by Donna Leon
‘Vottá á petrella, e tirá á manella,’ Sergio said, looking up from the glass he was drying.
‘What’s that, Neapolitan?’ asked a surprised Brunetti.
‘Yes,’ Sergio answered, and translated: ‘Throw the stone, then hide the hand.’
Brunetti laughed out loud, then said, ‘I don’t know why one of these new political parties doesn’t take that as its motto. It’s perfect: you do it, then you hide the evidence that you did it. Wonderful.’ He continued to laugh, something in the honesty of the phrase having touched him with delight.
He sensed motion on his left, then heard the men’s feet as they pushed themselves out of the benches. He turned the page, allowing his attention to be caught by the news of the farewell party given at Giacinto Gallina for a third-grade teacher who was leaving after teaching forty years in the same school.
‘Good morning, Commissario,’ Alvise said in a small voice from behind him.
‘Morning, Alvise,’ Brunetti said, tearing his eyes away from the photo of the party and turning to greet the officer.
Scarpa, as if to emphasize the equality resulting from their superior rank, limited himself to a curt nod, which Brunetti returned before turning his attention back to the party. The children had brought flowers and home-baked cookies.
When the two were gone, Brunetti folded closed the paper and asked, ‘They come in here often?’
‘Couple of times a week, I’d say.’
‘Always like that?’ Brunetti asked, gesturing towards the two men walking side by side back towards the Questura.
‘Like it’s their first date, you mean?’ Sergio asked, turning to place the glass carefully upside down on the counter behind him.
‘Something like that.’
‘Been that way for about six months. In the beginning, the Lieutenant was sort of stand-offish and made poor Alvise work hard to please him.’ Sergio picked up another glass, held it up to the light to check for spots, and began to wipe it dry. ‘Poor fool, couldn’t see what Scarpa was doing.’ Then he interjected, conversationally, ‘Real bastard, that one is.’
Brunetti pushed his cup closer to the barman, who took it and placed it in the sink.
‘You have any idea what they talk about?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I don’t think it matters. Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘All Scarpa wants is power. He wants poor Alvise to jump when he says “frog” and smile whenever he says something he thinks is funny.’
‘Why?’
Sergio’s shrug was eloquent. ‘As I said, because he’s a bastard. And because he needs someone to push around and someone who will treat him like a big shot important Lieutenant, not like the rest of you, who have the sense to treat him like the nasty little shit he is.’
At no time in this conversation did it occur to Brunetti that he was inciting a civilian to speak badly of a member of the forces of order. If truth be told, he thought Scarpa a nasty little shit, too, so the civilian was merely reinforcing the received wisdom of the forces of order themselves.
Changing the subject, Brunetti asked, ‘Anyone call me yesterday?’
Sergio shook his head. ‘Only person who called here yesterday was my wife, telling me that if I didn’t get home by ten, there’d be trouble, and my accountant, telling me I was already in trouble.’
‘With?’
‘With the health inspector.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t have a bathroom for handicapped people. I mean people with different abilities.’ He rinsed the cup and saucer and slipped them into the dishwasher behind him.
‘I’ve never seen a handicapped person in here,’ Brunetti said.
‘Neither have I. Neither has the health inspector. Doesn’t change the rule that says I’ve got to have a toilet for them.’
‘Which means?’
‘Handrail. Different seat, button on the wall to make it flush.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Because it will cost me eight thousand Euros to get it changed, that’s why.’
‘That sounds like an awful lot of money.’
‘It includes permissions,’ Sergio said elliptically.
Brunetti chose not to follow that up and said only, ‘I hope you can stay out of trouble.’ He put a Euro on the counter, thanked Sergio, and went back to his office.
14
Griffoni was just coming out of the Questura as Brunetti approached. Seeing her, he gave a friendly wave and quickened his pace. But by the time he reached her, he had seen that something was wrong. ‘What is it?’
‘Patta’s looking for you. He called down and asked where you were. He said he couldn’t find Vianello, so he told me to find you.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘He won’t tell me.’
‘How is he?’
‘Worse than I’ve ever heard him.’
‘Angry?’
‘No, not angry, not really,’ she answered, as if surprised at the realization. ‘Well, sort of, but it’s as if he knows he’s not allowed to be angry. It’s more like he’s frightened.’
Brunetti started towards the door of the Questura, Griffoni falling into step beside him. There was nothing he could think of to ask her. Patta was far more dangerous frightened than angry, and they both knew it. Anger usually rose from other people’s incompetence, while it was only the thought that he might himself be at risk that brought Patta close to fear, and that heightened the risk for anyone else who might be involved.
Inside, they went up the first ramp of steps together, and Brunetti asked, ‘Does he want to see you, too?’
Griffoni shook her head and, with a look of undisguised relief, went to her office, leaving Brunetti to turn towards Patta’s.
There was no sign of Signorina Elettra, probably already at lunch, so Brunetti knocked on the door and went in.
A sober-faced Patta sat at his desk, hands clenched into fists on the desk in front of him. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded.
‘Questioning a witness, sir,’ Brunetti lied. ‘Commissario Griffoni told me you wanted to see me. What is it?’ He balanced concern and urgency in his voice.
‘Sit down, sit down. Don’t stand there gaping at me,’ Patta said.
Brunetti took his place directly in front of the Vice-Questore but said nothing.
‘I’ve had a call,’ Patta began. He glanced at Brunetti, who did his best to produce a look of eager attention, then went on, ‘About that man who was here the other day.’
‘Do you mean Maggior Guarino, sir?’
‘Yes. Guarino. Whatever he called himself.’ Patta’s voice had grown more strident after he said the name, Guarino the source of his anger. ‘Stupid bastard,’ Patta muttered, surprising Brunetti by his unaccustomed use of bad language, but not making it clear whether he was referring to Guarino or the person who had called about him.
Guarino had perhaps not been telling the complete truth, but he was by no means stupid, nor did Brunetti think he was a bastard. But Brunetti made no mention of these judgements and asked, voice level, ‘What’s happened, sir?’
‘He’s got himself killed: that’s what’s happened. Shot in the back of the head,’ Patta said with no diminution of his anger, though it seemed now to be aimed at Guarino for having been killed. Murdered.
Possibilities clamoured for attention, but Brunetti pushed them away, waiting for Patta to explain. He kept the same intent expression on his face and his eyes on Patta. The Vice-Questore raised a fist and slammed it on the surface of his desk. ‘Some captain from the Carabinieri called this morning. He wanted to know if I’d had a visitor last week. He was very cagey, didn’t name the visitor, just asked if I’d had a visit from an official from out of town.’ Petulance replaced anger in his face and voice as Patta said, ‘I told him I have lots of visitors. How did he expect me to remember them all?’
Brunetti had no answer and Patta continued. ‘At first I didn’t know what he was talking abo
ut. But I had a suspicion he meant Guarino. It’s not like I have a lot of visitors, is it?’ Seeing Brunetti’s confusion at this contradiction, Patta deigned to clarify. ‘He was the only person who came last week that I didn’t know. Had to be him.’
The Vice-Questore pushed himself suddenly to his feet, took a step away from his desk, then turned and sat down again. ‘He asked if he could send me a photo.’ Brunetti had no need to feign confusion. ‘Imagine that,’ Patta went on. ‘They’d taken it with a telefonino and he sent it to me. As if he expected me to recognize him from what was left of his face.’
This last phrase stunned Brunetti; it was not until some moments had passed that he was able to ask, ‘And did you?’
‘Yes. Of course. The bullet went in at an angle, so only the chin was damaged. I could still recognize him.’
‘How was he killed?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I just told you,’ Patta said in a loud voice. ‘Weren’t you paying attention? He was shot. In the back of the head. That’s enough to kill most people, wouldn’t you think?’
Brunetti raised a hand. ‘Perhaps I didn’t express myself clearly, sir. Did this man who called tell you anything about the circumstances?’
‘Nothing. All he wanted was for me to say whether I recognized him or not.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I wasn’t sure,’ Patta answered and gave Brunetti a sharp look.
Brunetti bridled the impulse to ask his superior why he had done that.
Patta followed on by saying, ‘I didn’t want to give them anything until I knew more.’ It took Brunetti very little time to translate this from Patta-speak into Italian: it meant that Patta wanted to pass the responsibility on to someone else. Hence this conversation.
‘Did he tell you why he called you?’ Brunetti asked.
‘It seems they knew he had an appointment at the Questura in Venice, so they called and asked to talk to the person in charge to see if he had come here.’ Indeed, Brunetti reflected, even a bullet through a man’s skull could not prevent Patta from that little burst of pride: ‘the person in charge’.
‘When did he call, sir?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Half an hour ago.’ With no attempt to disguise his irritation, Patta added, ‘I’ve been trying to locate you since then. But you weren’t in your office.’ As if to himself, Patta muttered, ‘Questioning a witness.’
Ignoring this, Brunetti asked, ‘When did it happen?’
‘He didn’t say,’ Patta answered vaguely, as if he saw no reason why the question mattered.
By force of will, Brunetti removed all trace of interest from his expression while he allowed his mind to lunge ahead. ‘Did he say where he was calling from?’
‘From there,’ Patta answered in the voice he used for addressing the weak of mind and character. ‘Where they found him.’
‘Ah,’ Brunetti said, ‘so that’s when he sent you the photo.’
‘Very clever, Brunetti,’ Patta snapped. ‘Of course that’s when he sent me the photo.’
‘I see, I see,’ Brunetti said, stalling for time.
‘I’ve called the Lieutenant,’ Patta said, and again Brunetti washed all expression from his face. ‘But he’s in Chioggia and can’t get there until the afternoon.’
Brunetti felt his heart tighten at the thought that Patta wanted to involve Scarpa in this. ‘Excellent idea,’ he said, then allowed a bit of enthusiasm to drain from his voice as he added, ‘I just hope the. .’ He dragged his voice to a stop, then repeated, ‘Excellent idea.’
‘What don’t you like about it, Brunetti?’ Patta demanded.
Brunetti this time plastered confusion across his face and did not answer.
‘Tell me, Brunetti,’ Patta said, his voice slipping towards menace.
‘It’s really a question of rank, sir,’ Brunetti said hesitantly, speaking only to keep the bamboo shoots from being stuck under his fingernails. Before Patta could inquire, he explained. ‘You said the man who called was a captain. My only concern is how it’s going to look if we’re represented by a person of lower rank.’ He studied Patta’s body and saw the first tightening of the muscles.
‘It’s not that I have doubts about the Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘But we’ve had jurisdictional trouble with the Carabinieri before, and sending a person of superior rank would eliminate the possibility of that.’
Patta’s eyes were suddenly hooded with mistrust. ‘Who are you talking about, Brunetti?’
Looking as surprised as he could manage, Brunetti said, ‘Why, you, sir. Of course. You should be the person to represent us, sir. After all, as you said yourself, Vice-Questore, you’re the person in charge here.’ Though this rendered the Questore irrelevant, Brunetti doubted that Patta would notice.
Patta’s glance was fierce, filled with unvoiced suspicions, probably ones that Patta did not realize he felt. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said.
Brunetti shrugged, as if to suggest it would have been only a matter of time before he had done so. Patta bestowed his most serious look on Brunetti, then asked, ‘You think it’s important, then?’
‘That you go, sir?’ asked an alert Brunetti.
‘That someone who outranks a captain should go.’
‘You certainly do, sir, and by a great degree.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about me, Brunetti,’ Patta snapped.
Brunetti made no attempt to disguise his inability to understand and said, fresh-faced, ‘But you have to go, Dottore.’ Brunetti suspected that a case of this nature was bound to gather national attention, but this was not something he wanted Patta to realize.
‘You think this investigation will drag on?’ Patta asked.
Brunetti allowed himself to measure out the tiniest of shrugs. ‘I have no way of knowing that, sir, but these cases sometimes tend to.’ Brunetti, as he spoke, had no idea what he meant by ‘these cases’, but the prospect of sustained effort would suffice to discourage Patta.
Patta leaned forward and put a smile on his face. ‘I think, Brunetti, since you were the person who liaised with him, that you should be the one to represent us.’
Brunetti was trying to find the proper tone of moderate resistance when Patta said, ‘He was killed in Marghera, Brunetti. That’s in our territory, so it’s our jurisdiction. It’s the sort of call a commissario would answer, so it makes complete sense for you to go out there and have a look.’
Brunetti started to protest, but Patta cut him short: ‘Take that Griffoni woman along with you. That way there will be two commissari.’ Patta smiled with grim satisfaction, as though he had just come up with a clever move in chess. Or draughts. ‘I want the two of you to go there and see what you can find out.’
Brunetti got to his feet, doing his best to appear disgruntled and unwilling. ‘All right, Vice-Questore, but I don’t think. .’
‘What you think isn’t important, Commissario. I told you I want the two of you out there. And while you’re there, it’s your duty to show this captain who’s in charge.’
Good sense intervened and prevented Brunetti from overplaying the role of bumbling reluctance: at times even Patta was capable of noticing the obvious. ‘All right,’ he limited himself to saying. All business now, he asked, ‘Where exactly was this man calling from, sir?’
‘He said he was at the petrochemical complex in Marghera. I’ll give you his number, and you can call him and ask where exactly,’ Patta said. He picked up his telefonino, which Brunetti had failed to notice resting just beside his desk calendar. He flipped it open with negligent ease. Patta, of course, had the most recent slim-line model. The Vice-Questore refused to use the BlackBerry he had been issued by the Ministry of the Interior, saying he did not want to become a techno-slave, though Brunetti suspected he rather feared its effect on the line of his jackets.
Patta pressed buttons then suddenly held the phone out to Brunetti, saying nothing. Guarino’s face filled the tiny screen. His deep-set eyes were open, though he was glancing
off to the side as if embarrassed that someone would see him lying like this, so inattentive to life. As Patta had said, the chin was damaged, though destroyed might have been a better word. There was no mistaking the thin face and the greying temples. His hair would never grow grey now, Brunetti found himself thinking, and he would never get to call Signorina Elettra, if that had been his intention.
‘Well?’ Patta asked, and Brunetti almost shouted at him, so unnecessary was the question, so easily recognizable the dead man.
‘I’d say it’s he,’ Brunetti limited himself to saying, flipped the phone closed, and handed it back to Patta. Long moments passed, during which time Brunetti watched Patta wash everything save affability and the selfless desire for cooperation from his face. As soon as Patta began to speak, Brunetti realized that the same transformation had taken place in Patta’s voice. ‘I’ve decided it might be wiser to tell them he was here.’
Like an Olympic relay racer, Brunetti did his best to sprint up to the man in front of him, reach his hand forward while they were both running full tilt, and pluck the stick from him, allowing the other runner to slow down and eventually drop out of the race.
For a moment, Brunetti feared that Patta was going to press the call-back number and pass the phone to him: he would not trust himself if Patta did. Perhaps Patta saw this. Whatever did happen, Patta opened the phone again. He pulled a sheet of paper towards him, wrote down the caller’s number and slid the paper across the desk to Brunetti. ‘I don’t remember his name, but he’s a captain.’
Brunetti took the paper and read it a few times. When it was obvious that the Vice-Questore had nothing further to contribute, Brunetti got up and moved towards the door, saying, ‘I’ll call him.’
‘Good. Keep me posted,’ Patta said, his voice filled with the relief that came from so artfully having passed it all to Brunetti.
Upstairs, he dialled the number. After only two rings, a man’s voice answered, ‘Sì?’
‘I’m returning your call to Vice-Questore Patta,’ Brunetti said neutrally, having decided to use the weight of Patta’s rank for whatever it was worth. ‘Someone called from this number and spoke to the Vice-Questore, then sent a photo.’ He paused but there was no expression of acknowledgement or curiosity from the other end. ‘Vice-Questore Patta has shown me the photo of what appears to be a dead man, and from what the Vice-Questore has told me, he was killed in our territory,’ Brunetti went on in his most officious voice. ‘The Vice-Questore has tasked me to go out there and then report to him.’