eyes on what she was writing.

  ‘I will not tolerate’, Patta went on, ‘the continued use of police boats and vehicles in unauthorized trips. If a member of the staff...’ Here he broke off to add in a more casual style, ‘Would you look and see what ranks are entitled to use the boats and cars and add it, Signorina?’

  ‘Of course, Vice-Questore.’

  ‘Requires the use of police transportation, he is to ... excuse me, Signorina?’ Patta broke off in response to the confusion on her face as she glanced up at those last words.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better to say “that person”, sir,’ she suggested, ‘to avoid the sound of sexual prejudice, as if only men had the authority to requisition boats.’ She lowered her head and turned a page of her notebook.

  ‘Of course, of course, if you think it wisest,’ Patta agreed and continued, ’... that person is to fill out the required forms and see that they are approved by the appropriate authority.’ His whole manner changed and his face became less imperious, as though he’d told his chin to stop looking like Mussolini’s. ‘If you’d be so kind, check and see who it is that’s supposed to authorize it and add their name to the memo, would you?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ she said and wrote a few more words. She looked up and smiled. ‘Will that be all?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Patta said. As Brunetti watched, he actually leaned forward in his chair as she rose, as if the sympathetic force of his motion could help her to her feet.

  At the door, she turned and smiled at them both. ‘I’ll have that first thing tomorrow morning, sir,’ she said.
/>   ‘Not before?’ Patta asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’ve got the budget for our office’s expenses for next month to calculate.’ Her smile blended regret with sternness.

  ‘Of course.’

  Without another word, she left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Brunetti,’ Patta said with no preamble, ‘what’s been happening with the Mitri case?’

  ‘I spoke to his brother-in-law today,’ Brunetti began, curious to see if Patta had heard about that yet. The blankness in his face suggested that he had not, so Brunetti continued, ‘I’ve also learned that there have been three other murders in the last few years using what might have been a plastic-coated wire of some sort, perhaps electrical. And all the victims seem to have been taken from behind, the way Mitri was.’

  ‘What sort of crimes were they?’ Patta asked. ‘Like this?’

  ‘No, sir. It would seem that they were executions, probably Mafia.’

  ‘Then’, Patta said, dismissing the possibility out of hand, ‘they can have nothing to do with this. This is the work of a lunatic, some sort of fanatic driven to murder by...’ Here Patta either lost the thread of his argument or recalled to whom he was speaking, for he suddenly stopped.

  ‘I’d like to pursue the possibility that there is some connection between the murders, sir,’ Brunetti said, just as if Patta had not spoken.

  ‘Where did they happen?’

  ‘One in Palermo, one in Reggio Calabria and the most recent in Padova.’

  ‘Ah.’ Patta sighed audibly. After a moment he explained, ‘If they are related, that would make it likely it’s not ours, wouldn’t it? That it’s really the police in those other cities who should be looking at our crime as part of the series?’

  ‘That’s entirely possible, sir.’ Brunetti did not bother to mention that the same would hold true for the Venetian police: that they also should look into the series.

  ‘Well, then alert them, all of them, to what’s happened and let me know when you get an answer from them.’

  Brunetti had to admit the genius of the solution. The investigation of the crime had been farmed out, tossed back to the police of those other cities, so Patta had done the officially correct, the bureaucratically efficient, thing: he had passed it on to the next desk and in so doing had fulfilled his own duty or, more important, would be perceived to have done, should his decision ever be questioned. Brunetti got to his feet. ‘Of course, sir. I’ll contact them immediately.’

  Patta bowed his head in polite dismissal. It was seldom that Brunetti, a headstrong, difficult man, would prove so amenable to reason.

  * * * *

  21

  When Brunetti emerged from Patta’s office, he found Signorina Elettra just slipping into her jacket. Her purse and a shopping bag stood side by side on the top of her desk, and her coat lay beside them. ‘And the budget?’ Brunetti asked when he saw her.

  ‘That,’ she said with what sounded like a snort of amusement. ‘It’s the same every month. Takes me five minutes to print it out. All I do is change the name of the month.’

  ‘Doesn’t anyone ever question it?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of what the fresh flowers alone must cost them.

  ‘The Vice-Questore did, a while ago,’ she said, reaching for her coat.

  Brunetti picked it up and held it for her as she slipped it on. Neither of them saw fit to remark that the office in which she worked would be open for another three hours. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He wanted to know why we were spending more money every month on flowers than on office supplies.’

  ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘I apologized and told him I must have exchanged the amounts in each column and that it wouldn’t happen again.’

  She reached down and picked up her handbag, slipping the long leather strap over her shoulder.

  ‘And?’ Brunetti couldn’t stop himself from asking.

  ‘It hasn’t happened again. That’s the first thing I do when I make out the report every month. I switch the amounts spent on flowers and office supplies. He’s much happier now.’ She picked up the shopping bag - Bottega Veneta, he observed - and started towards the door of her office.

  ‘Signorina,’ he began, awkward about asking. ‘Those names?’

  ‘In the morning, Commissario. It’s being taken care of.’ So saying, she pointed to her computer with her chin, one hand occupied with the shopping bag and the other busy pushing back a lock of hair.

  ‘But it’s off,’ Brunetti said.

  She closed her eyes for the barest fraction of a second, but he saw her do it. ‘Believe me, Commissario. In the morning.’ His acquiescence was not immediate, so she added, ‘Remember: I’m your eyes and nose, Commissario. Anything that can be found will be here tomorrow first thing.’

  Though the door to the office was open, Brunetti went to stand by it, as if to see her safely through. ’Arrivederci, Signorina. E grazie.’

  With a smile she was gone.

  * * * *

  For a while, Brunetti stood there and wondered what he should do with the rest of the day. He lacked Signorina Elettra’s offhand courage, so he went back up to his office. On his desk he found a scribbled note saying that Conte Orazio Falier wanted him to get in touch.

  ‘It’s Guido,’ he said when he heard the Count answer with his name.

  ‘I’m glad you called. Can we talk?’

  ‘Is it about Paola?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘No, it’s about that other matter you asked me to look into. I spoke to someone with whom I do a certain amount of banking, and he said a large amount of cash flowed into and out of one of Mitri’s foreign accounts until about a year ago.’ Before Brunetti could respond, the Count said, ‘He spoke of a total of five million francs.’

  ‘Francs?’ Brunetti enquired. ‘As in Switzerland?’

  ‘Not France,’ the Count said in a tone that put the French franc on a par with the Latvian lat.

  Brunetti knew better than to ask where or how his father-in-law had obtained this information and was wise enough to trust it absolutely. ‘Is this the only account?’

  ‘It’s the only one I’ve found out about,’ the Count answered. ‘But I’ve asked a few more people and might have something else to tell you later in the week.’

  ‘Did he say where this money came from?’

  ‘He said the deposits came in from a number of countries. Wait a minute and I’ll tell you; I’ve got it written down somewhere.’ The phone was put down and Brunetti pulled a piece of paper towards him. He heard footsteps walk away, then return. ‘Here it is,’ the Count began. ‘Nigeria, Egypt, Kenya, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and the Ivory Coast.’ There was a long pause after which he said, ‘I tried fitting various things into it: drugs, weapons, women. But there’s always something wrong, one of them doesn’t fit.’

  ‘They’re too poor, for one thing,’ Brunetti mused.

  ‘Exactly. But that’s where the money came from. There were other amounts, much smaller, from European countries and some from Brazil, but the bulk of it came from those places. That is, it always came in from those countries in local currencies, then some was sent back there, but in dollars, always dollars.’

  ‘But to the same countries?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much went back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Before Brunetti could ask, the Count said, ‘That’s all the information he was willing to give. It’s all he owed me.’

  Brunetti understood. There would be nothing more; no sense going on about it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘What do you suppose it means?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’ He decided to ask the Count for more help. ‘And there’s someone I have to find.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A man called Palmieri, a professional killer, or as close to one as is possible.’

  ‘What has this got to do with Paola?’ the Count wanted to know.

  �
��He might have had something to do with Mitri’s murder.’

  ‘Palmieri?’

  ‘Yes, Ruggiero. I think he’s originally from Portogruaro. But the last we heard was that he might be in Padova. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I know a lot of people, Guido. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  For a moment Brunetti wanted to tell the Count to be careful, but a man didn’t get to be where he was without having made caution the habit of a lifetime.

  ‘I spoke to Paola yesterday,’ Falier said. ‘She seems fine.’