A Venetian Reckoning (15 page)

'Why do you ask?'

'I thought that, if you knew him, it
would be a difficult moment for you, losing two friends so closely together.'

'No, I didn't know him. Not
personally, at least.'

Brunetti shook his head. 'A sad
thing.'

'Yes,' Lotto agreed dismissively and
got to his feet 'Will there be anything else, commissario?'

Brunetti stood, looked around
awkwardly for somewhere to put his unfinished drink, allowed Lotto to take it
from him and place it beside the other glass on the table. 'No. Just that list
of clients.'

Tomorrow. Or the day after,’ Lotto
said, starting for the door.

Brunetti suspected it would be the
latter, but he didn't allow that to stop him from extending his hand and his
effusive thanks to the accountant for his time and co-operation.

Lotto saw Brunetti to the door of the
office, shook his hand again, and then closed the door behind him. In the
corridor, Brunetti paused for a moment and studied the discreet bronze plaque
that stood to the right of the door across the hall: 'C. Trevisan Avvocato'.
Brunetti had no doubt that the same atmosphere of efficient industry would prevail
behind that door, as well, though he was now also convinced that the two
offices were linked together by far more than their physical location, just as
he was now certain they were both somehow linked to Rino Favero.

15

The following morning, Brunetti found
on his desk, faxed to him by Capitano della Corte at the Padua police, a copy
of the file on Rino Favero, whose death was still being reported, at least to
the press and public, as a suicide. It told him little more about Favero's
death than della Corte had told him on the phone; what Brunetti found
interesting was what it revealed about Favero's apparent position in the
society and the world of financial affairs in Padua, a sleepy, rich town about
a half-hour to the west of Venice.

Favero specialized in corporate law,
was the head of an office of seven accountants which enjoyed the highest
reputation, not only in Padua but in the entire province. His clients included
many of the major businessmen and industrialists of this factory-dense province
as well as the chairmen of three different departments of the university, one
of the best in Italy. Brunetti recognized the names of many of the companies
whose finances Favero examined as well as the names of many of his private
clients. There was no discernible pattern: chemicals, leather goods, travel and
employment agencies, the Department of Political Science: Brunetti could see no
way to connect them.

Nervous and eager for action, or even
a change of location, he thought of going out to Padua to speak to della Corte,
but after a moment's reflection decided to call him, instead. That thought
brought to mind della Corte's admonition that he not speak to anyone else about
Favero, a warning that suggested there was more to be known about Favero -
perhaps about the Padua police, as well - than della Corte had at first been
willing to reveal.

'Delia Corte,' the captain answered
on the first ring.

'Good morning, capitano, it's
Brunetti. In Venice.'

'Good morning, commissario.'

‘I called to ask if anything's new
there,' Brunetti said.

'Yes.'

'About Favero?'

'Yes,’ della Corte answered briefly
and then added, 'It seems you and I have some friends in common, dottore.'

"We do?’ Brunetti asked,
surprised by the remark. 'After speaking to you yesterday, I called around to
some people I know.’ Brunetti said nothing.

‘I mentioned your name,’ della Corte
said. 'In passing:

Brunetti doubted that. "What
people?’ he asked.

'Riccardo Fosco, for one. In Milano.'

‘Ah, and how is he?’ Brunetti asked,
though his real curiosity concerned the reason deHa Corte would have called an
investigative reporter to ask about Brunetti, for he was sure the call to Fosco
had not been made in passing.

'He said a number of dungs about
you,' della Corte began. 'All good.'

As little as two years ago, if
Brunetti had learned that a policeman felt it necessary to call a reporter to
learn if another policeman could be trusted, he would have been shocked, but
now all he felt was grinding despair that they were reduced to this. 'How is
Riccardo?' he asked blandly.

'Fine, fine. He asked to be
remembered to you.'

'Did he get married?'

'Yes, last year.' •

'Are you part of the hunt?' Brunetti
asked, referring to Fosco's friends on the police who, years after the
shooting, still hoped to find the persons responsible for the attack that had
partially crippled him.

‘Yes, but we never hear anything.
You?’ della Corte asked, pleasing Brunetti by assuming that he, too, would
still be looking for some trace, even though the trail was more than five years
old.

'Not a thing. Did you call Riccardo
for anything else?’

'I wanted to know if he could tell me
anything about Favero, something we might be interested in knowing but might
not be able to find out.’

'And did he?’ Brunetti asked.

'No, nothing.'

Following a sudden hunch, Brunetti
asked, 'Did you call him from your office?'

The noise della Corte made might have
been a laugh. 'No.’ Brunetti said nothing, and there ensued a long silence, at
the end of which della Corte said, 'Do you have a direct line to your office?’

Brunetti gave him the number.

'I'll call you back in ten minutes.'

While he waited for della Corte to
call, Brunetd toyed with the idea of calling Fosco to find out about the other
policeman, but he didn't want to tie up his line, and he assumed that della
Corte's having mentioned the journalist was sufficient recommendation.

A quarter of an hour later, della
Corte called. As he listened, Brunetti could hear the sound of traffic, horns,
and motors roaring over della Corte's voice.

‘I'm assuming your line is safe,'
della Corte said by way of explanation that his own was not. Brunetti resisted
the impulse to ask what the line was safe from.

'What's wrong there?' Brunetti asked.

'We've changed the cause of death.
It's now suicide. Officially.'

'What do you mean?'

'The autopsy report now reads two
milligrams.' 'Now?' Brunetti asked. 'Now,’ della Corte repeated. 'So Favero
would have been able to drive?' Brunetti asked.

'Yes, and pull his car into the
garage and close the door and, in short, commit suicide.' Della Corte's voice
was tight with anger. ‘I can't find a judge who will issue an order to proceed
with a murder investigation or to exhume the body for a second autopsy.'

'How did you get the original report
you called me about?'

‘I spoke to the doctor who did the
autopsy; he's one of the assistants at the hospital.' 'And?' Brunetti asked.

'When the official lab report came
back - he had done a blood exam immediately after the autopsy, but he sent the
samples up to the lab to have them confirmed - it said that the level of
barbiturate was much lower than what he had found.'

'Did he check his notes? What about
the samples?'

'Both are gone.'

'Gone?’

Delia Corte didn't bother to answer.
'Where were they?' 'In the pathology lab.' 'What usually happens to them?'
'After the official autopsy report is issued, they're kept for a year and then
destroyed.’ 'And this time?’

'When the official report came down,
he went to check his notes, to see if he'd been wrong. And then he called me.’
Della Corte paused for a moment and then continued. "That was two days
ago. Since then he's called to tell me his original results must have been
mistaken.'

'Someone got to him?'

'Of course,' della Corte answered
sharply.

'Have you said anything?'

'No. I didn't like what I heard when
he told me about the notes, the second time I talked to him. So I agreed with
him that these things happen and pretended to be angry with him that he had
made the mistake, warned him to be more careful the next time he did an autopsy’
'Did he believe you?'

Delia Corte's shrug came right down
the line. 'Who knows?’

'And so?' Brunetti asked.

'So I called Fosco to find out about
you.' Brunetti heard strange noises on the line and immediately wondered if his
own phone was tapped, but then the noises clarified themselves into the clinks
and beeps that said della Corte was feeding more coins into the machine.

'Commissario,’ della Corte said, ‘I
don't have much more change. Can we meet to talk about this?' 'Of course.
Unofficially?' 'Absolutely.'

'Where?’ Brunetti asked.

'Split the distance?’ della Corte
suggested. 'Mestre?’ 'Pinetta's bar?’ 'Tonight at ten?'

'How will I know you?’ Brunetti
asked, hoping della Corte wouldn't be a cop who looked like a cop. 'I'm bald.
How will I know you?' 'I look like a cop.'

16

Brunetti walked down the steps of
Mestre railway station at ten minutes to ten that night and turned to his left,
having located Via Fagare on the map in the front of the Venice phone book. The
usual cluster of cars was parked illegally in front of the station, and light
traffic flowed by in both directions. He crossed the road and started up to the
left. At the second street, he turned right, walking towards the centre of the
city. Both sides of the street were fined with the metal shutters of small
shops, pulled down now like portcullises in the face of the possible invasions
of the night Occasionally putts of wind swirled papers and leaves into lazy
circles at his feet; the unaccustomed reverberation of traffic disturbed him,
as it always did when he was out of Venice and exposed to it Everyone complained
about Venice's climate, humid and unforgiving, but to Brunetti the numbing
sound of traffic was far worse, and when to that was added the terrible smell
of it he marvelled that people could live in its midst and accept it as part of
the ordinary business of life. And yet, each year, more and more Venetians left
the city and moved here, to this, forced out by the general decline of business
and the sky-rocketing rents. He

could understand that it happened,
that economic moves could drive people from their city. But to exchange it for
this? Surely, a sordid boon.

After another few minutes, a neon
sign came into view at the end of the next block. The letters, running vertically
from the top of the building to a distance about a man's height above the
pavement, spelled out 'B r ine ta’. Keeping his hands in the pockets of his
overcoat, he turned his shoulders sideways and slipped into the bar without
having to open the door any wider.

The owner of the bar, apparently, had
seen too many American films, for it tried to resemble the sort of place where
Victor Mature had pushed his weight around. The wall behind the bar was
mirrored, though so much dust and smoke had accumulated on it that no image
could any longer be reflected with accuracy. Instead of the many rows of bottles
so familiar in Italian bars, here there was only one row, all bourbon and
Scotch. Instead of the straight counter and espresso machine, this bar curved
in a horseshoe, at the centre of which stood a bartender with a once-white
apron tied tight around his waist

Tables stood to both sides of the
bar: those on the left held trios or quartets of card-playing men; those on the
right held mixed duets who were clearly engaged in other games of chance. All
of the walls held blown-up photos of American film stars, many of whom seemed
to take a dim view of what circumstance had doomed them to observe.

Four men and two women stood at the
bar. The first man, short and stocky, held both hands protectively around his
drink and stared down into it. The second, taller and slighter, stood with his
back to the bar, turning his head slowly from side to side as he studied,
first the card-players, men the other bidders. The third was bald, obviously
della Corte. The last man, thin to the point of emaciation, stood with one of
the women on either side of him, turning his head nervously back and forth
between them as they spoke to him in turn. He glanced up at Brunetti when he
came in, and the women, seeing him look towards the door, turned to study
Brunetti. The look in the eyes of the Three Fates as they snipped the thread of
a mans life could be no bleaker.