‘What are the apartments like?’
‘Crespo’s was four rooms, in a modern building. It’s the only one I’ve seen, but from the addresses I saw on the list, at least the addresses here in the city, and the number of rooms, I’d say they would have to be desirable apartments, many of them.’
‘Do you have any idea of how many of them are like Canale’s, and the owner pays the rent in cash?’
‘No, sir, I don’t. At this point, I need to speak to the people who live in the apartments and find out how many of them are involved in this. I must see the bank records for the Lega. And I need the list of the names of these widows and orphans who are supposed to be getting money every month.’
‘That means a court order, doesn’t it?’ Patta asked, his native caution seeping into his tone. To move against someone like Canale or Crespo was perfectly all right, and no one to care about how it was done. But a bank -a bank, that was a different matter entirely.
‘I’m assuming, sir, that there is some tie-in here with Santomauro and that any investigation of Mascari’s death will lead us to him.’ Perhaps if Patta was not to have vengeance against Santomauro’s wife, then he would settle for Santomauro himself.
‘I suppose that’s possible,’ Patta said, wavering.
At the first sign of the weakness of a truthful argument, Brunetti was, as ever, willing to turn to mendacity. ‘It’s probable that the bank records are in order and the bank has had nothing to do with this, that it has been manipulated by Santomauro alone. Once we eliminate the possibility of irregularity at the bank, then we’ll be free to move against Santomauro.’
Patta needed no more than this to tip himself over the edge. ‘All right, I’ll request that the instructing judge give us an order to sequester the bank records.’
‘And the documents of the Lega, as well,’ Brunetti risked, thought for a moment about naming Santomauro again, but resisted.
‘All right,’ Patta agreed, but in a voice that made it clear that Brunetti would get no more.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll start now, getting some of the men to talk to the people on the list.’
‘Good, good,’ Patta said, no longer much interested. He bent down over the papers on his desk again, ran a hand affectionately across their surface, then looked up as if surprised to see Brunetti standing there. ‘Is there anything else, Commissario?’
‘No, sir, no. That’s all,’ Brunetti said and went across to the door. When he let himself out, Patta was reaching for the phone.
Back in his own office, he put a call through to Bolzano and asked to speak to Signora Brunetti.
After some clicks and pauses, Paola’s voice came across the line to him. ’Ciao, Guido, come stai? I tried to get you at home Monday night. Why haven’t you called?’
‘I’ve been busy, Paola. Have you been reading the papers?’
‘Guido, you know I’m on vacation. I’ve been reading The Master. The Sacred Fount is wonderful. Nothing happens, absolutely nothing.’
‘Paola, I don’t want to talk about Henry James.’
She had heard the words before, but never with that tone. ‘What’s wrong, Guido?’
Immediately, he regretted not having made more of an effort to call her sooner. ‘There’s been some trouble here,’ he said, trying to make little of it.
Instantly alert, she asked, ‘What sort of trouble?’
‘An accident.’
Voice softer, she said, ‘Tell me about it, Guido.’
‘I was coming back from Mestre, and someone tried to run us off the bridge.’
‘Us?’
‘I was with Vianello,’ he said, then added, ‘and Maria Nardi.’
‘The girl from Canareggio? The new one?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
How was it that no one had called her? Why hadn’t he? ‘Our car was hit and we crashed into the guard rail. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and she was tossed against the door. It broke her neck.’
‘Ah, the poor girl,’ Paola whispered. ‘Are you all right, Guido?’
‘I was shaken up, and so was Vianello, but we’re all right.’ He tried for a lighter tone, ‘No broken bones.’
‘I’m not talking about broken bones,’ she said, voice still very soft, but quick, either with impatience or concern. ‘I’m asking if you’re all right.’
‘Yes, I think I am. But Vianello blames himself. He was driving.’
‘Yes, Vianello would blame himself. Try to talk to him, Guido. Keep him busy.’ She paused and then asked, ‘Do you want me to come back?’
‘No, Paola, you barely got there. I just wanted you to know I was all right. In case you read it in the papers. Or in case anyone asked you about it’ He heard himself talking, heard himself trying to blame her for not having called, for not having read the papers.
‘Do you want me to tell the children?’
‘I guess you better, in case they hear about it or read something. But play it down, if you can.’
‘I will, I will, Guido. When’s the funeral?’
For a moment, he didn’t know which one she meant: Mascari’s, Crespo’s, or Maria Nardi’s? No, it could only be Maria’s. ‘I think it’s Friday morning.’
‘Will you all go?’
‘As many of us as can. She’d only been on the force a short time, but she had a lot of friends.’
‘Who was it?’ she asked, no need to explain the question.
‘I don’t know. The car was gone before we realized what happened. But I’d just been in Mestre to meet someone, one of the transvestites, so whoever it was knew where I was. It would have been easy to follow us. There’s only the one road back.’
‘And the transvestite?’ she asked. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘Too late. He’s been killed.’
‘Same person?’ she asked in that telegraphic style they’d had two decades to develop.
‘Yes. Has to be.’
‘And the first one? The one in the field?’
‘It’s all the same thing.’
He heard her say something to someone else, then her voice came back, and she said, ‘Guido, Chiara’s here and wants to say hello.’
‘Ciao, Papà, how have you been? Do you miss me?’
‘I’ve been fine, angel, and I miss you terribly. I miss you all.’
‘But do you miss me most?’
‘I miss you all the same.’
‘That’s impossible. You can’t miss Raffi because he’s never home anyway. And Mamma just sits and reads that book all day, so who’d miss her? That means you’ve got to miss me most, doesn’t it?’
‘I guess that’s right, angel.’
‘See, I knew it. You just had to think about it a little bit, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m glad you reminded me.’
He heard noises on Chiara’s end of the phone, then she said, ‘Papa, I’ve got to give you back to Mamma. You tell her, will you, to come for a walk with me? She just sits here on the terrace all day and reads. What sort of vacation is that?’ With that complaint, she was gone, replaced by Paola.
‘Guido, if you’d like me to come back, I can.’
He heard Chiara’s howl of protest at the suggestion and answered, ‘No, Paola, it’s not necessary. Really. I’ll try to get up there this weekend.’
She had heard similar promises many times before, so she didn’t ask him to swear to it. ‘Can you tell me more about it, Guido?’
‘No, Paola, I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘Here?’
‘I hope so. If not, then I’ll call you. Look, I’ll call you either way, whether I’m coming or not. All right?’
‘All right, Guido. For God’s sake, please be careful.’
‘I will, Paola. I will. You be careful, too?’
‘Careful? Careful of what, up here in the middle of paradise?’
‘Careful you don’t finish your book, the way you did in Cortina that time.’ Both laughed at the memory. She had taken The Golden Bowl with her but finished it in the first week, leaving her with nothing to read and, consequently, nothing to do for the second week except walk in the mountains, swim, loaf in the sun, and chat with her husband. She had loathed every minute of it.