Death and Judgment

by Donna Leon

  Brunetti never had answers to what he thought of as Big Questions. Instead of trying, he posed his own. “What about the cameraman, and what about the people who will pay to watch it?”

  “Pay?” Paola asked. “Pay?”

  Brunetti nodded. “I think that’s what this is, a video made to be sold. The Americans call them ‘snuff films.’ People really get killed. I’ve read about them. Interpol had a report a few months ago. They found some in America, in Los Angeles, I think. In a film studio; they were being reproduced and then sold.”

  “Where do they come from?” Paola asked, her astonishment now replaced by horror.

  “You saw the men, the uniforms. I think it was Serbo-Croatian they spoke.”

  “Jesus help us all,” Paola whispered. “And that poor woman.” She covered her mouth with one hand. “Guido, Guido.”

  He got to his feet. “I have to go talk to her mother,” he said.

  “Did she know?”

  Brunetti had no idea; he knew only that he was tired, tired to the point of pain with Signora Trevisan and her barely concealed contempt and her protestations of ignorance. He suspected that, if Francesca had given the tape to Chiara, then the girl was far clearer than her mother on separating fact from fiction. When he thought that the girl must have known what was on the tape, he was filled with a horror of the unclean at the thought of having to question her, but all he had to do was summon up the memory of the look in the woman’s eyes when she opened them and saw the camera lens staring down at her, and he knew that he would hound the girl and her mother to the fiery pit itself to find out what they knew.

  26

  Signora Trevisan backed away from Brunetti the instant she opened the door, as if responding to some refulgent ferocity that expanded out and filled the air around him. He stepped into the apartment and slammed the door closed behind him, almost glad to see her flinch from the sharp sound it made.

  “No more, Signora,” Brunetti said. “No more evasions and no more lies about what you knew and didn’t know.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, pumping up her voice with an anger so patently false that it could not cover the fear that lurked there. “I’ve spoken to you once already, and …”

  “And lied and lied and done nothing but lie to me,” Brunetti said, letting his anger rise. “No more lies, or I’ll have you and your lover down at the Questura and the Finance Police going over every bank transaction you’ve made for the last ten years.” He took a step toward her, and she backed away from him, putting one hand out in front of her to push back his rage.

  “I still don’t know—” she began, but Brunetti cut her off with a hand thrust up so savagely that it succeeded in scaring even himself.

  “Don’t even think about lying to me, Signora. My daughter’s seen the tape, the one from Bosnia.” He raised his voice above whatever protest it was she started to make. “My daughter’s fourteen, and she’s seen that tape.” Relentlessly, as she backed away from him, he followed her down the hall. “You will tell me everything you know about this, no lies, none, or you will regret it every one of your living days.”

  She looked at him, eyes as terrified, he realized, as the woman in the tape’s had been, but even that resemblance left him cold.

  Not the jaws of hell, nothing more sinister than a door, opened behind her, and her daughter’s head popped out. “What is it, Mamma?” Francesca asked and then looked at Brunetti. She recognized him instantly but said nothing.

  “Go back in your room, Francesca,” her mother said, amazing Brunetti by the coolness of her voice. “Commissario Brunetti has to ask a few more questions.”

  “About Papà and Zio Ubaldo?” she asked, making no attempt to disguise her interest.

  “I said I’d talk to him, Francesca.”

  “I’m sure you will,” the girl said and went back into her room, closing her door quietly.

  In the same calm voice, Signora Trevisan said, “All right,” and turned toward the room in which their previous interviews had taken place.

  Inside, she sat, but Brunetti remained standing, moving uneasily from foot to foot while she spoke or taking short steps back and forth, too torn by emotion to remain still.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked as soon as she was seated.

  “The films.”

  “They’re made in Bosnia. Sarajevo, I think.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then what do you want to know?” she asked, feigning ignorance, but doing it badly.

  “Signora,” he said, standing still for a moment, “I am warning you that I will destroy you if you don’t tell me what I want to know.” He watched the tone register. “The tapes. Tell me.”

  She adjusted her voice and managed to sound, now, like a hostess who has been much put upon by a particularly fractious guest. “They’re made there, and then some are sent to France, where they’re reproduced. Others go to the United States, and the same thing happens there. Then they’re sold.”

  “Where?”

  “In shops. Or through the mails. There are lists.”

  “Who has these lists?”

  “The distributors.”

  “And who are they?”

  “I don’t know their names. The master films get sent to post office boxes in Marseille and Los Angeles.”

  “Who makes the originals?”

  “Someone in Sarajevo. I think he works for the Serbian army, but I’m not sure.”

  “Did your husband know who he is?’ He saw her begin to answer and added, “I want the truth, Signora.”

  “Yes, he knew.”

  “Whose idea was it to make these films?”

  “I don’t know. I think Carlo might have seen one. He liked things like that. And then I think the idea came to him to distribute them. He was already distributing other things through the mail and in shops in Germany.”

  “What things?”

  “Magazines.”

  “What sort of magazines?”

  “Pornographic.”

  “Signora, pornographic magazines are available on every newsstand in this city. What sort of pornography?”

  Her voice was so low that he had to lean forward to hear it. “Children.” She said nothing else, only the one word.

  Brunetti said nothing, waiting for her to continue. “Carlo said that there was nothing illegal about it.” It took Brunetti a moment to realize that she was serious.

  “How did your daughter come by this film?”

  “Carlo kept the master tapes in his study. He liked to watch the new ones before he had them sent off.” Her voice grew sharp with disapproval as she said, “I suppose she got in there and took one. It never would have happened if Carlo were still here.”

  Brunetti did not presume to interfere with a widow’s grief and so asked, instead, “How many tapes have there been?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A dozen or so, perhaps twenty.”

  “All the same?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea what you mean by ‘the same.’”

  “Tapes in which women are raped and murdered.”

  She gave him a look rich with disgust at his daring to speak of such ugly things. “I think so.”

  “You think so or you know so?”

  “I suppose I know so.”

  “Who else was involved in this?”

  Her answer was immediate. “I wasn’t involved.”

  “Aside from your husband and your brother, who else was involved?”

  “I think that man in Padua.”

  “Favero?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else?”

  “With the tapes, no one else that I know of.”

  “And with the other thing, with the prostitutes, who else?”

  “I think there was a woman. I don’t know who she was, but I know Carlo used her to help transfer new girls.” Brunetti heard how naturally she answered his question about the prostitutes, “the girls,” so casu
ally admitting to full knowledge of her husband’s traffic in prostitutes.

  “From where?”

  “All over. I don’t know.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know. They said very little about her.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “What did they say about her?”

  “I don’t remember, Ubaldo said something once, I think, but I really don’t remember.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He called her ‘The Slav,’ but I don’t know what he meant.”

  To Brunetti, it seemed clear what Ubaldo had meant. “Was she a Slav?”

  She lowered her voice and looked away from him before she answered, “I think so.”

  “Who is she? Where does she live?”

  He watched her weigh this question before she answered, watched her try to predict how much trouble an honest answer would cost her. He wheeled away from her and took two steps, then as suddenly wheeled again and came to stand in front of her. “Where is she?”

  “I think she lives here.”

  “In Venice?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “She has a job.”

  “Signora, most people have jobs. What is hers?”

  “She arranges, that is, she arranged Ubaldo’s and Carlo’s flights.”

  “Signora Ceroni?” Brunetti asked, surprising Signora Trevisan by his question.

  “I think so.”

  “What else did she do for them?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, but before he could move any closer to her, she said, “I really don’t know. I heard them talk to her on the phone a few times.”

  “About plane tickets?” he asked, making no attempt to disguise his sarcasm.

  “No, about other things. Girls. Money.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No, I’ve never met her.”

  “Did you ever hear her name used when they talked about the tapes?”

  “They never talked about the tapes. Not really. They just said things, and I understood what they meant.”

  He didn’t bother to contradict her, certain as he was that this was going to become the truth around which her future would be constructed—to suspect is not to know, and if you don’t know, then you aren’t responsible, not in any real way, for what happens. His certainty grew so strong that Brunetti’s soul sickened with it, and he knew he could no longer stay in the same room with this woman. With no explanation, he turned and left her, closing the door behind him. He could not bear the thought of speaking to the girl, and so he left the apartment, left them both there to begin constructing a convenient future.

  The darkness and cold into which Brunetti emerged served to quiet him. He looked down at his watch and saw that it was after nine. He should be both hungry and thirsty, he knew, but his rage had driven both from him.

  He couldn’t remember the home address that they had gotten for Signora Ceroni beyond that it was in San Vio and that, when he saw it, he had wondered how close it would be to the Church of La Salute. He checked it in a phone book in a bar and took the number one boat along the Grand Canal to the Salute stop. He found the house not only near the church but looking out at it from the other side of the small canal that ran along the side of the church. Her name was on the bell. He rang it and, after a minute or so, heard a woman’s voice asking who it was. He gave his name and, with no further questions, she buzzed him in.

  He paid no attention to the hallway, to the stairs, or to what sort of greeting she gave him at the door. She led him into a large living room, one wall of which was covered with books. Soft lighting glowed down from lights which must have been concealed behind the beams that ran across the ceiling. None of this interested him. Nor her loveliness nor the soft elegance of her clothing.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew Carlo Trevisan,” he said when they were seated facing one another.

  “I told you he was a client of mine.” As he forced himself to calm down, he began to take notice of her, of the beige dress, the carefully combed hair, the silver buckles on her shoes.

  “Signora,” Brunetti said with a weary shake of his head, “I’m not talking about his being a client of yours. I’m talking about your being in business with him or working for him.”

  She tilted her chin up and, mouth slightly ajar, stared off to one side of the room, as if he’d asked her to make a difficult decision. After what seemed a long time, she spoke. “I told you the last time we spoke that I do not want to become involved with the authorities.”

  “And I told you that you already are.”

  “So it seems,” she said without humor.

  “What did you do for Signor Trevisan?”

  “If you know that I worked for him, then you probably have no need to ask me that.”

  “Answer the question, Signora Ceroni.”

  “I collected money for him.”

  “What money?”

  “The money that was given to him by various men.”

  “Money from prostitutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know this is illegal, living off the earnings of a prostitute?”

  “Of course I know it,” she said angrily.

  “Yet you did it?”

  “I just told you that I did.”

  “What else did you do for him?”

  “I see no reason I should make your job any easier for you, Commissario.”

  “Did you have anything to do with the tapes?” he asked.

  If he had struck her, her response could have been no stronger. She got halfway up from her seat and then, remembering where she was and who he was, sat down again. Brunetti sat and looked at her, making a list of the things that had to be done: find her doctor and see if she had ever been prescribed Roipnol; show her photo to the people who had been on the train with Trevisan and see if they recognized her; check the phone records from her office and home; send her name, photo, and fingerprints to Interpol; check credit card receipts to see if she had ever rented a car and hence knew how to drive. In short, do all the things he should have done the instant he found out whose glasses they were.

  “Did you have anything to do with the tapes?” he asked again.

  “You know about them?” she asked, and then, aware of how redundant the question was, asked, “How did you find out?”

  “My daughter saw one. Trevisan’s daughter gave it to her and said it might explain why someone would want to have killed her father.”

  “How old is your daughter?” she asked.

  “Fourteen.”

  “I’m sorry,” Signora Ceroni said and looked down at her hands. “I’m really sorry.”

  “You know what’s on the tapes?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  He made no attempt to keep his disgust from his voice. “And you helped Trevisan sell them?”

  “Commissario,” she said, getting to her feet, “I don’t want to discuss this any further. If you have formal questions to ask me, you can do it at the Questura, in the presence of my lawyer.”

  “You killed them, didn’t you?” he asked before he thought about it.

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said. “And now, if you have no further questions, I’ll wish you good evening.”

  “Was it you on the train, the woman with the fur hat?”

  She had started toward the door, but when he asked her that, she faltered and came down heavily on her left foot. She quickly regained her balance and her composure and continued toward the door. She opened it and held it open for him. “Good evening, Commissario.”

  He paused in front of her at the door, but her gaze was level and cool. He left without saying anything.

  When he left her building, he walked away from it without turning to look up toward what he thought must be her windows. Instead, he crossed the bridge in front and turned ri
ght into the first calle. There he stopped, wishing, not for the first time, that he had a portable phone. He summoned up memory and waited until the street map of the area that every Venetian carried around in his mind appeared in his. As he thought about it, he realized that he would have to go down to the second calle and then swing around to the left, to a narrow calle that ran in back of her house if he was to get to where he wanted to be: at the end of the calle on which she lived, provided with a clear view of her front door.

  When he got there, he stood, leaning against a wall, for more than two hours before she left the building. She looked both ways when she stepped out, but Brunetti was hidden by the darkness in which he stood. She turned right and he followed her, glad he was wearing his brown shoes, the ones with the rubber heels and soles that muffled his footsteps. Hers, striking out from the high heels of her shoes, left a trail as easy to follow as if she were in constant sight.

  Within minutes, he realized that she was moving in the direction of either the train station or Piazzale Roma, keeping to the back calli and away from the vaporetti on the Grand Canal. In Campo Santa Margherita, she cut off to the left, in the direction of Piazzale Roma and the buses that went toward the mainland.

  Brunetti stayed as far behind her as he could without losing sound of her. It was after ten now, so there were few people on the street and almost no sound to obscure the steady, determined click of her heels.

  When she came out into the piazzale, she surprised Brunetti by crossing it, walking away from all of the spaces where the buses stopped. On the other side, she walked up the stairs and into the municipal parking garage, disappearing through the large open doorway. Brunetti hurried across the piazzale but stopped outside the door, trying to see into the dim interior.

  A man sat inside the glass booth to the right of the door. He looked up when Brunetti approached him. “Did a woman in a gray coat just come in here?”