by Donna Leon
“I’m assuming, sir, that there is some tie-in here with Santomauro and that any investigation of Mascari’s death will lead us to him.” Perhaps if Patta was not to have vengeance against Santomauro’s wife, then he would settle for Santomauro himself.
“I suppose that’s possible,” Patta said, wavering.
At the first sign of the weakness of a truthful explanation, Brunetti was, as ever, willing to turn to mendacity. “It’s probable that the bank records are in order and that the bank has had nothing to do with this, that it has been manipulated by Santomauro alone. Once we eliminate the possibility of irregularity at the bank, then we’ll be free to move against Santomauro.”
Patta needed no more than this to be tipped over the edge. “All right, I’ll request that the instructing judge give us an order to sequester the bank records.”
“And the documents of the Lega, as well,” Brunetti risked, thought for a moment about naming Santomauro again, but resisted.
“All right,” Patta agreed, but in a voice that made it clear that Brunetti would get no more.
“Thank you, sir,” Brunetti said, getting to his feet. “I’ll start now, getting some of the men to talk to the people on the list.”
“Good, good,” Patta said, no longer much interested. He bent down over the papers on his desk again, ran a hand affectionately across their surface, then looked up as if surprised to see Brunetti standing there. “Is there anything else, Commissario?”
“No, sir, no. That’s all,” Brunetti said and went across to the door. When he let himself out, Patta was reaching for the phone.
Back in his own office, he put through a call to Bolzano and asked to speak to Signora Brunetti.
After some clicks and pauses, Paola’s voice came across the line to him. “Ciao, Guido, come stail I tried to get you at home Monday night. Why haven’t you called?”
“I’ve been busy, Paola. Have you been reading the papers?”
“Guido, you know I’m on vacation. I’ve been reading the master. The Sacred Fount is wonderful. Nothing happens, absolutely nothing.”
“Paola, I don’t want to talk about Henry James.”
She had heard the words before, but never with that tone. “What’s wrong, Guido?”
Immediately, he remembered that she never read the papers while on vacation and regretted not having made more of an effort to call her sooner. “There’s been some trouble here,” he said, trying to make little of it.
Instantly alert, she asked, “What sort of trouble?”
“An accident.”
Voice softer, she said, “Tell me about it, Guido.”
“I was coming back from Mestre, and someone tried to run us off the bridge.”
“Us?”
“I was with Vianello,” he said, then added, “and Maria Nardi.”
“The girl from Canareggio? The new one?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Our car was hit and we crashed into the guardrail. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and she was tossed against the door. It broke her neck.”
“Ah, the poor girl,” Paola whispered. “Are you all right, Guido?”
“I was shaken up, and so was Vianello, but we’re all right.” He tried for a lighter tone. “No broken bones.”
“I’m not talking about broken bones,” she said, voice still very soft, but quick, either with impatience or concern. “I’m asking if you’re all right.”
“Yes, I think I am. But Vianello blames himself. He was driving.”
“Yes, Vianello would blame himself. Try to talk to him, Guido. Keep him busy.” She paused and then asked, “Do you want me to come back?”
“No, Paola, you barely got there. I just wanted you to know I was all right. In case you read it in the papers. Or in case anyone asked you about it.” He heard himself talking, heard himself trying to blame her for not having called, for not having read the papers.
“Do you want me to tell the children?”
“I guess you better, in case they hear about it or read something. But play it down, if you can.”
“I will, I will, Guido. When’s the funeral?”
For a moment, he didn’t know which one she meant—Mascari’s, Crespo’s, Maria Nardi’s? No, it could be only hers. “I think it’s Friday morning.”
“Will you all go?”
“As many of us as can. She’d only been on the force a short time, but she had a lot of friends.”
“Who was it?” she asked, not needing to explain the question.
“I don’t know. The car was gone before we realized what happened. But I’d just been in Mestre to meet someone, one of the transvestites, so whoever it was knew where I was. It would have been easy to follow us. There’s only the one road back.”
“And the transvestite?” she asked. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Too late. He’s been killed.”
“Same person?” she asked in that telegraphic style they’d had two decades to develop.
“Yes. Has to be.”
“And the first one? The one in the field?”
“It’s all the same thing.”
He heard her say something to someone else, then her voice came back, and she said, “Guido, Chiara’s here and wants to say hello.”
“Ciao,Papà, how have you been? Do you miss me?”
“I’ve been fine, angel, and I miss you terribly. I miss you all.”
“But do you miss me most?”
“I miss you all the same.”
“That’s impossible. You can’t miss Raffi because he’s never home anyway And Mamma just sits and reads that book all day, so who’d miss her? That means you’ve got to miss me most, doesn’t it?”
“I guess that’s right, angel.”
“See, I knew it. You just had to think about it a little bit, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I’m glad you reminded me.”
He heard noises on Chiara’s end of the phone, then she said, “Papá, I’ve got to give you back to Mamma. You tell her, will you, to come for a walk with me? She just sits here on the terrace all day and reads. What sort of vacation is that?” With that complaint, she was gone, replaced by Paola.
“Guido, if you’d like me to come back, I can.”
He heard Chiara’s howl of protest at the suggestion and answered, “No, Paola, it’s not necessary. Really. I’ll try to get up there this weekend.”
She had heard similar promises many times before, so she didn’t ask him to clarify it. “Can you tell me more about it, Guido?”
“No, Paola, I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Here?”
“I hope so. If not, then I’ll call you. Look, I’ll call you either way, whether I’m coming or not. All right?”
“All right, Guido. For God’s sake, please be careful.”
“I will, Paola. I will. You be careful, too.”
“Careful? Careful of what, up here in the middle of paradise?” “Careful you don’t finish your book, the way you did in Cortina that time.” Both laughed at the memory. She had taken The Golden Bowl with her but had finished it in the first week, leaving her with nothing to read and, consequently, nothing to do for the second week except walk in the mountains, swim, loaf in the sun, and chat with her husband. She had loathed every minute of it.
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m already eager to finish it so that I can begin it all over again immediately.” For a moment, Brunetti pondered the possibility that his failure to be promoted to vice-questore might be accounted for by the fact that it was common knowledge he was married to a madwoman. No, probably not.
With mutual abjurations toward caution, they took their leave of one another.
22
He called down to Signorina Elettra, but she was not at her desk, and her phone rang unanswered. He dialed Vianello’s extension and asked him to come up to his office. After a few minutes, the sergeant came in, looking much as he had two mornings ago when he had walked
away from Brunetti in front of the Questura.
“Buon di, Dottore,” he said as he took his usual place in the chair facing Brunetti’s desk.
“Good morning, Vianello.” To avoid a return to their discussion of the other morning, Brunetti asked, “How many men have we got free today?”
Vianello gave this a moment’s thought, then answered, “Four, if we count Riverre and Alvise.”
Nor did Brunetti want to discuss them, so he said, passing Vianello the first list from the file on the Lega, “This is a list of names of people who rent apartments from the Lega della Moralità. I’d like you to select the addresses here in Venice and divide it up among the four of them.”
Vianello, glancing down the names and addresses on the list, asked, “What for, sir?”
“I want to find out who they pay their rent to, and how.” Vianello gave him a glance replete with curiosity, and Brunetti explained what Canale had told him about paying the rent in cash and about his friends who did the same. “I’d like to know how many of the people on this list pay their rent in the same way and how much they pay. More important, I want to know if any of them know the person or persons to whom they actually give the money.”
“So that’s it?” Vianello asked, understanding at once. He paged through the list. “How many are there, sir? Far more than a hundred, I’d say.”
“One hundred sixty-two.”
Vianello whistled. “And you say this Canale’s paying a million and a half a month?”
“Yes.”
Brunetti watched Vianello repeat the same calculation he had made when he first saw the list. “Even if it’s only a third of them, it would be well more than half a billion a year, wouldn’t it?” Vianello asked, shaking his head, and again Brunetti couldn’t tell if his response was astonishment or admiration for the enormity of the thing.
“Do you recognize any of the names on the list?” Brunetti asked.
“One of them sounds like the man who owns the bar on the corner near my mother’s house: same name, but I’m not sure if it’s the right address.”
“If it is, then perhaps you could talk to him casually.”
“Not wearing my uniform, you mean?” Vianello asked with a smile that seemed more like his old one.
“Or send Nadia,” Brunetti joked, but as soon as he said it, he realized this might not be a bad idea. The appearance of uniformed policemen to question people who were, to some degree, in illegal possession of apartments was sure to affect any answers they gave. Brunetti was certain that all of the accounts would be in order, sure that proof would exist that the rents had been paid into the proper bank account each month, and he had no doubt that proper receipts would exist. If Italy was nothing else, it was a place where documented evidence always existed, and that in abundance; what was often illusory was the reality it was meant to reflect.
Vianello saw it as quickly as he did, and said, “I think there might be a more casual way to do this.”
“Asking neighbors, you mean?”
“Yes, sir. I think people would be reluctant to tell us if they were involved in anything like this. It could mean they’d lose their apartments, and anyone would lie to avoid that.” Vianello, he had no doubt, would lie to save his apartment. After sober reflection, Brunetti realized he would, too, as any Venetian would.
“Then I suppose it’s better to ask around in the neighborhoods. Send women officers to do it, Vianello.”
Vianello’s smile was one of pure delight.
“And take this. It should be easier to check,” Brunetti said, pulling the second list from the file and handing it to him. “These are people who are receiving monthly payments from the Lega. See if you can find out how many of them live at the addresses listed for them, and then see if you can find out if they’re among what used to be called the deserving poor.”
“If I were a betting man,” Vianello, who was, said, “I’d bet ten thousand lire that most of them don’t live at the addresses given here.” He paused a moment, flipped at the list with the tips of his fingers, and added, “And I’d make another one that many of them are neither deserving nor poor.”
“No bet, Vianello.”
“I didn’t think there would be. What about Santomauro?”
“According to everything Signorina Elettra could find, he’s clean.”
“No one’s clean,” Vianello shot back.
“Careful, then.”
“That’s better.”
“There’s something else. Gallo spoke to the manufacturer of the shoes that were found with Mascari, and he gave him a list of the stores in the area where the shoes were sold. I’d like you to get someone to go around to the stores on the list and see if they can find anyone who remembers selling them. They’re size forty-one, so it’s possible that whoever sold them might remember who they sold them to.”
“What about the dress?” Vianello asked.
Brunetti had received the report two days before, and the results were just as he had feared. “It’s one of those cheap things you can buy at the open-air markets anywhere. Red, some sort of cheap synthetic material. Couldn’t have cost more than forty thousand lire. The tag’s been ripped out of it, but Gallo’s trying to trace it back to the manufacturer.”
“Any chance of that?”
Brunetti shrugged. “There’s a much better chance with the shoes. At least we know the manufacturer and the stores where they were sold.”
Vianello nodded. “Anything else, sir?”
“Yes. Call the Finance Police and tell them we’re going to need one of their best people, more than that if they’ll let us have them, to take a look at whatever papers we get from the Banca di Verona and from the Lega.”
Surprised, Vianello asked, “You actually got Patta to ask for a court order? To make a bank give up papers?”
“Yes,” Brunetti said, managing neither to smile nor to preen. “This business must have upset him more than I thought. A court order.” Vianello shook his head at the marvel of it.
“And could you ask Signorina Elettra to come up here?”
“Of course,” Vianello said, getting to his feet. He held up the lists. “I’ll divide up the names and get them to work.” He walked over to the door, but before he left he asked the same question Brunetti had been asking himself all morning, “How could they risk something like this? All it needs is one person, one leak, and the whole thing would come tumbling down.”
“I have no idea, well, none that makes sense.” To himself he reflected that it might be no more than yet another manifestation of a kind of group madness, a frenzy of risk taking that had abandoned all sane limits. In recent years, the country had been shaken by arrests and convictions for bribery at all levels, from industrialists and builders to cabinet ministers. Billions, tens of billions, hundreds of billions of lire had been paid out in bribes, and so Italians had come to believe that corruption was the normal business of government. Hence the behavior of the Lega della Moralità and the men who ran it could be seen as absolutely normal in a country run mad with venality.
Brunetti shook himself free from this speculation, looked toward the door, and saw that Vianello was gone.
He was quickly replaced by Signorina Elettra, who came through the door that Vianello had left open. “You wanted to see me, Commissario?”
“Yes, Signorina,” he said, waving her to the seat beside his desk. “Vianello just went downstairs with the lists you gave me. It seems a number of the people on one of them are paying far more in rent than what the Lega is declaring, so I want to know if the people on the second list are really getting the money the Lega says it’s giving them.”
As he spoke, Signorina Elettra wrote quickly, head bent down over her notebook.
“I’d like to ask you, if you aren’t busy with anything else— what is it you’re working on down in the Archives this week?” he asked.
“What?” she asked and half rose to her feet. Her notebook fell to the floor, and she bent to pick
it up. “I beg your pardon, Commissario,” she said when she had the notebook open on her lap again. “In the Archives? I was trying to see if there was anything there about Avvocato Santomauro or perhaps Signor Mascari.”
“And what luck have you had?”
“None, unfortunately. Neither of them has ever been in trouble with the police. Absolutely nothing.”
“No one in the building has any idea of the way things are filed down there, Signorina, but I’d like you to see what you can find about the people on those lists.”
“On both, Dottore?”
She had prepared them, so she knew that they contained more than two hundred names. “Perhaps you could begin with the second one, the people who receive money. The list has their names and addresses, so you can check at city hall and find out which of them are registered here as residents.” Although it was a holdover from the past, the law which required all citizens to register officially in the city where they resided and to inform the authorities of any change in address made it easy to trace the movements and background of anyone who came under official scrutiny.
“I’d like you to check the people on that list, find out if any of them have criminal records, either here or in other cities. Even other countries, although I have no idea of what you’ll be able to find.” Signorina Elettra nodded as she took notes, suggesting that all of this was child’s play. “Also,” he continued, “once Vianello finds out who’s paying rent under the table, then I’d like you to take those names and do the same.” She looked up a few seconds after he finished speaking. “Do you think you could do this, Signorina? I have no idea what happened to the old files after we began to switch over to computers.”
“Most of the old files are still down there,” she said. “They’re a mess, but some things are still to be found in them.”
“Do you think you could do this?” She had been here less than two weeks, and already it seemed to Brunetti that she had been here for years.
