A Venetian Reckoning Part 12

At his sudden motion, she flinched away and looked up at him. 'That's all?' she asked.

'Yes, that's all.'

'No quickie?'

'What?' he asked, lost.

'A quickie. Usually, when the cops pull us in for questioning, that's what we have to do.' Her voice was neutral, non-judgemental, tired.

'No, nothing like that,' he said, moving towards the door.

Behind him, she got to her feet and stuffed one arm, then the other, into the sleeves of her jacket. He held the door open while she left the room and then followed her out into the hall. She turned and locked the door, started down the single flight of steps. She shoved open the front door of the building, turned to the right, and was gone, back in the direction of the bar. Brunetti turned the opposite way and walked to the end of the street, crossed it, and stood under a street tight until, a moment later, della Corte's black car pulled up beside him.

17.

'Well?' della Corte asked as Brunetti slid into the front seat of the car. Brunetti liked the fact that there was no suggestion of a leer in the question.

'She's Brazilian, works for the man who was with her in the bar. She says he's received calls on the phone.'

'And?' della Corte asked, slipping the car into gear and heading slowly back towards the railway station.

'And that's all,' Brunetti answered. 'That's all she told me, but I think we can infer a lot more from that,'

'Such as?'

'Such as she's illegal, has no residence permit, and so doesn't have much of a say in what she does for a living.'

'She might do it because she likes it,' della Corte suggested.

'You ever know a wh.o.r.e who did?' Brunetti asked.

Ignoring the question, della Corte turned a corner and slowed to a stop in front of the train station. He set the brake but left the motor nmning. 'Now what?'

'I think we've got to get the man with her arrested. At least that way we can find out who he is. And maybe talk to the woman again while we've got him.'

'You think sh.e.l.l talk?'

Brunetti shrugged. 'Maybe, if she's not afraid that she'll be sent back to Brazil if she does.' 'How likely is that?' 'Depends on who talks to her.' 'A woman?' della Corte asked. 'Probably be better.' 'You got one?'

'We've got a psychiatrist who does consulting for us every once in a while. I could try to get Mara to talk to her.'

'Mara?' della Corte asked.

'That's what she told me. I'd like to think she was allowed to keep at least that much, her own name.'

'When will you move on the man?'

'As soon as possible.'

'Any idea of how you'll do it?'

'Easiest way is to pick him up the next time he has one of Mara's clients put the money on the bar for him.'

'How long can you keep him on that?'

'Depends on what we find out about him, if he has a record or if there are any warrants out against him.' Brunetti thought for a moment. 'If you're right about the heroin, a couple of hours ought to be enough.'

Della Corte's smile was not pretty. 'I'm right about the heroin.' When Brunetti said nothing, della Corte asked, 'Until then?'

'I'm working on a few things. I want to learn more about Trevisan's family and whatever I can about his practice.'

'Anything in particular?'

'No, not really. Just a couple of things that make me uncomfortable, little things that don't add up.' That was all Brunetti was prepared to say, and so he asked, 'And you?'

'We'll do the same with Favero, but there's an awful lot to check, at least as far as his business is concerned.' Delia Corte paused a moment and men added, 'I had no idea these guys earned so much.'

'Accountants?'

'Yes. Hundreds of millions a year, it seems. And that's just his declared income, so you can imagine how much more he's making under the table.' Brunetti had but to recall some of the names on the list of Favero's clients, and he too could imagine the extent of his earnings, both declared and undeclared.

He opened the door and got out of the car, then came around to della Corte's side. 'I'll send some of our men out here tomorrow night. If he and Mara are working the bar, it ought to be easy to bring them in.'

'Both?' della Corte asked.

'Yes. She might be more willing to talk after she spends a night in a cell'

'I thought you wanted her to talk to a psychiatrist,' della Corte said.

'I do. But I want her to have had a taste of gaol before she does. Fear tends to make people more talkative, particularly women.'

'Cold-hearted b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you?' della Corte asked, not without respect.

Brunetti shrugged. 'She might have information about a murder. The more scared and confused she is, the more likely she is to tell us what she knows.'

Della Corte smiled and released the brake. 'For a minute, I thought you were going to start telling me about the wh.o.r.e with the heart of gold.'

Brunetti pushed himself back from the car and started towards the station. He took a few steps and then turned back towards della Corte, who was rolling up the window as the car pulled slowly away. 'No one has a heart of gold,' he said, but della Corte drove away without giving any sign that he had heard.

Next morning, Signorina Elettra greeted Brunetti by telling him that she'd managed to find the story about Trevisan in the Gazzettino Gazzettino but that it was an entirely innocuous account of a joint venture in tourism which he had organized between the chambers of commerce of Venice and Prague. Signora Trevisan s life, at least according to the society columnist of that newspaper, was equally bland. but that it was an entirely innocuous account of a joint venture in tourism which he had organized between the chambers of commerce of Venice and Prague. Signora Trevisan s life, at least according to the society columnist of that newspaper, was equally bland.

Though Brunetti had expected something like this, the news disappointed him. He asked Signorina Elettra to see if Giorgio - Brunetti surprised himself by speaking of Giorgio as though he were an old friend - could get a list of the calls made from and to the phone in Pinetta's bar. When he had done that, he contented himself with reading through his mail and then made a few phone calls in response to one of the letters.

He called Vianello and arranged to have three men go to Pinetta's that night and arrest Mara and her pimp.

Then he had no choice but to address himself to the papers on his desk, though he found it difficult to pay attention to what he read: statistics from the Ministry of the Interior gave staffing projections for the next five yean, discussed the cost of a computer link with Interpol, and gave the specifications and performance records on a new type of pistol. Brunetti tossed the papers down on his desk in disgust. The Questore had recently received a memorandum from the Minister of the Interior, informing him that the national police budget for the next year was going to be cut by at least 15 per cent, perhaps 20, and that no increase in funding was foreseeable in the near future. Yet these fools in Rome kept sending him projects and plans, as if there were money to spend, just as if it hadn't all been stolen or sent to secret accounts in Switzerland.

He pulled out the paper on which were written the specifications for the pistols that would never be bought, flipped it over, and began to list the people he wanted to speak to: Trevisan's widow and her brother, her daughter Francesca, and someone who could give him accurate information about both Trevisan's legal practice and his personal life.

In a second column, he listed those things that grated at his mind: Francesca's story - or was it boast? - that someone might try to kidnap her; Lotto's reluctance to provide a list of Trevisan's clients; Lotto's surprise at the mention of Favero's name.

And overriding all of this, he realized, were the phone numbers and the phone calls to so many places, still without pattern, still without explainable cause.

As he reached into his bottom drawer for the phone book, he thought how helpful it would be to emulate' Favero and keep a notebook with frequently called numbers. But this was a number he had never called, never before wanting to call in the favour he was owed.

Three years ago, his friend Danilo, the pharmacist, had called him early in the evening and asked him to come to his apartment, where he found the young man with one eye swollen almost shut, looking as though he'd been in a brawl. There had, indeed, been violence, but it had been entirely one-sided, for Danilo had made no attempt to resist the young man who pushed his way into the pharmacy just as he was closing up for the night. Nor had he offered any opposition when the young man pried open the cabinet where the narcotic drugs were kept and pulled out seven ampoules of morphine. But Danilo did recognize him and, as the young man was leaving, said only, 'Roberto, you shouldn't be doing this,' which was enough to provoke the man into giving Danilo an angry shove, sending the pharmacist crashing sideways against the angle of a display cabinet.

Roberto, as not only Danilo and Brunetti but most of the police of the city knew, was the only son of Mario Beniamin, Chief Judge of the criminal court of Venice. Until that night, his addiction had never led him to violence, for he made do with false prescriptions and with what he managed to exchange for articles stolen from the homes of family and friends. But with his attack on the pharmacist, however unintentional it had been, Roberto had joined the criminals of the city.

After speaking to Danilo, Brunetti went to the Judges home and spent more than an hour with him; the next morning, Judge Beniamin accompanied his son to a small private clinic near Zurich, where Roberto spent the next six months, emerging to begin an apprenticeship in a pottery workshop near Milan.

The favour, spontaneously offered on Brunetti's part, had rested between him and the Judge for those years, much in the way a pair of shoes that cost too much will be in the bottom of a closet and be forgotten about until they are kicked aside or stepped on accidentally, only then to be remembered with a wince that the buyer could so foolishly have fallen into, such a false bargain.

The phone at the Judge's chambers was answered on the third ring by a woman's voice. Brunetti give his name and asked to speak to Judge Beniamin.

After a minute, the Judge came on to the line. 'Buon giomo 'Buon giomo, commissario. I've been expecting your call.' commissario. I've been expecting your call.'

'Yes," Brunetti said simply. 'I'd like to speak to you, your honour.'

Today?'

'If it's convenient for you.'

1 can give you a half-hour, this afternoon at five. Will that be sufficient?' 1 think so, your honour.'

'I'll expect you, then. Here,' the Judge said and hung up.

The main criminal court house of the city lies at the foot of the Rialto Bridge, not the San Marco side but the side that holds the fruit and vegetable market.

In fact, those who go early to the market can sometimes see men and women in handcuffs and shackles being led into and out of the various entrances to the court, and not infrequently machine-gun-carrying carabinieri stand amidst the crates of cabbages and grapes, guarding the people who are taken inside. Brunetti showed his warrant card to the armed guards at the door and climbed the two flights of broad marble stairs to Judge Beniamin's chambers. Each landing had a large window that looked across to the Fondazione dei Tedeschi, under the Republic the commercial centre for all German traders in the city, now the Central Post Office. At the top of the stairs, two carabinieri wearing flak jackets and carrying a.s.sault rifles stopped him and asked to see his identification.

'Are you wearing a weapon, commissario?' one of them asked after a close examination of his warrant card.

Brunetti regretted having forgotten to leave the gun in his office: it had been open season on judges in Italy for so long that everyone was nervous and, too late, very cautious. He slowly pulled his jacket open and held the sides far from his body to allow the guard to take the pistol from him.

The third door on the right was Beniamin's. Brunetti knocked twice and was told to enter.

In the years that had pa.s.sed since his visit to Judge Beniamins home, the two men had pa.s.sed one another occasionally on the street, nodding to one another, but it had been at least a year since Brunetti had seen the Judge, and he was shocked at the change in him.

Though the Judge was no more than a decade older than Brunetti, he now looked old enough to be his father. Deep lines ran from the sides of his nose down past his mouth before disappearing beneath his chin. His eyes, once a deep brown, seemed cloudy, as though someone had forgotten to dust them. And, wrapped in the flowing black robes of his calling, he seemed more trapped than dressed, so much weight had he lost.

'Have a seat, commissario,' Benjamin said. The voice was the same, deep and resonant, a singer's voice.

'Thank you, your honour,' Brunetti said and took his place in one of the four chairs in front of the Judge's desk.

'I'm sorry to tell you that I have less time than I thought I would have.' After he spoke, the Judge paused for a moment, as if just hearing what he had said. He gave a small, sad smile and added, 'This afternoon, that is. So if we can be quick, I'd be very grateful to you. If not, we can talk again in two days if it's necessary.'

'Of course, your honour. It goes without saying that I appreciate your agreeing to see me.' He paused and the men's eyes met, each fully aware of how formulaic this sentence was.

'Yes,' was all the Judge answered.

'Carlo Trevisan,' Brunetti said.

'Specifically?' asked the Judge.

'Who profits from his death? What was his relationship with his brother-in-law? With his wife? Why did his daughter tell a story, about five years ago. that her parents were afraid she would be kidnapped? And what, if any, a.s.sociation did he have with the Mafia?'

Judge Beniamin had taken no notes, had simply listened to the questions. He propped his elbows on his desk and showed the back of his hand to Brunetti, his five fingers splayed out 'Two years ago, another lawyer, Salvatore Martucci, joined his firm, bringing with him his own clients. Their agreement stipulated that next year, Martucci would be made an equal partner in the practice. There is talk that Trevisan was no longer willing to honour this contract With Trevisan dead, Martucci is in sole charge of the practice.' judge Beniamin's thumb disappeared.

'The brother-in-law is slick, very slick. It is an unproven rumour which would make me criminally liable for a charge of slander were I to repeat, but anyone wanting to avoid paying taxes on international business or to know whom to bribe so that shipments arrive here without customs inspection knows he's the best man to see.' The top half of his forefinger disappeared.

"The wife is having an affair with Martucci.' His middle finger joined the others.

'About five years ago, Trevisan - and this, too, is merely rumour - was involved in some sort of financial dealings with two men from the Palermo Mafia, very violent men. I do not know the nature of his involvement whether it was criminal or not even whether it was voluntary or not but I do know that these men were interested in him, or he was interested in them, because of the possibility that Eastern Europe would soon open up, and there would consequently be more business between Italy and those countries. The Mafia has been known to kidnap or kill the children of people who oppose their business offers. It is said that for a time Trevisan was a very frightened man, but it is also said that the fear went away.' Pulling the tops of his two remaining fingers into his fist, the judge said, 'I think that answers all of your questions.'

Brunetti got to his feet. 'Thank you, your Honour.'

'You're welcome, commissario.'

No mention was made of Roberto, dead of an overdose a year ago, nor was any made of the cancer that was destroying the Judge's liver. Outside the office, Brunetti retrieved his pistol from the guard and left the court building.

18.

The first thing Brunetti did when he arrived at his office the next morning was to dial Barbara Zorzi's home number. After the beep, he said, 'Dottoressa, this is Guido Brunetti. If you're there, please pick up. I need to talk to you about the Trevisans again. I've learned that...'

'Yes?' she said, cutting in but not surprising him by failing to exchange pleasantries or greetings.

'I'd like to know if Signora Trevisan's visit to your office had anything to do with a pregnancy.' Before she could answer, he added, 'Not her daughter's, her own.'