Through a glass, darkly cgb-15

by Donna Leon

  'You've been very helpful, Signor Biaggi. It's always nice to talk to a man who knows his job.'

  When Biaggi, made faintly uncomfortable by praise, had left, Repeta asked, making no attempt to disguise the curiosity Brunetti's questions had provoked in him, 'Are you a man who knows your job, Commissario?'

  'I'm beginning to think so’ Brunetti said, thanked him, and went back to the Questura.

  25

  Brunetti's mind turned to tactics. Patta was sure to reject the idea that a man like Fasano—already possessed of some political clout and on his way to acquiring more—could be involved in crime. Nor was he likely to authorize Brunetti to conduct a full investigation based on nothing more than bits and pieces of information and the patterns into which they might be made to fit. Evidence? Brunetti sniffed at the very word. He had nothing more than suspicions and events that could be interpreted in a particular way.

  He dialled Bocchese's internal number. The technician answered with his name.

  'You have time to look at that sample yet?' Brunetti asked.

  'Sample?'

  "That Foa brought you.'

  'No. I forgot. Tomorrow?'

  'Yes.'

  Brunetti knew he should stop thinking about this until he had the results of Bocchese's analyses: before that, he could have no certain idea of what had gone on or what had gone into the field behind the two factories. De Cal grew wild at the thought that his son-in-law, the environmentalist, would some day be involved with his factory and would sooner sell it than let it pass to his daughter and thus to her husband. Sell it instead to Gianluca Fasano, rising star in the polluted firmament of local politics, his advance heralded by his deep concern for the environmental degradation of his native city. Some environmentalists were apparently more equal than others to De Cal.

  None of this would have merited a second glance, were it not for Giorgio Tassini, a man whom the random forces of life had driven into an erratic orbit. Searching for proof that would free him of the guilt of having destroyed his daughter's life, what had he stumbled upon?

  Brunetti tried to recall his conversation with Tassini, unsettled by the realization that it had taken place only a few days before. When Brunetti had asked him if De Cal knew about the pollution, Tassini had replied that both of them knew what was going on, leaving Brunetti to draw the obvious conclusion that he meant De Cal's daughter. But that was before Foa had given Brunetti a detailed map of Murano, one that provided latitude and longitude readings as well as the location of all buildings, and confirmed that the last coordinates on Tassini's paper indicated a point within Fasano's factory.

  His phone rang as he sat at his desk, staring at the map and shifting and reshifting the pieces of information in his mind. Distracted, he answered with his name.

  'Guido?' asked a voice he recognized.

  'Yes.'

  Something in his tone provoked a long pause. 'It's me, Guido. Paola. Your wife. Remember me?'

  Brunetti grunted.

  'Then food? You remember food, Guido, don't you? Something called lunch?'

  He looked at his watch, amazed to see that it was after two. 'Oh, my God’ he said. I'm sorry. I forgot.'

  'To come home or to eat?' she asked.

  'Both.'

  'Are you all right?' she asked with real concern.

  'It's this thing with Tassini’ he said. 'I can't figure it out, or I can't find any proof of what I think is true.'

  'You will’ she said’and then added, 'or else you won't. In either case, you will always remain the bright star of my life.'

  He took this as it was meant. 'Thank you, my dear. I need to be told that once in a while.'

  'Good.' There followed a long pause. 'Will...' she started to say.

  Brunetti spoke at the same moment. 'I'll be home early.'

  'Good’ she said and hung up.

  Brunetti looked at the map again. Nothing had changed, but it all suddenly seemed less terrible, though he knew this should not be so.

  When in doubt, provoke. It was a principle he had learned, over the years, from Paola. He checked Pelusso's office number in his address book.

  'Pelusso’ the journalist answered on the third ring.

  'It's me, Guido’ Brunetti said. 'I need you to place something.'

  Perhaps responding to Brunetti's tone, Pelusso did not ask the sort of ironic question an opening like this would usually provoke him to. 'Where?' was all he asked.

  'Preferably on the front page of the second section.'

  'Local news, huh? What sort of thing?'

  "That the authorities—I don't think you have to name them, but it would be nice if the article could suggest it's the Magistrate alle Acque— have learned of the presence of dangerous substances in a field in Murano and are about to begin an investigation of their source.'

  Pelusso made a humming noise, as if to convey that he was writing this down, then asked, 'What else?'

  "That the investigation is related to another one currently under way.'

  'Tassini?' Pelusso asked.

  After only minimal hesitation, Brunetti said, 'Yes’

  'You want to tell me what this is about?'

  'Only if it doesn't appear in the article,' Brunetti said.

  It took Pelusso some time to answer, but he finally said, 'All right.'

  'It looks like Tassini's employers were using some sort of illegal system to get rid of dangerous waste.'

  'What were they doing?'

  'Same thing they did until 1973: just dumping it all into the laguna.'

  'What sort of waste?'

  'From the molatura. Ground particles of glass and minerals’ Brunetti answered.

  'Doesn't sound very toxic to me.'

  'I'm not sure that it is’ Brunetti agreed. 'But it's illegal.'

  'And che brutta figura if one of those employers is the same man whose name is now beginning to be linked to the environmental cause’ Pelusso observed.

  'Yes’ Brunetti said, realizing as he said it that he was saying far too much, and to a journalist. 'This can't appear’ he added. 'What we're saying now.'

  'Why do you want it printed, then?' Pelluso asked, voice stern with unexpressed displeasure.

  Brunetti chose to answer the question and ignore the way in which it had been asked. 'It's like opening an ant hill. You do it, and then you wait to see what happens.'

  'And who comes out’ Pelusso added.

  'Exactly.'

  Pelusso laughed, his irritation forgotten, then said, 'It's not even three. I'll have it in tomorrow morning. Nothing easier; don't worry.'

  It was only then that Brunetti thought to ask, 'Will there be any trouble if the whole thing's false and there's no sign of pollution?'

  Pelusso laughed again, harder this time. 'How long have you been reading the Gazzettino, Guido?'

  'Of course,' came Brunetti's chastened response. 'How silly of me.'

  'No need to worry, really,' Pelusso said.

  'But you might be questioned about your source,' Brunetti said, in what he tried to make a joking tone. 'And then I'd be looking for a job.'

  'Since the information came to me from a source inside the mayor's office,' Pelusso said indignantly, no doubt in the voice he would use were he to be questioned by his employers, 'I can hardly be expected to reveal it.' After a moment, Pelusso continued, 'It'll run right next to the story about the Questura.'

  'What story?' Brunetti asked, knowing this was what his friend wanted him to say.

  'About the women at the Ufficio Stranieri. You've heard about what's going on, haven't you?'

  Relieved at his own ignorance, Brunetti could say, honestly, 'No. Nothing.' When Pelusso remained silent, Brunetti asked, 'What is it?'

  'I've got a friend who's familiar with the office’ Pelusso said, leaving it to Brunetti to translate what 'friend' might mean to an investigative journalist.

  'And?'

  'And he told me that two women who have been there for decades asked for, and
were given, early retirement this week.'

  'I'm sorry, Elio,' said an impatient Brunetti, ‘But I don't know what you're talking about.'

  Not at all unsettled by Brunetti's tone, Pelusso continued. 'My friend said they'd been accepting payments from people for years for filing their applications for residence and work permits, and keeping the money'

  'That's impossible,' Brunetti protested. 'Don't they have to give them receipts?'

  "The story I was told,' Pelusso went on with sweet patience, 'was that they were the only ones working in the office, and they'd ask for cash from the people who came in alone or without an Italian agent. The story I heard said that one of them would ask for the payment, and then send the applicant to the other woman, who had a register, and signing this register was supposed to be their receipt. Seems they'd been doing it for years.'

  'But who'd believe that? Signing a register?' demanded Brunetti.

  'People in a strange country, they don't speak much Italian, and it's a city office, and there're two women saying the same thing. Seems to me lots of people would sign it. And it seems they did.'

  Brunetti asked, 'So what happened?'

  'Someone complained to the Questore about it, and he had them in his office the same day. With the register. They're both on administrative leave now, but they retire at the end of the month.'

  'And the people who signed the register? What happens to them? Did they get their permits?'

  'I don't know’ Pelusso said. 'You want me to find out?'

  For a moment, Brunetti was tempted, but good sense intervened and he answered, 'No. Thanks. It's enough to know it happened.'

  'The dawn of justice in our fair city,' Pelusso said in a portentous voice.

  Brunetti made a rude noise and replaced the phone. He dialled Signorina Elettra's number and, when she answered, asked, 'Your friend Giorgio still work at Telecom?'

  'Yes, he does,' she said but then added, 'Of course, it's no longer necessary for me to consult him.'

  'Don't tease me today, please, Signorina’ Brunetti said, heard how that sounded, and quickly added, 'by suggesting that you've suddenly taken to using the official channels to obtain information.'

  If she heard the gear shift in his voice, she chose to ignore it and said, 'No, Commissario. It's that I've found a more direct way to access their information.'

  So much for using official channels, Brunetti thought. The gypsy children were not the only recidivists in the city. 'You've got Tassini's home number. I'd like you to get numbers for Fasano and De Cal: home, office, telefonini. And I'd like you to check for calls between any two of them’ he said, wondering why he had not thought to do this before. Though never saying so directly, Fasano had certainly made it sound as if he knew little more about Tassini than that he was working off the books and had a handicapped daughter, nothing more than what everyone at the factory would know.

  'Of course’ she said.

  'How long will it take?' he asked, hoping he might have the information the following morning.

  'Oh, I'll bring it up in fifteen minutes or so, Commissario,' she answered.

  'Much faster than Giorgio’ Brunetti said in open admiration.

  'Yes, that's true. I'm afraid his heart wasn't in it’ she said and was gone.

  It took closer to twenty minutes, but when she came in she was smiling. 'De Cal and Fasano seem to be quite good friends’ she began, putting some papers on his desk. 'But I won't spoil it for you, Commissario. I'll leave you to read through the lists’ she said, adding more paper. He looked at the numbers and times on the first sheet, and when he glanced up, she had gone.

  Indeed, De Cal and Fasano had spoken to one another with some frequency during the last three months: there were at least twelve calls, most of them made by Fasano. He looked at Tassini's number: during the years of his employment by De Cal, he had called the factory seven times. No call had been made to him either from De Cal's office or from his home.

  With Fasano, however, the case was rather different. Tassini had been working there only two months when he died, yet the records from his home phone showed that he had called Fasano's telefonino six times, and the factory twice. Fasano, for his part, had called Tassini at home once ten days before he died and once on the day before. In addition, at 11:34 of the night Tassini died, Fasano's telefonino showed a call to the De Cal factory.

  Brunetti pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked under Idraulici then dialled the number for Adil-San. When the young woman with the pleasant smile answered, Brunetti give his name and asked if he could speak to her father.

  After a bit of music and a few clicks, Brunetti heard Repeta say, 'Good afternoon, Commissario. How can I help you now?'

  'One quick question, Signor Repeta,' Brunetti said, seeing no reason to waste time in a formal exchange of pleasantries. 'When I was over at your office, I didn't ask enough about the procedure when you empty the tanks.'

  'What is it you'd like to know, Commissario?'

  'When you do it, how do you empty the tanks?'

  'I'm not sure I understand your question,' Repeta said.

  'Do you empty them completely?' Brunetti explained: 'So that you can see inside them, that is.'

  'I'd have to look at their bill’ Repeta said, then quickly explained: 'I don't know what system we use with each of the clients, but if I look at the bill, the costs are detailed, so I'll know exactly what we did.' He paused a moment and then asked, 'Would you like me to call you back?'

  'No, that's all right’ Brunetti said. 'Now that I've got you on the line, I'd rather wait.'

  'All right. It should take only a few minutes.'

  Brunetti heard a clack as Repeta set the receiver down, then footsteps, then a rough noise that could have been a door or drawer opening. And then silence. Brunetti gazed out of his window at the sky, studying the clouds and thinking about the weather. He tried to force his mind into a straight line, thinking of nothing but the clear sky and the coming and going of clouds.

  The footsteps returned, and then Repeta said, 'From what I see on the invoice, all we do is pick up the barrels of sludge. That means they clean out the tanks themselves.'

  'Is this normal?' Brunetti asked.

  'Do you mean do the other vetrerie do it this way?'

  'Yes.'

  'Some do. Some don't. I'd guess about two-thirds of them opt to have us clean out the tanks.'

  'Another last question’ Brunetti said, and before Repeta could agree to answer it, he asked, 'Do you service De Cal's factory?'

  'That old bastard?' Repeta asked without humour.

  'Yes.'

  'We did until about three years ago.'

  'What happened?'

  'He didn't pay for two pick-ups, and then when I called him, he said I'd have to wait to be paid.'

  'And so?'

  'And so we stopped going there.'

  'Did you try to get your money?' Brunetti asked.

  'And do what, bring charges against him and spend ten years in the courts?' Repeta asked, still without any sign of humour.

  'Do you know who makes the pick-ups now?' Brunetti asked.

  Repeta hesitated, but then said 'No', and hung up.

  26

  The expected summons came at eleven the next morning, by which time Brunetti had read the article—which did not carry Pelusso's byline—three times. An organization in the city administration, it stated, alerted to a case of illegal dumping at a glass factory on Murano, was about to open an investigation. There followed a catalogue of the various inquiries already being conducted by the Magistrate alle Acque, thus leaving no doubt in any reader's mind—though without saying so— that this was the office involved. Because the cases cited all involved the dumping of toxic materials, the reader again was led to believe that the same was true this time. The final paragraph stated that the police, already conducting an investigation into a suspicious death, were also involved.

  'The Vice-Questore would like to see you’ Signorina Ele
ttra said when she called his office. Nothing more, a sure sign of trouble at hand.

  I'll be right down,' he said, deciding to take with him the folder into which he had put all of the information he had accumulated since first being sucked into the wake of Giorgio Tassini.

  Patta's door was open when he got there, so Brunetti could do no more than smile at Signo-rina Elettra, who surprised him by holding up her right hand, fingers lifted in a wide V. Vittoria? Brunetti wondered. More likely vittima. Equally possible, vendetta.

  'Shut the door, Brunetti’ Patta said in greeting.

  He did as he was told and went and sat, unasked, in the chair in front of Patta's desk. How like being back at school this always was, Brunetti reflected.

  'This article’ Patta said, tapping a well-manicured forefinger on the first page of the second section of the Gazzettino. 'Is it yours?'

  What could Patta do to him? Expel him? Send him home to get a note from his parents? His father was dead, and his mother was an empty shell, her mind filled with the tiny filaments of Alzheimer's. No one to write a note for Guido.

  'If you mean in the sense that I'm responsible for it’ Brunetti said, suddenly tired, 'yes.'

  Patta was obviously taken aback by Brunetti's response. He drew the newspaper towards him and, forgetting to put on the reading glasses he kept on his desk for effect, read through it again. 'Fasano, I assume?' he asked.

  'He seems to be involved’ Brunetti said.

  'In what?' Patta asked with real curiosity.

  It took Brunetti almost half an hour to explain, starting with his trip to Mestre to speak on Marco Ribetti's behalf—he left Patta to conclude that they were old friends—and finishing with the phone records and a drawing of the sedimentation tanks in Fasano's factory.

  'You think Fasano killed him?' Patta asked when Brunetti finished.

  Becoming evasive, Brunetti answered, 'I think a case could be made from what I've just told you that he did.'