by Donna Leon
“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.” Della Corte paused a moment and then 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 jail before she does. Fear tends to make people more talkative, particularly women.”
“Cold-hearted bastard, 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 whore with the heart of gold.”
Brunetti pushed himself back from the car and started toward the station. He took a few steps and then turned back toward 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.
The next morning, Signorina Elettra greeted Brunetti by telling him that she’d managed to find the story about Trevisan in the 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.
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. 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 years, 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 percent, 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 on 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 favor 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 had 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 ampules 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 upon the pharmacist, however unintentional it had been, Roberto had joined the criminals of the city. After speaking to Danilo, Brunetti went to the judge’s 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 favor, 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 lie 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 gave his name and asked to speak to Judge Beniamin.
After a minute, the judge came on the line. “Buon giorno, Commissario. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“Yes,” Brunetti said simply. “I’d like to speak to you, Your Honor.”
“Today?”
“If it’s c
onvenient for you.”
“I can give you a half hour, this afternoon at five. Will that be sufficient?”
“I think so, Your Honor.”
“I’ll expect you, then. Here,” the judge said and hung up.
The main criminal courthouse 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 courthouse, and not infrequently machine-gun-carrying carabinieri stand amid 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 center 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 assault 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 passed since his visit to Judge Beniamin’s home, the two men had passed 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,” Beniamin said. The voice was the same, deep and resonant, a singer’s voice.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Brunetti said and took his place in one of the four chairs in front of the judges 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 Honor. 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, association 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 honor 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 rumor which would make me criminally liable for a charge of slander were I to repeat it, 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 rumor—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 Honor.”
“You’re welcome, Commissario.”
No mention was made of Roberto, dead of an overdose a year before, 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.”
“Why do you want to know this?” she asked.
“The autopsy report said that her husband had had a vasectomy.”
“How long ago?”
“I don’t know. Does that make a difference?”
There was a long pause before she spoke again. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. Yes, when she came to me two years ago, she thought she was pregnant. She was forty-one at the time, so it was possible.”
“Was she?”
“No.”
“Was she particularly disturbed about it?”
“At the time, I thought not, well, not more than a woman her age would be, who thought all of that was behind her. But now I suppose I have to say that, yes, she was.”
“Thank you,” Brunetti said simply.
“Is that all?” Her surprise was audible.
“Yes.”
“You aren’t going to ask if I knew who the father was?”
“No. I think if you had thought it was anyone other than Trevisan, you would have told me the other day.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, but when she did, she drew the first word out. “Yes, I probably would have.”
“Good.”
“Perhaps.”
“Thank you,” Brunetti said and hung up.
Next he called Trevisan’s office and attempted to arrange an appointment with Avvocato Salvatore Martucci, but he was told that Signor Martucci had gone to Milan on business and would return Commissario Brunetti’s call as soon as he returned to Venice. No new papers lay on his desk, and so he contented himself with the list he had made yesterday and with reflecting upon his conversation with the judge.
Not for a moment did it occur to Brunetti to question the truth of anything Judge Beniamin had told him nor to spend any time attempting to confirm it. Given, then, Trevisan’s probable involvement with the Mafia, his death began to look even more like an execution, as sudden and anonymous as a bolt of lightning. From his na
me, Martucci would probably turn out to be a Southerner; Brunetti warned himself against the prejudice that would carry that fact toward certain assumptions, especially should Martucci turn out to be Sicilian.
That left the daughter, Francesca, and her story of her parents’ fear of kidnapping. Before he left the house that morning, Brunetti had told Chiara that the police had straightened out the kidnapping story and didn’t need any more help from her. Even the most remote possibility that someone might learn of Chiara’s interest in a matter that had to do with the Mafia caused Brunetti profound uneasiness, and he knew that a display of casual lack of interest was the best way to dissuade her from asking more questions.
He was brought back from these thoughts by a knock at his door. “Avanti,” he called and raised his eyes to see Signorina Elettra pushing open the door to allow a man to enter. “Commissario,” she said as she came in, “I’d like you to meet Signor Giorgio Rondini. He’d like to have a few words with you.”
The man she ushered in towered at least a head above her, though it was unlikely that he weighed much more than she. As gaunt as the subject of an El Greco portrait, Signor Rondini added to that resemblance with a pointed dark beard and black eyes that looked out at the world from beneath thick black brows.
“Please have a seat, Signor Rondini,” Brunetti said, getting to his feet. “How may I be of service to you?”
While Rondini was lowering himself into a chair, Signorina Elettra went back to the door she had left open and paused there for a moment. She stood there, immobile, until Brunetti glanced across at her; then she pointed a finger at the now-seated man and mouthed, as if dealing with the newly deaf, “Gi-or-gio.” Brunetti gave her the slightest of nods and said, “Grazie, Signorina,” as she left, closing the door behind her.
For a time, neither man spoke. Rondini looked around the office, and Brunetti looked down at the list on his desk. Finally Rondini spoke. “Commissario, I’ve come to ask your advice.”
“Yes, Signor Rondini?” Brunetti asked, looking up.
“It’s about the conviction,” he said and stopped.
