Brunetti held out his hand to the other, who glanced nervously back to the group and, hearing nothing, took Brunetti’s hand and shook it. ‘Paolo Mazza.’
Brunetti turned back to the redhead. ‘Do you recognize the man in the photo, Signor Canale?’ Brunetti asked.
The redhead looked off to the side until Mazza said, ‘He’s talking to you, Roberta, don’t you even remember your name?’
‘Of course I remember my name,’ the redhead said, turning angrily to Mazza. Then, to Brunetti, ‘Yes, I recognize the man, but I can’t tell you who he is. I can’t even tell you why I recognize him. He just looks like someone I know.’
Realizing how inadequate this must sound, Canale explained, ‘You know how it is when you see the man from the cheese store on the street, and he’s not wearing his apron: you know him but you don’t know how you know him, and you can’t remember who he is. You know that you know him, but he’s out of place, so you can’t remember who he is. That’s how it is with the man in the drawing. I know I know him, or I’ve seen him, the same way you see the man in the cheese store, but I can’t remember where he’s supposed to be.’
‘Is he supposed to be here?’ Brunetti asked. When Canale gave him an empty look, he explained, ‘Here on Via Cappuccina? Is this where you’d expect to see him?’
‘No, no. Not at all. That’s what’s so strange about it. Wherever it was I saw him, it didn’t have anything to do with all of this.’ He waved his hands in the air, as if seeking the answer there. ‘It’s like I saw one of my teachers here. Or the doctor. He’s not supposed to be here. It’s just a feeling, but it’s very strong,’ Then, seeking confirmation, he asked Brunetti, ‘Do you understand what I mean?’
‘Yes, I do. Perfectly. I once had a man stop me on the street in Rome and say hello to me. I knew I knew him, but I didn’t know why.’ Brunetti smiled, risking it. ‘I’d arrested him two years before. But in Naples.’
Luckily, both men laughed. Canale said, ‘May I keep the picture? Maybe it will come back to me if I can, you know, look at it every once in a while. Maybe that will surprise me into remembering.’
‘Certainly. I appreciate your help,’ Brunetti said.
It was Mazza’s turn to risk. ‘Was he very bad? When you found him?’ He brought his hands together in front of him, one clutching at the other.
Brunetti nodded.
‘Isn’t it enough they want to fuck us?’ Canale broke in. ‘Why do they want to kill us, too?’
Though the question was addressed to powers well beyond those for whom Brunetti worked, he still answered it. ‘I have no idea.’
Chapter Eleven
The next day, Friday, Brunetti thought he had better make an appearance at the Venice Questura to see what paperwork and mail had accumulated for him. Furthermore, he admitted to Paola over coffee that morning, he wanted to see if there was anything new on ‘Il Caso Patta’.
‘Nothing in Gente or Oggi,’ she contributed, naming the two most famous gossip magazines, then added, ‘though I’m not sure that Signora Patta rates the attention of either.’
‘Don’t let her hear you say that,’ Brunetti warned, laughing.
‘If I’m a lucky woman, Signora Patta will never hear me say anything.’ More amiably, she asked, ‘What do you think Patta will do?’
Brunetti finished his coffee and set his cup down before he answered. ‘I don’t think there’s very much he can do except wait for Burrasca to get tired of her or for her to get tired of Burrasca and come back.’
‘What’s he like, Burrasca?’ Paola didn’t waste time asking if the police had a file on Burrasca. As soon as anyone in Italy made enough money, someone would have a file.
‘From what I’ve heard, he’s a pig. He’s part of that Milano world of cocaine, cars with fast engines, and girls with slow brains.’
‘Well, he’s got half of one of them this time,’ Paola said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Signora Patta. She’s not a girl, but she’s certainly got a slow brain.’
‘Do you know her that well?’ Brunetti was never sure whom Paola knew. Or what.
‘No, I’m simply inferring it from the fact that she married Patta and stayed married to him. I imagine it would be difficult to put up with a pompous ass like that.’
‘But you put up with me,’ Brunetti said, smiling, in search of a compliment.
Her look was level. ‘You’re not pompous, Guido. At times you’re difficult, and sometimes you’re impossible, but you are not pompous.’ No compliments here.
He pushed himself back from the table, feeling that it was perhaps time to go to the Questura.
When he got to his office, he looked through the papers waiting for him on his desk, disappointed to find nothing about the dead man in Mestre. He was interrupted by a knock on the door. ‘Avanti,’ he called, thinking it might be Vianello with something from Mestre. Instead of the sergeant, a dark-haired young woman walked in, a sheaf of files in her right hand. She smiled across the room at him and approached his desk, looking down at the papers in her hand and paging through them.
‘Commissario Brunetti?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She pulled a few papers from one of the files and placed them on the desk in front of him. ‘The men downstairs said you might want to see these, Dottore.’
‘Thank you, Signorina,’ he said, pulling the papers across the desk towards him.
She remained standing in front of his desk, clearly waiting to be asked who she was, perhaps too shy to introduce herself He looked up, saw large brown eyes in an appealing full face and an explosion of bright lipstick. ‘And you are?’ he asked with a smile.
‘Elettra Zorzi, sir. I started work last week as secretary to Vice-Questore Patta.’ That would explain the new desk outside Patta’s office. Patta had been going on for months, insisting that he had too much paperwork to handle by himself. And so he had managed, like a particularly industrious truffle pig, to root around in the budget long enough to find the money for a secretary.
‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Signorina Zorzi,’ Brunetti said. The name rang familiarly in his ear.
‘I believe I’m to work for you, as well, Commissario,’ she said, smiling.
Not if he knew Patta, she wouldn’t. But still he said, ‘That would certainly be very nice,’ and glanced down at the papers she had placed on the desk.
He heard her move away and glanced up to follow her out of the door. A skirt, neither short nor long, and very, very nice legs. She turned at the door, saw him looking at her, and smiled again. He looked down at the papers. Who would name a child Elettra? How long ago? Twenty-five years? And Zorzi; he knew lots of Zorzis, but none of them was capable of naming a daughter Elettra. The door closed behind her, and he returned his attention to the papers, but there was little of interest in them; crime seemed to be on holiday in Venice.
He went down to Patta’s office but stopped in amazement when he entered the anteroom. For years, the room had held only a chipped porcelain umbrella stand and a desk covered with outdated copies of the sort of magazines generally found in dentists’ offices. Today, the magazines had vanished, replaced by a computer console attached to a printer that stood on a low metal table to the left of the desk. In front of the window, in place of the umbrella stand, stood a small table, this one of wood, and on it rested a glass vase holding an enormous bouquet of orange and yellow gladioli.
Either Patta had decided to give an interview to Architectural Digest, or the new secretary had decided that the opulence Patta believed fitting for his office should trickle out to where worked the lower orders. As if summoned by Brunetti’s thoughts, she came into the office.