Death and Judgment

by Donna Leon

  Back in his office, Brunetti gave into his impulse and dialed della Corte’s number. No one answered. He sat. He got up and walked to the window. Then he came back and sat at his desk again. Time passed. The phone rang and he picked it up.

  “Guido, did you know something about this?” della Corte asked, voice wary.

  Brunetti’s hand was slippery with sweat. He switched the phone to his other hand and wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers. “What happened?”

  “She hanged herself in her cell. They brought her back here about an hour ago and put her in a holding cell while they tried to locate a tape recorder for her confession. They didn’t bother to take her things from her, and when they got back to the cell, they found that she’d used her panty hose to hang herself from the heating vent.” Della Corte stopped speaking, but Brunetti said nothing.

  “Guido? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” Brunetti finally said. “Where are the men from Special Branch?”

  “They’re filling out forms. She told them on the way out here that she killed the three men.”

  “Why?”

  “Why did she tell them or why did she kill them?” della Corte asked.

  “Why did she kill them?”

  “She told them she’d had affairs with all of them in the past and had been blackmailing them for years. Then all three of them told her they wouldn’t pay anymore, so she decided to kill them.”

  “I see,” Brunetti said. “All three?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “How many of them are there?” Brunetti asked.

  “The men from Special Branch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Three.”

  “And they all say the same thing? That she killed them because she couldn’t blackmail them anymore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “No. I got all this from the guard who found her.”

  “When did they start to talk about her confession?” Brunetti asked. “Before or after she was dead?”

  “I don’t know,” della Corte said. “Does it matter?”

  No, Brunetti realized, it didn’t matter, for all three of the men from Special Branch, he was sure, would tell the same story. Adultery, blackmail, greed, and revenge: these were vices which would adequately explain what she had done. In fact, they were probably more believable than rage and horror and the icy lust for retribution. The word of three officers of the Special Branch was hardly to be questioned.

  Brunetti said, “Thank you,” and put the phone down softly. He sat and searched for scraps, for any thread of evidence that would pull another person to the truth. In the face of Signora Ceroni’s confession and suicide, the only tangible evidence was the phone records for the offices of the dead men. And what of that? Calls to various legitimate businesses in a number of countries, to a seedy bar in Mestre. It was little more than nothing and certainly not enough to merit investigation. Mara, he was sure, was back on the streets now, probably moved to some other city. And Silvestri would tell whatever story he was ordered to tell by the people who gave him drugs. Or he could just as easily be found dead of an overdose. Brunetti still had the videotape, but to trace it back to the Trevisans would mean asking Chiara to talk about it, to remember it, and he would not do that, no matter the consequences of his refusal.

  She had warned him, but he had refused to listen. She had even named the man who would send her killers. Or perhaps there was someone even more powerful than he involved in this, another respectable man who, like the centurion in the Bible, had but to say “Go” and someone went. Or three such servants went to do his bidding.

  From memory, he dialed the number of a friend who was a colonel at the Guardia di Finanza and briefly explained about Trevisan, Favero, and Lotto and the money they must have been receiving, and hiding, for years. The colonel said they’d look into Signora Trevisan’s finances as soon as they had the time and the personnel available. When Brunetti put the phone down, he felt no better. He put his elbows on his desk, lowered his head into his cupped hands, and sat that way for a long time. He had brought her in before dawn, but by eight o’clock the men from Special Branch had already come to get her.

  He pushed himself up from his desk and went down to the officers’ room two floors below, seeking Preside, the man who had been on guard duty when he had brought Signora Ceroni in. He had gone off duty at eight, but in his log book he had noted, “6:18 A.M. Lt. Scarpa takes over day shift. Comm. Brunetti’s report to Lt. Scarpa.”

  He left the room and stood for a moment in the hall, surprised that it took a few moments to feel entirely steady. He turned and walked toward the stairway that would take him from the Questura, forcing his mind away from the knowledge that remained behind him there. He started down the stairs, thinking of Signora Ceroni and of their strange journey through the night. He realized that he would never understand why she had done it. Perhaps you had to be a woman. He’d ask Paola. She usually understood things. At that thought, Brunetti’s heart came back to him, and he left the Questura, going home.

  ACQUA ALTA

  DONNA LEON

  Chapter One

  DOMESTIC TRANQUILLITY prevailed. Flavia Petrelli, the reigning diva of La Scala, stood in the warm kitchen and chopped onions. In separate heaps in front of her lay a pile of plum tomatoes, two cloves of garlic chopped into fine slices, and two plump-bottomed aubergines. She stood at the marble counter, bent over the vegetables, and she sang, filling the room with the golden tones of her soprano voice. Occasionally, she pushed at a lock of dark hair with the back of her wrist, but it was no sooner anchored behind her ear than it sprang loose and fell across her cheek.

  At the other end of the vast room that took up much of the top floor of the fourteenth-century Venetian palazzo, its owner and Flavia’s lover, Brett Lynch, sprawled across a beige sofa, bare feet propped against the far arm, head resting on the other, following the score of I Puritani, the music of which blared out, neighbours be damned, from two tall speakers resting on mahogany pedestals. Music swelled up to fill the room, and the singing Elvira prepared to go mad – for the second time. Eerily, two Elviras sang in the room: the first the one Flavia had recorded in London five months before and who now sang from the speakers; the second was the voice of the woman chopping the onions.

  Occasionally, as she sang in perfect union with her own recorded voice, Flavia broke off to ask, ‘Ouf, whoever said I had a middle register?’ or ‘Is that a B flat the violins are supposed to be playing?’ After each interruption, her voice returned to the music, her hands to the chopping. To her left, a large frying-pan sat on a low flame, a pool of olive oil waiting for the first vegetables.

  From four floors below, the doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ Brett said, placing the score face down on the floor and standing. ‘Probably the Jehovah’s Witnesses. They come on Sundays.’ Flavia nodded, brushed a strand of dark hair from her face with the back of her hand, and returned her attention to the onions and to Elvira’s delirium, in the midst of which she continued to sing.

  Barefoot, glad of the warmth of the apartment on this late January afternoon, Brett walked across the beamed floor and out into the entrance hall, picked up the speakerphone that hung beside the front door, and asked, ‘Chi è?’

  A man’s voice answered, speaking Italian, ‘We’re from the museum. With papers from Dottor Semenzato.’

  Strange that the director of the museum at the Doge’s Palace would send papers, especially on a Sunday, but perhaps he had been alarmed by the letter Brett had sent him from China – though he certainly hadn’t sounded that way earlier in the week – and wanted something read before the appointment he had grudgingly given for Tuesday morning.

  ‘Bring them up, if you don’t mind. Top floor.’ Brett replaced the phone and pressed the button that opened the door four floors down, then walked to the door and called to Flavia across the weeping violins, ‘Someone from the museum. Papers.
’

  Flavia nodded, picked up the first of the aubergines and sliced it in half, then, without missing a beat, returned to the serious business of losing her mind for love.

  Brett went back towards the front door, paused to bend down and turn over the corner of a carpet, then opened the door to the apartment. Footsteps approached from below, and two men came into sight, pausing at the bottom of the final ramp of steps. ‘There are only sixteen more,’ Brett said, smiling down at them in welcome, then, suddenly aware of the frigid air of the stairwell that edged in, covered one bare foot with the other.

  They stood on the steps below and looked up towards the open door. The first one carried a large manila envelope. They paused for a moment before beginning the final flight and Brett smiled again, calling down encouragement: ‘Forza.’

  The first one, short and fair-haired, smiled back and started up the last flight of steps. His companion, taller and darker, took a deep breath, then came up behind him. When the first man got to the door, he paused and waited for the other to join him.

  ‘Dottoressa Lynch?’ the blond one asked, pronouncing her last name in the Italian fashion.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, stepping back from the door to allow them to enter.

  Politely, both of them muttered, ‘Permesso,’ as they stepped into the apartment. The first one, whose light hair was cut very close to his head and who had attractive dark eyes, held out the envelope. ‘These are the papers, Dottoressa.’ As he handed them to her, he said, ‘Dottor Semenzato asked that you look at them immediately.’ Very soft, very polite. The tall one smiled and turned away, his attention distracted by a mirror that hung to the left of the door.

  She bent her head and began to open the flap of the envelope, which was held together with red sealing wax. The blond man stepped a bit closer to her, as if to take the envelope from her and help her open it, but suddenly he moved past her and grabbed her from behind by both arms, his grip fierce and tight.

  The envelope fell, bounced off her bare feet, and landed between her and the second man. He brushed it aside with his foot, as if careful of its contents, and stepped up close in front of her. As he moved, the other one tightened his grip on her arms. The tall one brought his face down from his considerable height and said, voice low and very deep, ‘You don’t want to keep that appointment with Dottor Semenzato.’

  She felt anger before she felt fear, and she spoke out of the first. ‘Let me go. And get out of here.’ She twisted sharply in an attempt to pull herself free of the man’s grip, but he tightened his hands, pinning her arms to her sides.

  Behind her, the music soared up and Flavia’s double voice filled the room. So perfectly did she sing the passage that no one could tell there were two voices, not one, that sang of pain and love and loss. Brett turned her face towards the music, but then by a conscious act of will stopped the motion and asked, turning back to the man in front of her, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  His voice changed as did his face, both growing ugly. ‘Don’t ask questions, bitch.’

  Again, she tried to twist herself free, but it was impossible. Bracing her weight on one foot, she kicked backward with the other, but her bare heel had no effect on the man who held her.

  From behind her, she heard the one who held her say, ‘All right. Do it.’

  She was turning her head to look at him when the first blow came, catching her in the centre of the stomach. The sudden, explosive pain pulled her forward with such force that she almost broke free from the man who held her, but he pulled her back and jerked her upright. The one in front of her hit her again, this time catching her below the left breast, and her response was the same, an involuntary motion that pulled her body forward to protect itself from this awful pain.

  Then quickly, so quickly that she lost count of how many times he did it, he began to punch at her body, catching her repeatedly on the breast and ribs.

  Behind her, Flavia’s voices sang now of the blissful future she looked forward to, so soon to be Arturo’s bride, and then he hit her on the side of the head. Her right ear buzzed, and then she could hear the music only with the left.

  She was conscious of just one thing: she couldn’t make any noise. She couldn’t scream, cry out, moan. The soprano voices blended behind her, exultant with joy, and her lip split open under the man’s fist.

  The one behind her released her right arm. There was no longer any need to restrain her, but he kept one hand on her arm to hold her upright and pulled her around until she was facing him. ‘Don’t keep your meeting with Dottor Semenzato,’ he said, voice still very low and polite.

  But she was gone from him, no longer listening to what he said, dimly conscious of the music and the pain, and the dark fear that these men might kill her.

  Her head hung and she saw only their feet. She sensed the taller one make a sudden motion towards her, and she felt warmth on her legs and face. She had lost control of her body and smelled the sharp stench of her own urine. Tasting blood, she saw it drip on to the floor and splash on to their shoes. She hung between them, thinking only that she couldn’t make a sound and wishing only that they would let her drop, let her roll herself up into a ball to reduce the pain that came at her from all over her body. And all the while this was happening, the double voice of Flavia Petrelli filled the room with the sounds of joy, soaring up over the voices of the chorus and the tenor, her sweet lover.

  With greater effort than she had applied to anything in her life, Brett raised her head and looked into the eyes of the tall one, who now stood directly in front of her. He smiled back at her with a smile so intimate that she might have seen it on a lover’s face. Slowly, he reached out and cupped her left breast in his hand, squeezing it gently, and he whispered, ‘Want some more, cara? It’s better with a man.’

  Her reaction was entirely involuntary. Her fist caught his face and glanced off without doing any harm, but the sudden motion pulled her free of the hand of the other one. She fell back against the wall and was conscious, in a disembodied way, of its solidity under her back.

  She felt herself sinking down, felt her sweater being pulled up by the heavy grain of the brick wall behind her. Slowly, slowly, as in a freeze-frame film, she sank down against the wall, its rough face scratching at her flesh as gravity pulled at her entire body.

  Things grew very confused. She heard Flavia’s voice singing the cabaletta, but then she heard Flavia’s other voice, no longer singing, scream in fury, ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t stop singing, Flavia,’ she tried to say, but she couldn’t remember how to say it. She sank to the floor, head tilted towards the entry to the living room, where she saw the real Flavia outlined against the light that streamed in from the other room, heard the same outline of glorious music that splashed in with her, and she saw the large chopping knife in Flavia’s hand.

  ‘No, Flavia,’ she whispered, but no one heard her.

  Flavia launched herself across the space that separated her from the two men. As surprised as she, they had no time to react, and the knife slashed across the upraised forearm of the shorter one. He howled in pain and pulled the arm to him, covering the wound with his other hand. Blood surged up through the fabric of his jacket.

  Another freeze frame. Then the taller man started towards the still-open door. Flavia pulled the knife back level with her hip and took two steps towards him. The wounded one kicked at her with his left foot, catching her on the side of the knee. She fell but landed kneeling, knife still pulled back beside her.

  Whatever communication passed between the two men was entirely silent, but at the same instant they both broke towards the door. The tall one paused long enough to snatch at the envelope, but the kneeling Flavia lashed out at his hand with the knife, and he backed away, leaving it on the floor. Flavia pushed herself to her feet and ran down a few steps after them but stopped and went back into the apartment, kicking the door closed behind her.

  She knelt beside the
supine form of the other woman. ‘Brett, Brett,’ she called, looking down at her. The bottom half of her face was streaked with blood that streamed from her nose and lip and from a patch of broken skin that ran across the left side of her forehead. She lay with one knee bent under her, her sweater bunched up under her chin, breasts exposed. ‘Brett,’ Flavia said again and for a moment believed that this utterly motionless woman was dead. She pushed that idea away immediately and placed her hand against the side of Brett’s throat.

  As slowly as dawn on a heavy winter morning, one eye opened, then the other, though, beginning to swell, it could open only halfway.

  ‘Stai bene?’ Flavia asked.

  The only answer she heard was a low moan. But it was an answer.

  ‘I’m going to call for help. Don’t worry, cara. They’ll be here soon.’

  She ran into the other room and reached for the telephone. For a second, she didn’t recognize what it was that prevented her from picking up the phone, but then she saw the bloody knife, her hand white-knuckled around the handle. She dropped it to the floor and grabbed the receiver. With stiff fingers, she jabbed out 113. After ten rings, a woman’s voice answered and asked her what she wanted.

  ‘This is an emergency. I need an ambulance. In Cannaregio.’

  Bored, the voice asked the exact address.

  ‘Cannaregio 6134.’

  ‘I’m sorry, signora. It’s Sunday and we have only one ambulance. I’ll have to put your name on the list.’

  Flavia’s voice rose. ‘There’s a woman here who’s hurt. Someone tried to kill her. She has to get to the hospital.’

  The voice took on a tone of wearied patience. ‘I’ve explained to you, signora. We have only one ambulance, and there are two calls for it to make first. As soon as it’s free, we’ll send it to you.’ When she had no response from Flavia, the voice asked, ‘Signora, are you still there? If you give me the address again, I’ll put your name on the list. Signora? Signora?’ In response to Flavia’s silence, the woman at the other end broke the connection, leaving Flavia with the receiver in her hand, wishing she still had the knife.