by Donna Leon
'Of course.'
'I need a letter explaining that the original complaint was mistaken and that I was absolved in court. In fact, it would help if the letter apologized for my trouble.'
He was tempted to dismiss the idea as impossible, but instead Brunetti asked, 'Why do you need this?'
'For my fiancee. And for her family. If they should ever learn about it,'
'But if the record is changed, why would you need the letter?' Brunetti asked but immediately corrected himself, adding, 'If the record can be changed, that is.'
'Don't worry about the record, dottore.' Rondini spoke with such absolute authority that Brunetti was forced to recall that he worked in the computer office of SIP, and then he remembered the small rectangular box on Signorina Elettra's desk.
'And from whom should this letter come?'
'I'd like it to come from the Questore,' Rondini began but quickly added, 'but I know that's impossible.' Brunetti noticed that, at the first sign they had apparently struck a bargain and had only to haggle about the details, Rondini's hands had ceased to move and lay quiet in his lap; he seemed even to relax in his chair.
'Would a letter from a commissario suffice?'
‘Yes, I think so’ Rondini said.
'And what about cancelling the report in our files?'
Rondini waved a hand. ‘A day. Two.'
Brunetti didn't want to know which of them, Rondini or Elettra, would do it, so he didn't ask. 'Later in the week, I’ll run a check on your name and see if there's a file on you.'
"There won't be,' Rondini assured him, but there was no arrogance in the claim, nothing more than simple certainty.
'When I know that, I'll write the letter.'
Rondini got to his feet. He extended his hand across Brunetti's desk. As the two men shook hands, Rondini said, 'If I can ever do you a favour, commissario, anything at all, just remember where I work.' Brunetti saw him to the door and, when he was gone, went down to speak to Signorina Elettra.
‘You spoke to him?' she asked when Brunetti went in.
Brunetti wasn't sure whether to be offended by her assumption that he would so casually discuss the altering of official state documents and the writing of entirely fraudulent letters.
He opted for irony. 'I'm surprised you bothered to have him speak to me at all. That you didn't just take care of it all yourself?-
Her smile blossomed. 'Well, of course, I thought of doing that, but I thought it would be helpful if you spoke to him.'
'Because of changing the records?' he asked.
'Oh, no, either Giorgio or I could do that in a minute,' she said in an entirely dismissive tone.
'But isn't there some sort of secret password that prevents people from getting into our computer?'
She hesitated a moment before she answered. 'There's a password, yes, but it's not very secret’
'Who knows it?'
'I've no idea, but it would be very easy to find.'
'And use?'
'Probably.'
Brunetti chose not to follow that thought. 'Then because of the letter?' he asked, assuming that she would know about Rondini s request for one.
'Oh, no, dottore. I could just as easily have written that for him. But I thought it would be good for him to meet you, to show him that you're willing to help him with this.'
‘In case we need more information from SIP?’ he asked, irony abandoned.
'Exactly,’ she said and smiled in real delight, for the commissario had begun to understand how things worked.
19
All thoughts of Signor Rondini, however, were wiped from Brunetti's mind by the news that pulled him, half-shaved, from the bathroom the next morning. Ubaldo Lotto, the brother of Carlo Trevisan's widow, had been found shot dead in his car, parked on a side road that led off the state highway between Mestre and Mogliano Veneto. He appeared to have been shot three times, at close range, apparently by someone who was sitting beside him in the front seat of his car.
The body had been discovered at about five that morning by a local resident who, his car slowed by the heavy mud formed by the night's rain and by the large car parked at the side of the narrow road, had not liked what he saw when he passed: the driver slumped over the steering wheel, the motor of the car still running. He had stopped, walked back to peer inside, and then, seeing the blood pooled on the front seat, had called the police. When they arrived, the police cordoned off the area and began to search for traces of the killer or killers. There were signs that another car had been parked behind Lotto's, but the heavy autumn rain had washed away all hope of taking an impression of the tyre tracks. The first policeman to open the door gagged at
the smell of blood, faecal matter, and some heavy scent he took to be the victims aftershave, all blended together and exaggerated by the heater of the car, which had run at its highest setting during the hours Lotto lay in his death's embrace across the steering wheel. Carefully, the crime-scene crew examined the area around the car and then, when it had been towed to the police garage in Mestre, pored over the vehicle to extract and label fibres, hairs, and any other particles of matter that might provide information about the person who had sat beside Lotto on the front seat when he died.
The car had already been towed when Brunetti and Vianello, driven in a car from the Mestre police, arrived at the scene of the killing. From the back seat, all they saw was a narrow country lane and trees that still dripped with water, even though the rain had stopped at dawn. At the police garage, they saw a maroon Lancia sedan, its front seat covered with stains which were slowly turning the same colour as the car. And at the morgue they met the man who had been called to identify the body and who turned out to be Salvatore Martucci, the surviving partner of Trevisan's law firm. A flash from Vianello s eyes and a slight nod in Martucci's direction told Brunetti that this was the same lawyer Vianello had spoken to, the one who had displayed so little grief in the aftermath of Trevisan's murder.
Though thin and wiry, Martucci was taller than most Southerners, and his hair, which he wore shorter than was the current style, was reddish blond: this combination of qualities made him appear a throwback to the hordes of invading Normans who had swept across the island for generations and whose heritage could soil be found, centuries later, in the piercing green eyes of many Sicilians as well as in the occasional French phrases that lingered in their dialect.
When Vianello and Brunetti got there, Martucci was just being led out of the room in which the bodies were kept. It struck them both that it would take very little for Martucci to look like a corpse himself: his eyes were ringed with flesh so dark it looked bruised and emphasized the terrible pallor of his complexion.
'Avvocato Martucci?' Brunetti began, stopping in front of him.
The lawyer looked at Brunetti, apparently without seeing him, men at Vianello, whom he seemed to notice, though he might have recognized no more than the familiar blue uniform.
'Yes?' he said.
'I'm Commissario Guido Brunetti. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Signor Lotto.'
'I don't know anything,' Martucci answered. Though he spoke in a monotone, his Sicilian accent was still marked.
‘I realize this must be a very difficult time for you, Signor Martucci, but there are certain questions we must ask you.'
'I don't know anything,' Martucci repeated.
'Signor Martucci,' Brunetti said, standing steady beside Vianello so as to block Martucci's passage down the hallway, 'I'm afraid that if you don't speak to us, well have no choice but to ask the same questions of Signora Trevisan.'
'What's she got to do with this?' Martucci asked, head shooting up, eyes flashing back and forth between Brunetti and Vianello.
The murdered man is her brother. Her husband died, in the same way, less than a week ago.'
Martucci looked away from them while he considered this. Brunetti was curious to see whether Martucci would question that similarity, insist that it meant nothing. But he simply
said, 'All right, what do you want to know?'
'Perhaps we could go into one of the offices,' Brunetti said, having already asked the coroner if he could use his deputy's room.
Brunetti turned away and walked down the corridor, and Martucci fell into step behind him, followed by Vianello, who still had neither spoken nor acknowledged having already spoken to Martucci Brunetti opened the door to the office and held it for Martucci. When the three men were seated, Brunetti said, 'Perhaps you could tell us where you were last night, Signor Martucci.’
'I don't see why that's necessary,' Martucci answered in a voice more confused than resistant.
'We will want to find out where everyone who knew Signor Lotto was last night, Signor Martucci. Such information is, as you must know, necessary in any murder investigation.'
‘I was at home,' Martucci answered.
‘Was anyone with you?'
'No:
'Are you married, Signor Martucci?' 'Yes. But I'm separated from my wife.' 'Do you live alone?' 'Yes.'
'Do you have children?' 'Yes. Two.' ,
'Do they live with you or with your wife?'
‘I don't see what any of this has to do with Lotto.'
'We are interested in you at the moment, Signor Martucci, not in Signor Lotto,' Brunetti answered. 'Do your children live with your wife?'
'Yes, they do.'
'Is yours a legal separation, leading towards a divorce?'
‘We've never discussed it.'
'Could you explain that a bit further for me, Signor Martucci?' Brunetti asked, though it was a common enough situation.
When he spoke, Martucci's voice had the dead calm of truth. 'Even though I'm a lawyer, the thought of going through a divorce terrifies me. My wife would oppose any attempt I might make to get one.'
'Yet you've never discussed it?'
'Never. I know my wife well enough to know what her answer would be. She would not consent, and there are no grounds on which I could divorce her. If I tried to do so against her will, she would take everything I own.'
'Are there grounds on which she might divorce you, Signor Martucci?' Brunetti asked. When Martucci gave no answer, Brunetti rephrased the question, turning to euphemism, 'Are you seeing anyone, Signor Martucci?'
Martucci's answer was immediate. 'No.'
‘I find that hard to believe,' Brunetti said with a smile of camaraderie.
"What does that mean?' Martucci said.
'You're a handsome man, in the prime of life, a professional, clearly a successful man. Certainly there are many women who would find you attractive and would welcome your attentions.’
Martucci said nothing.
'No one?’ Brunetti repeated.
‘No.’
'And so you were home alone last night?' 'I've already told you that, commissario.' 'Ah, yes, so you have.’
Martucci stood abruptly. 'If you have no further questions, I'd like to leave.’
'with a soft wave of his hand, Brunetti said, 'Just a few more questions, Signor Martucci.'
Seeing the look in Brunetti's eyes, Martucci sat back down.
'What was the nature of your relationship with Signor Trevisan?' 'I worked for him.'
'For him or with him, Avvocato Martucci?'
'Both, I suppose you could say.' Brunetti prodded him with an inquisitive look and Martucci continued, 'First one and then the other.' He looked at Brunetti, but seeing that this was not enough, continued, 'I began working for him, but last year we agreed that, at the end of the year, I would become a partner in the firm.' 'An equal partner?'
Martucci kept bom his voice and his eyes level 'We hadn't discussed that.'
Brunetti found this an unusual lapse, especially on the part of lawyers. A lapse or, given that the only other witness to the agreement was dead, something else.
'And in the event of his death?' Brunetti asked.
'We didn't discuss that.'
‘Why?'
Martucci's voice hardened. 1 think that's self-evident. People don't plan to the.'
'But they do the,' Brunetti remarked. Maxtucci ignored him.
'And now that Signor Trevisan has died, will you assume the responsibility for the practice?'
'If Signora Trevisan asks me to, I will.'
‘I see,' Brunetti remarked in a voice he strove to make entirely level. 'So you've, in a sense, inherited Signor Trevisan's clients?'
Martucci's attempt to keep his temper was visible. 'If those clients wish to retain me as their lawyer, yes.'
'And do they?'
it is still too soon after Signor Trevisan's death to be able to know that.'
'And Signor Lotto,' Brunetti said, changing course. ‘What was his relationship to or involvement in the practice?’
'He was our accountant and business manager’ Martucci answered.
'Of both you and Signor Trevisan, when you worked together?'
'Yes.’
'And after Signor Trevisan s death, did Signor Lotto remain as your accountant?'
'Certainly. He was intimately familiar with the business. He'd worked for Carlo for more than fifteen years.'
'And were you planning to retain him as your accountant and business manager?'
'Of course.'
'Did Signor Lotto have any legal claim to the practice or to part of it?'
‘I'm afraid I don't understand.'
This seemed strange to Brunetti, not only because the question was straightforward enough but because Martucci was a lawyer and certainly should have understood it. 'Was there any way in which the legal practice was incorporated, and did Signor Lotto own any part of it?' Brunetti asked.
Martucci thought about this for a while before he answered. 'To the best of my knowledge, no, but they might have had some sort of separate agreement between themselves.'
'What sort of agreement might that have been?'
‘I have no idea. Whatever they decided on.'
‘I see,' Brunetti said and then asked, voice entirely conversational, 'And Signora Trevisan?'
Martucci's silence showed that he had been expecting the question. 'What about her?'
'Did she retain any interest in the business?’ 'That would depend upon the stipulations of Carlo's will.'
'You didn't draw it up?'
'No, he did that himself?
'And you have no idea of its contents?'
'No, of course not. Why should I?'
‘I thought that, as his partner...' Brunetti began and allowed a vague, encompassing flourish of his hands to complete the sentence for him.
‘I was not his partner and would not have been so until the beginning of next year.'
'Yes, of course,' Brunetti agreed. ‘I thought that, given your association, you might have had some idea of the contents.'
'None at all.'
‘I see.' Brunetti got to his feet. ‘I think that will be all for now, Signor Martucci. I'm very grateful for your co-operation.'
'That's all?' Martucci asked as he stood. 'I can go?'
'Of course,' Brunetti said and then, as if in proof of his good faith, went to the door and held it open for the lawyer. After mutual goodbyes, the lawyer left the office. Brunetti and Vianello waited a few minutes and then left the building, heading back towards Venice.
By the time the police launch delivered them to the landing in front of the Questura, Brunetti and Vianello had agreed that, though Martucci had seemed prepared for questions about Signora Trevisan and had responded to them coolly, the questions about her late husband and their partnership had obviously made him nervous.
VianeHo had worked with Brunetti for so long that he didn't have to be told to run the usual checks - neighbours, friends, wife - on Martucci's story to see if there was any confirmation of his presence in his own home the previous night. The autopsy hadn't been performed yet, and because of the intense heat in the car and its effects upon the body, the exact time of death would be difficult to determine.
As they were crossing the b
road entrance hall of the Questura, Brunetd stopped in his tracks and turned to Vianello. The gas tank;' he said suddenly.
'What, sir?' he asked.
'The gas tank. Have them measure how much gas is left in it, and then find out, if you can, when he last gpt it filled. That might give some idea of how long the motor ran. Might help them calculate when he was shot'
Vianello nodded. It might not narrow things down much, but if the autopsy failed to give a clear indication of the time of death, it might help. Not that at this point, there was any compelling need to ascertain the time of death.
Vianello went off on his errand, and Brunetti went up the steps towards his office. Before he got to the top of the steps, however, he met Signora Elettra, emerging from the end of the corridor and turning down the steps towards him. 'Oh, there you are, commissario. The Vice-Questore has been asking for you.' Brunetti stopped and gazed up at her as she descended the steps towards him. A long saffron scarf, as light as gossamer, trailed behind her, borne aloft at the level of her shoulders by the streams of hot air that flowed up the staircase. If the Nike of Samothrace had stepped from her pedestal, regained her head, and begun to descend the steps of the Louvre, she would have looked much like this.
'Um?' Brunetti said as she reached him.
The Vice-Questore, sir. He said he'd like very much to speak to you.'
'Like very much to,' Brunetti found himself repeating, impressed by the phrasing of the message. Paola often joked about a Dickens character who predicted the arrival of bad things by announcing that the wind was coming from a certain quarter; Brunetti could never remember which character, or which quarter, but he did know that, when Patta 'would like' to talk to him, the wind could be said to be coming from that same quarter.
‘Is he in his office?' Brunetti asked, turning and going back down the stairs beside the young woman.
'Yes, he is, and he's spent much of the morning on the phone.' This, too, was often a sign of a looming storm.
'Avanti! Vice-Questore Patta called in response to Brunetti's knock. 'Good morning, Brunetti,' he said when his subordinate entered the office. 'Have a seat, please. There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you.' Three civil remarks from Patta even before he sat down put Brunetti immediately on his guard.
