A Venetian Reckoning Part 4

He took a very deep breath. Seeing that, Chiara slid to the edge of the bed and fished for her shoes with her toes. 'How many bottles do you want?' she asked truculently. 'Three.'

She bent down and tied her shoes. Brunetti reached out a hand and caressed her head, but she pulled herself to one side to avoid him. When her shoes were tied, she stood and s.n.a.t.c.hed her jacket up from the floor. She walked past him, saying nothing, and started down the hall. 'Ask your mother for the money,' he called to her and went down the hall to the bathroom. While he was washing his hands, he heard the front door slam.

Back in the kitchen, Paola was busy setting the table, but only for three. 'Where's Raffi?' Brunetti asked.

'He's got an oral exam this afternoon, so he's spending the day in the library'

'What's he going to eat?'

'He'll get some sandwiches somewhere.'

'If he's got an exam, he should have a good meal first.'

She looked across the room at him and shook her head.

'What?' he asked. 'Nothing.'

'No, tell me. What are you shaking your head for?'

'I wonder, at times, how it was I married such an ordinary man.'

'Ordinary?' Of all the insults Paola had hurled at him over the years, this one somehow seemed the worst. 'Ordinary?' he repeated.

She hesitated for a moment, then launched herself into an explanation. 'First you try to blackmail your daughter into going out to buy wine she doesn't drink, and then you worry that your son doesn't eat. Not that he doesn't study, but that he doesn't eat.'

'What should I worry about if not that?'

'That he doesn't study,' Paola shot back.

'He hasn't done anything but study for the last year, that and moon about the house, thinking about Sara.'

'What's Sara got to do with it?'

What did any of this, Brunetti wondered, have to do with it.

'What did Chiara say?' he asked.

'That she offered to go if you'd go with her, but you refused.'

'If I had wanted to go, I would have gone myself.'

'You're always saying you don't have enough time to spend with the children, and when you get the chance, you don't want to.'

'Going to a bar to buy a bottle of wine isn't exactly how I want to spend time with my children.'

'What is, sitting around the table and explaining to them the way money gives people power?'

'Paola,' he said, enunciating all three of the syllables slowly, 'I have no idea what any of this is about, but I'm fairly sure it doesn't have anything to do with sending Chiara to the store.'

She shrugged and turned back to the large pot that was boiling on the stove.

'What is it, Paola?' he asked, staying where he was but reaching out to her with his voice.

She shrugged again.

Tell me, Paola. Please.'

She kept her back to him and spoke in a soft voice. 'I'm beginning to feel old, Guido. Raffi's got a girlfriend, and Chiara's almost a woman. I'll be fifty soon.' He marvelled at her maths but said nothing. 'I know it's stupid, but I find it depressing, as if my life were all used up, the best part gone.' Good Lord, and she called him ordinary?

He waited, but it seemed she had finished.

She took the lid off the pot and was, for a moment, enveloped in the cloud of steam that spilled up from it. She took a long wooden spoon and stirred at whatever was in the pot, managing to look anything but witchlike as she did it. Brunetti tried, with very little success, to strip his mind clear of the love and familiarity of more than twenty years and look at her objectively. He saw a tall, slender woman in her early forties with tawny blonde hair that spilled down to her shoulders. She turned and shot him a glance, and he saw the long nose and dark eyes, the broad mouth which had, for decades, delighted him.

'Does that mean I get to trade you in?' he risked.

She fought the smile for an instant but then gave in to it.

'Am I being a fool?' she asked.

He was about to tell her that, if she was, it was no more than he was accustomed to when the door burst open and Chiara launched herself back into the apartment 'Papa,' she shouted from down the hall, 'you didn't tell me.'

'Tell you what, Chiara?'

'About Francesca's father. That somebody killed him'

'You know her?' Brunetti asked.

She came down the hall, cloth bag hanging from one hand. Obviously, curiosity about the murder had driven her anger with Brunetti from her mind. 'Sure. We went to school together. Are you going to look for whoever did it?'

'I'm going to help,' he said, unwilling to open himself to what he knew would turn into unrelenting questioning. 'Did you know her very well?'

'Oh, no,' she said, surprising him by not claiming to have been her best friend and, as such, somehow privy to whatever he might learn. 'She hung around with that Pedrocci girl, you know, the one who had all those cats at home. She smelled, so no one would be her friend. Except Francesca.'

'Did Francesca have other friends?' Paola asked, interested herself now and hence willingly complicit in her husband's attempt to pry information from then-own child. 'I don't think I ever met her.'

'Oh, no, she never came back here with me. Anyone who wanted to play with her had to go back to her house. Her mamma insisted on that.'

'Did the girl with all the cats go?'

'Oh, yes. Her father's a judge, so Signora Trevisan didn't mind that she smelled.' Brunetti was struck by how clearly Chiara saw the world. He had no idea in which direction Chiara would travel, but he had no doubt that she would go far.

'What's she like, Signora Trevisan?' Paola asked and then shot a glance toward Brunetti, who nodded. It had been gracefully done. He pulled out a chair and silently took a place at the table.

'Mamma, why don't you let Papa ask these questions since he's the one who wants to know about her?' Without waiting for her mother's lie, Chiara walked across the kitchen and folded herself into Brunetti's lap, placing the now forgotten, or forgiven, bottles on the table in front of them. 'What do you want to know about her, Papa?' Well, at least she hadn't called him Commissario.

'Anything you can remember, Chiara,' he answered. 'Maybe you could tell me why everyone had to go and play at their house.'

'Francesca wasn't sure, but once, about five years ago, she said she thought it was because her parents were afraid that someone would kidnap her.' Even before Brunetti or Paola could comment on the absurdity of this, Chiara continued, 'I know, that's stupid. But that's what she said. Maybe she was just making it up to make herself sound important. No one paid any attention to her, anyway, so she stopped saying it.' She turned her attention to Paola and asked,' When's lunch, Mamma? I'm starved, and if I don't eat soon, I'll faint,' whereupon she did just that, collapsing and sliding down towards the floor, only to be saved by Brunetti, who instinctively wrapped both arms around her and pulled her back towards him.

'Fake,' he whispered in her ear and began to tickle her, holding her prisoner with one arm while he poked and prodded her side, running his ringers up and down her ribs.

Chiara shrieked and waved her arms in the air, gasping with shock and delight. 'No, Papa. No, let me go. Let me ..The rest was lost in high peals of laughter.

Order was restored before lunch, but only just. By tacit adult agreement, they asked Chiara no more questions about Signora Trevisan and her daughter. Throughout the meal, much to Paola's disapproval, Brunetti continued to reach an occasional, sudden hand out to Chiara, in her usual place beside him. Each motion brought on new peals of gleeful fear and left Paola wishing she had sufficient authority to send a commissario of police to his room without lunch.

9.

A well-fed Brunetti left the house directly after lunch and walked back to the Questura, stopping along the way for a coffee in the hopes that it would pull him out of the sleepiness induced by good food and the continuing warmth of the day. Back in his office, he pulled off his coat and hung it up, then went over to his desk to see what had arrived during his absence. As he hoped, the autopsy report was there, not the official one but one that must have been typed by Signorina Elettra from notes dictated over the phone.

The pistol that killed Trevisan was of small calibre, a .22 target pistol, not a heavy weapon. As had been surmised before, one of the bullets had severed the artery leading from Trevisan's heart, so death had been virtually instantaneous. The other had lodged in his stomach. It would appear, from the entrance wounds, that whoever shot him had been standing no more than a metre from him and, from the angle, it would seem that Trevisan had been sitting when he was shot, his killer standing above him and to his right.

Trevisan had eaten a full meal shortly before he was killed, had drunk a moderate amount of alcohol, certainly not enough to fuddle his senses in any way.

A bit overweight, perhaps, Trevisan appeared to have been in good health for a man of his age. There were no signs of his ever having had a serious illness, though his appendix had been removed, and he had had a vasectomy. The pathologist saw no reason why he would not have lived, barring serious illness or accident, at least another twenty yean.

'Two decades stolen,' Brunetti said under his breath when he read that and thought of the vast expanse of things a man could do with twenty years of life: watch a child mature, even watch a grandchild grow; achieve success in business; write a poem. And Trevisan would now never have the chance to do any of these things, to do anything at all. One of the most savage elements in murder, Brunetti had always believed, was the way it mercilessly cut off possibility and stopped the victim from ever again achieving anything. He had been raised a Catholic so he was also aware that, to many people, the greatest horror lay in the fact that the victim was prevented the chance to repent. He remembered the pa.s.sage in the Inferno Inferno where Dante speaks to Francesca da Rimini and hears her tell him how she was 'torn unshriven to my doom'. Though he did not believe, he was not untouched by the magic of belief, and so he realized what a fearful prospect this would be for many men. where Dante speaks to Francesca da Rimini and hears her tell him how she was 'torn unshriven to my doom'. Though he did not believe, he was not untouched by the magic of belief, and so he realized what a fearful prospect this would be for many men.

Sergeant Vianello knocked on the door and came in, one of the Questura's plain blue folders in his right hand. 'This man was dean,' he said without introduction and placed the folder on Brunetti's desk. 'As far as we're concerned, he might as well never have existed.

The only record any of us has for him is his pa.s.sport, which he renewed-' Vianello began and then opened the folder to check the date. 'Four years ago. Aside from that, nothing.'

In itself, this was not surprising: many people managed to go through their entire lives without ever coming to the attention of the police until they became the occasional victims of random violence: drunk drivers, robbery and a.s.sault, the panic of a burglar. Few of them, however, were ever the victims of what appeared so strongly to be a professional murder.

'I have an appointment to speak to his widow this afternoon,' Brunetti said. 'At four.'

Vianello nodded. There's nothing on the immediate family, either.'

'Strange, wouldn't you say?'

Vianello considered this and answered, 'It's normal enough that people, even a whole family, might never come to our attention.'

Then why does it feel so strange?' Brunetti asked.

'Because the pistol was a .22 calibre?' They both knew it was the gun used by many professional killers.

'Any chance of tracing it?'

'Beyond the type, not much,' Vianello said. 'I've sent a copy of the information on the bullets to Rome and Geneva.' They both also knew how unlikely this was to produce any useful information.

'At the railway station?'

Vianello repeated what the officers had learned the night before. 'Doesn't help much, does it, dottore?'

Brunetti shook his head, men asked, 'What about his office?'

'By the time I got there, most of them had left for lunch. I spoke to one secretary, who was actually in tears, and to the lawyer who seemed to have taken charge,' Vianello said, paused a moment, and added, 'who was not'

'In tears?' Brunetti asked, looking up and looking interested.

'Yes. Not in tears. In fact, he seemed relatively undisturbed by Trevisan's death.'

'What about the circ.u.mstances?'

"That it was murder?'

'Yes.'

'That seemed to unsettle him. I got the impression that he didn't much care for Trevisan, but that the fact he was murdered shocked him.'

'What did he say?'

'Nothing, really,' Vianello answered and then explained, it was all in what he didn't say, all those things we say when someone dies, even if we didn't like them: that it was a tremendous loss, that he felt great sympathy for the family, that no one could replace him.' He and Brunetti had heard these responses for years, so often that they were no longer surprised when they realized that the speaker was lying. What remained surprising, however, was for someone not to bother to say these things at all.

'Anything else?' Brunetti asked.

'No. The secretary said the entire staff would be at work tomorrow - they'd been told they didn't have to go back this afternoon, out of respect - so I'll go back and talk to them men.' Before Brunetti could ask, Vianello said, 'I called Nadia and told her to ask around. She didn't know him, but she thinks he might once have handled - this is at least five years ago - the will of that man who had the shoe store on Via Garibaldi. She's going to call the widow. And she said she'd ask in the neighbourhood'

Brunetti nodded at this. Though Vianello's wife was not on the payroll, she was often an excellent source of the kind of information that was never entered in official files. 'I'd like to do a financial check on him,' Brunetti said The usual things: bank accounts, tax returns, property. And see if you can get an idea of the law practice, how much it brings in a year.' Though these were routine questions, Vianello made note of them. financial check on him,' Brunetti said The usual things: bank accounts, tax returns, property. And see if you can get an idea of the law practice, how much it brings in a year.' Though these were routine questions, Vianello made note of them.

'Should I ask Elettra to see what she can find?' Vianello asked This question always conjured up in Brunetti the image of Signorina Elettra, swathed in heavy robes and wearing a turban - the turban was always brocade, with heavy encrustations of opulent stones pinned to the front - peering into the screen of her computer, from which rose a turban - the turban was always brocade, with heavy encrustations of opulent stones pinned to the front - peering into the screen of her computer, from which rose a thin column of smoke. Brunetti had no idea how she did it, but she invariably managed to ferret out financial, and often personal, information about victims and suspects which surprised even their families and business a.s.sociates. Brunetti was of the opinion that no one could elude her and sometimes wondered - or was it worried? - that she would use her not inconsiderable powers to have a look into the private lives of the people with whom and for whom she worked. thin column of smoke. Brunetti had no idea how she did it, but she invariably managed to ferret out financial, and often personal, information about victims and suspects which surprised even their families and business a.s.sociates. Brunetti was of the opinion that no one could elude her and sometimes wondered - or was it worried? - that she would use her not inconsiderable powers to have a look into the private lives of the people with whom and for whom she worked.

'Yes, see what she can come up with. I'd also like a list of his clients' 'All of them?' 'Yes.'

Vianello nodded and made another note, though he knew how difficult this would be: it was almost impossible to get lawyers to name their clients. The only people who gave the police more trouble on this front were wh.o.r.es.

'Anything else, sir?'

'No. I'll see the widow in,' he began, looking at his watch, 'a half-hour. If she tells me anything that we can use, I'll come back here; otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow morning.'

Taking this as leave to go, Vianello put his notebook back in his pocket, got to his feet, and went back down to the second floor.

Brunetti left the Questura five minutes later and started up towards Riva degli Schiavoni, where he got on to the No. 1 vaporetto. He got off at Santa Maria del Giglio, made a left at the Hotel Ala, crossed two bridges, cut to his left, down a small calle calle that led to the Grand Ca.n.a.l, and stopped at the last door on the left. He rang the bell marked Trevisan', and when the door clicked open, walked up to the third floor. that led to the Grand Ca.n.a.l, and stopped at the last door on the left. He rang the bell marked Trevisan', and when the door clicked open, walked up to the third floor.

At the top of the stairs, a door stood open, and in it stood a grey-haired man with a substantial stomach expertly disguised by the expensive cut of his suit As Brunetti reached the top of the stairs, the man asked, without extending his hand, 'Commissario Brunetti?' 'Yes. Signor Lotto?'

The man nodded but still did not extend his hand. 'Come in, then. My sister is waiting for you.' Though Brunetti was three minutes early, the man managed to make it sound like Brunetti had kept the widow waiting.