Vianello shifted restlessly in his seat, and Brunetti attempted to calm him by saying, 'We need his fingerprints to be on the things in the attic. As soon as Bocchese has them, we can think about bringing him in for questioning.'
'And if he refuses to give us a sample on his own?'
'He won't refuse, not once we have him here,' Brunetti said with absolute certainty. 'It would create a scandaclass="underline" the newspapers would eat him alive.'
'And killing the old woman won't create a scandal?'
'Yes, but a different sort, one he thinks he can talk his way out of. He'll claim that he was a victim, that he didn't know what he was doing, that he was not himself when he killed her.' Before Vianello could ask, he went on, 'Refusing to be fingerprinted, when he knows it's inescapable – that would look cowardly, so he'll avoid that.' He glanced away from Vianello and out of the window for a moment, then returned his attention to his colleague and said, 'Think about it: he created a false person years ago, this false doctor, and he won't move from that role, no matter what we do or can prove about him. He's lived within it so long he probably believes it by now or at least believes that he has earned the right to special treatment because of his position.'
'And so?' Vianello asked, apparently bored with all of this speculation and in need of practical information.
'And so we wait for Bocchese.'
Vianello got to his feet, thought about saying something but decided not to, and left.
Brunetti remained at his desk, thinking of power and the privileges many of those who had it believed accrued to them because of it. He ran through the people he worked with, hunting for this quality, and when his train of thought brought him into company with Lieutenant Scarpa, he pushed himself to his feet and went down to the lieutenant's office.
'Avanti’ Scarpa called out in response to Brunetti's knock.
Brunetti went in, leaving the door open. When he saw his superior, the lieutenant half stood, a movement that might as well have been an attempt to find a more comfortable position in his seat as a sign of respect. 'May I help you, Commissario?' he asked, lowering himself again into his chair.
'What's happening with Signora Gismondi?' Brunetti asked.
Scarpa's smile made a mockery of mirth. 'May I ask the reason for your concern, sir?' Scarpa asked.
'No,' Brunetti answered in a tone so peremptory that Scarpa failed to disguise his surprise. 'What's happening with your investigation of Signora Gismondi?'
'I assume you've spoken to the Vice-Questore and he's given you his permission to involve yourself in this, sir,' Scarpa said blandly.
'Lieutenant, I asked you a question,' Brunetti said.
Perhaps Scarpa thought he could stall for time; perhaps he was curious to see how far he could push Brunetti. 'I've spoken to some of her neighbours about her whereabouts on the morning of the murder, sir’ he said, glancing at Brunetti. When Brunetti failed to react, Scarpa went on, 'And I've called her employers to ask if this story about being in London at the time is true’
'And is that how you phrased it, Lieutenant?'
Scarpa made a tentative little gesture with one hand and said, 'I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Commissario.'
'Is that how you asked them: whether the story she's been giving the police is true? Or did you merely ask where she was?'
'Oh, I'm afraid I don't remember that, sir. I was more concerned with discovering the truth than with niceties of language.'
'And what answers did you get in your attempt to discover the truth. Lieutenant?'
‘I haven't found anyone who contradicts her story, sir, and it seems she was in London when she said she was.'
'So she was telling the truth?' Brunetti asked.
'It would appear so’ Scarpa said with exaggerated reluctance, then added, 'At least until I find someone who tells me that she is not.'
'Well, Lieutenant, that's not going to happen.'
Scarpa looked up, startled. 'I beg your pardon, sir.'
'It's not going to happen, Lieutenant, because you are going to stop, as of now, asking questions about Signora Gismondi.'
'I'm afraid my duty as…' Scarpa began.
Brunetti cracked. He leaned over Scarpa's desk and put his face a few centimetres from the lieutenant's. He noted that the younger man's breath smelled faintly of mint. 'If you question another person about her, Lieutenant, I will break you.'
Scarpa yanked his head back in astonishment. His mouth fell open.
Leaning even farther over the desk, Brunetti thumped his palms flat on its surface and again moved his face close to Scarpa's. 'If I learn that you speak to anyone about her or insinuate that she had anything to do with this, I will have you out of here, Lieutenant.' Brunetti raised his right hand and grabbed the lapel of Scarpa's jacket, tightening his hand into a fist and yanking him forward.
Brunetti's face was suffused with blood and rage. 'Do you understand me, Lieutenant?'
Scarpa tried to speak, but all he could do was open his mouth, then close it.
Brunetti pushed him away and left the office. In the corridor he almost bumped into Pucetti, who was wheeling away from Scarpa's door. 'Ah, Commissario,' the young officer said, his face a study in blandness, ‘I wanted to ask you about the duty rosters for next week, but I couldn't help overhearing you settle them just now with Lieutenant Scarpa, so I won't trouble you with them.' His face sober and respectful, Pucetti gave a sharp salute, and Brunetti went back to his office.
There, he waited, sure that Bocchese would call him when he got back with news of whatever he had found in Signora Battestini's attic. He called Lalli, Masiero and Desideri and told them they could call off the dogs, for he thought he had found the old woman's killer. None of them asked who it was; all of them thanked him for calling.
He also phoned Signorina Elettra and told her the probable meaning of the phone call to the school board. 'Why would she call him out of the blue like that, that last time?' she asked when he told her. 'Things had been continuing for more than a decade, and the only other time she contacted him in all those years was when we switched to the Euro.' Before he could ask, she supplied, 'Yes, I've checked her phone calls for the last ten years. Those were the only calls between them.' She paused for a long time and then said, 'It doesn't make any sense.'
'Maybe she got greedy,' Brunetti suggested.
'At eighty-three?' Signorina Elettra asked. 'Let me think about it,' she said and hung up.
After another hour, he walked down to Bocchese's office, but one of the technicians said his chief was still out at some crime scene over in Cannaregio. Brunetti drifted down to the bar near the bridge and had a glass of wine and a panino, then walked out to the riva and looked across at San Giorgio and, beyond it, the Redentore. Then he went back to his office.
He had been back little more than ten minutes, trying to impose order upon the accumulation of objects in the drawers of his desk, when Signorina Elettra appeared at his door. Her shoes were green, he had time to notice before she said, 'You were right, Commissario.' Then in answer to his unspoken question, she explained, 'She got greedy.' And before he could ask about that, she said, 'You said all she did was sit and watch television, didn't you?'
It took him a moment to return from the consideration of that green, but when he did he said, 'Yes. Everyone in the neighbourhood talked about it.'
'Then look at this’ she said. Approaching his desk, she handed him a photocopy of the familiar television listings that appeared in the Gazzettino every day. 'Look at 11 p.m., sir.'