by Donna Leon
“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 Papà 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, Papà?” 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 toward the floor, only to be saved by Brunetti, who instinctively wrapped both arms around her and pulled her back toward 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 fingers up and down her ribs.
Chiara shrieked and waved her arms in the air, gasping with shock and delight. “No, Papà. No, let me go. Let me …” The rest was lost in high peals of laughter.
Order was restored before lunch, but only just barely. 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 hope 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 had 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 caliber, 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 meter 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 years.
“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 had been prevented the chance to repent. He remembered the passage in the 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.
Sergeant Vianello knocked on the door and came in, one of the Questura’s plain blue folders in his right hand. “This man was clean,” 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 passport, 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 assault, 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 caliber?” 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 train station?”
Vianello repeated what the officers had learned the night before. “Doesn’t help much, does it, Dottore?”
Brunetti shook his head, then 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 circumstances?”
“That it was murder?”
“Yes.”
“That seemed to unsettle him. I got the impression that he didn’t much care for Trevisan, but the fact that 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 that 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 then.” 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 neighborhood.”
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.
“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 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 associates. 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 whores.
“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 toward Riva degli Schiavoni, where he got onto the number one 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 that led to the Grand Canal, 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 gray-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 as if Brunetti had kept the widow waiting.
The entrance hall was lined on both sides with mirrors and gave the illusion that the small area was crowded with many duplicates of Brunetti and Signora Trevisan’s brother. The floor was patterned with gleaming squares of alternating black and white marble, inducing in Brunetti the feeling that he and his reflection were moving about on a chessboard and thus forcing him to view the other man as an opponent.
“I appreciate Signora Trevisan’s agreeing to see me,” Brunetti said.
“I told her not to,” her brother said brusquely. “She shouldn’t see anyone. This is terrible.” The look he gave Brunetti made him wonder if the man was referring to Trevisan’s murder or to Brunetti’s presence in the house of mourning.
Cutting in front of Brunetti, the other man led him down another corridor and into a small room off to the left. It was difficult to tell what purpose the room was meant to serve: there were no books, no television, and the only chairs in the room were straight-backed and stood in the four corners. Two windows on one wall were covered with dark green drapes. Between them stood a round table with a vase of dried flowers in the center. Nothing more and no clue as to purpose or function.
“You can wait here,” Lotto said and left the room. Brunetti stood still for a moment, then walked over to one of the windows and pulled back the drape. Beyond him lay the Grand Canal, sunlight playing on its surface, and off to the left Palazzo Dario, the golden tiles of the mosaic that covered its façade catching the light that shot up from the water below, only to shatter it into fragments and sprinkle it back upon the waters of the canal. Boats floated by; minutes went with them.
He heard the door behind him open, and he turned to greet the widow Trevisan. Instead, a young girl with dark hair that fell to her shoulders came into the room, saw Brunetti standing by the window, pulled back, and left as quickly as she had entered, pulling the door closed behind her. A few minutes after this, the door was opened again, but this time it was a woman in her early forties who came into the room. She wore a simple black woolen dress and shoes with heels that raised her almost to Brunetti’s height. Her face was the same shape as the girl’s, her hair also shoulder length and the same dark brown, though the woman’s color showed signs of assistance. Her eyes, widely spaced like her brother’s, were bright with intelligence and what Brunetti thought was curiosity rather than unshed tears.
She came across the room to Brunetti and extended her hand. “Commissario Brunetti?”
“Yes, Signora. I’m sorry we have to meet in circumstances such as these. I’m very grateful that you consented to speak to me.”
“I want to do anything that will help you find Carlo’s murderer.” Her voice was soft, the accent slightly brushed with the exaggerated aspirants of Florence.
She looked around her, as if noticing the room for the first time. “Why did Ubaldo put you in here?” she asked, then added, turning toward the door, “Come with me.”
Brunetti followed her out into the corridor, where she turned right and opened another door. He followed her into a much larger room, this one with three windows that looked back up toward Campo San Maurizio and which appeared to be an office or a library. She led him toward two deep armchairs and took her place in one, indicating the second with her hand.
Brunetti sat, started to cross his legs, but realized the chair was too low to make that comfortable. He propped both elbows on the arms of the chair and joined his hands across his stomach.
“What is it you’d like me to tell you, Commissario?” Signora Trevisan asked.
“I’d like you to tell me if, during the last few weeks, months perhaps, your husband seemed in any way uncomfortable or nervous or if his behavior had changed in any way that seemed peculiar to you.”
She waited to see if there was anything else to the question, and when there seemed not to be, she paused for a moment, considering. Finally, she answered, “No, I can’t think of anything. Carlo was always very much caught up in his work. What with the political changes of the last few years, the opening up of new markets, he’s been especially busy. But, no, during the last few months he hasn’t been nervous in any special way, not more than his work would normally warrant.”
“Did he ever speak to you about any case he was working on, or perhaps a client, which gave him particular trouble or caused him undue concern?”
“No, not really.”
Brunetti waited.
“He had one new client,” she finally said. “A Dane who was trying to open an import business—cheese and butter, I think—who found himself caught up in the new EEC regulations. Carlo was trying to find a way for him to transport his products through France, rather than through Germany. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He was very busy with this, but I can’t say that he was upset about it.”
“And at work? What were his relations with his employees like? Peaceful? Friendly?”
She joined her hands together in her lap and looked down at them. “I think so. He certainly never mentioned having trouble with any of his staff. If he had, I’m sure he would have told me.”
“Is it true that the firm was entirely his, that the other lawyers were all salaried employees?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, giving him a puzzled glance. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”
“Did your husband share the proceeds of his law practice with the other lawyers or did they work for him as salaried employees?”
She looked up from her hands and glanced across at Brunetti. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that question, Dottor Brunetti. I know almost nothing about Carlo’s business. You’d have to speak to his accountant.”
“And who is that, Signora?”
“Ubaldo.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” Brunetti replied. After a short pause, he continued, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your personal life, Signora.”
“Our personal life?” she repeated, as though she had never heard of such a thing. When he didn’t answer this, she nodded, signaling for him to begin.
“Could you tell me how long you and your husband were married?”
“Nineteen years.”
“How many children do you have, Signora?”
“Two. Claudio is seventeen, and Francesca is fifteen.”
“Are they in school in Venice, Signora?”
She looked up at him sharply when he asked this. “Why do you want to know that?”
“My own daughter, Chiara, is fourteen, so perhaps they know one another,” he answered and smiled to show what an innocent question it had been.
“Claudio is in school in Switzerland, but Francesca is here. With us. I mean,” she corrected, rubbing a hand across her forehead, “with me.”
“Would you say yours was a happy marriage, Signora?”
“Yes,” she answered immediately, far faster than Brunetti would have answered the same question, though he would have given the same response. She did not, however, elaborate.
