Through a Glass Darkly (24 page)

Brunetti did as he was told, all systems on high alert as they registered Patta's affability.

‘I wanted to talk to you about this thing out on Murano,' Patta said.

Brunetti did his best to look mildly interested.

‘Yes,' Patta said, ‘I wanted to talk to you about this case you seem to be creating.'

‘A man died there, sir,' Brunetti said, hoping to surprise Patta into a reconsideration of his own words.

Patta gave him a long look. ‘Of a heart attack, Brunetti. The man died of a heart attack.' The affability had disappeared from his voice. When Brunetti said nothing, Patta added, ‘I assumed you would have spoken to your friend Rizzardi by now, Commissario.' In the face of Brunetti's refusal to answer him, Patta repeated, ‘He died of a heart attack.'

Brunetti sat silently. Apparently Patta had not finished. The Vice-Questore went on, ‘I don't know if you've had time to formulate some theory of foul play here, Brunetti, but if you have, I want you to unformulate it. The man collapsed and died of a heart attack while he was at work.'

‘He was a watchman, not a glass-blower,' Brunetti said. ‘There was no reason for him to be working near the furnace.'

‘On the contrary,' Patta said with an equanimity that Brunetti found as puzzling as it was infuriating, ‘it's just because he was a watchman that there are any number of reasons he could have been there. There could have been something wrong with the furnace, a sudden rise in temperature that he went to investigate. Someone could have left that rod there for him to trip over, or he could have been doing what a lot of them do out there at night: working a piece of glass for himself.' Patta's smile registered the plausibility of these things, and Brunetti wondered just where the Vice-Questore, a Sicilian, had learned so much about the art of making Murano glass. Scarpa was a possible choice, Scarpa who shared his superior's desire that the city be viewed as free of crime, and what better crime to keep from the records than murder? But Scarpa was no more Venetian than his master. Fasano, then?

Even before he spoke, Brunetti knew it was hopeless, with Patta so contentedly persuaded that the investigation – whatever pale, weak
thing that might have been – was over. But still he said, ‘I came to speak to you, sir, because of some papers that were in Tassini's possession.'

‘How in his possession?'

‘They were in his home.'

‘And how is it that they happen to be in
your
possession, Commissario?'

‘Because I took them away with me when I went to speak to his widow.'

‘Have you made a formal report of this?'

‘Yes,' Brunetti lied, knowing that Signorina Elettra could easily backdate his report, when he got around to writing it.

Patta did not question this. Instead he asked, ‘And what are these papers?'

‘Lists of numbers.'

‘What sort of numbers?'

‘There are references to specific laws and to specific geographic locations. And there are repeated references to
Inferno
. There was a copy of the poem in his room at the factory.'

‘And is this book another item in your possession?' Patta asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Is that all there was, Brunetti? Or was there something other than –' Patta began, using the long-drawn-out enunciation one employs with a wilful or disobedient child – ‘references to laws and geographic locations and to
Inferno
?' Patta was unable or unwilling to resist the temptation to repeat Brunetti's words.

As though this had been a request for information rather than an insult, Brunetti said,
‘There has to be a reason he was keeping those numbers, sir.'

Patta made a business of shaking his head in feigned confusion. ‘Specific laws and specific locations, is it, Brunetti? And what comes next, the winning lottery number for Venice? Or the geographic coordinates of where the extraterrestrials are going to land?' He got up from his chair and took two steps, muttering, ‘Dante', as if to calm his troubled spirit. He persuaded himself to return and sit down again. ‘Though it might come as a surprise to you, Brunetti, this is a Questura,' he said, leaning across his desk and pointing a finger at the Commissario, ‘and we are police officers. It is not a tent in the middle of the desert where people come to you so that you can hold seances and read tarot cards.'

Brunetti glanced at Patta, then shifted his eyes to a spot on the desk between them. ‘Do you understand me, Brunetti?' When the Commissario made no attempt to respond, Patta demanded, ‘Do you understand me, Brunetti?'

‘Yes, sir. I do,' Brunetti said, surprised at just how true this was. He got to his feet.

‘And what are you going to do about those numbers, Brunetti?' Patta asked, voice acid with sarcasm and menace.

‘I'll keep the references to Dante, sir. It's always good to know where to locate the hypocrites and the opportunists.'

Patta's face went rigid, but he couldn't
prevent himself from asking for more. ‘And your laws and your coordinates?'

‘Oh, I don't know, sir,' Brunetti said, turning and making for the door. ‘But it's useful to know what the laws are and exactly where you stand.' He opened the door, said ‘
Buon giorno
' very quietly, and closed the door behind him.

WHEN HE EMERGED
from Patta's office, Brunetti paused at Signorina Elettra's desk long enough to take the folder she handed him. He thanked her, checked that he had the paper on which he had written Tassini's coordinates, and went outside the Questura to the dock in front. There was no sign of Foa, whom he finally found down at the bar by the bridge, having a coffee and reading
La Gazzetta dello Sport
.

He smiled when he saw Brunetti come in. ‘Would you like a coffee, Commissario?'

‘Gladly,' Brunetti said, wishing he knew enough about some sport, any sport, to be able to make some appropriate conversation, but, instead, he could do nothing more than remark on how warm it was.

When the coffee was in front of him, Brunetti asked, ‘Have you got one of those location-finding things, Foa?'

‘A GPS, sir?'

‘Yes.'

‘In the boat, sir,' the pilot said. ‘You need it?'

‘Yes,' Brunetti said, stirring his coffee. ‘You doing anything now?'

‘Other than reading about these hopeless clowns,' Foa said, slapping the paper with the backs of his fingers, ‘nothing. Why, you need to go somewhere?'

‘Out to Murano,' Brunetti said. ‘Yes.'

As they walked back to the launch, Brunetti explained about the numbers Tassini had written and did nothing to deflect Foa's compliments at having figured out what they were. After they climbed on board, Foa unlocked a panel on the dashboard and took out a glass-faced instrument. He showed Brunetti the GPS, which was little larger than a
telefonino
and served the double function of pointing to true North and giving the exact coordinates of the point where the instrument was. He set it on the ledge in front of him and switched on the engine. He pulled away from the dock and, after a moment, turned into Rio di Santa Giustina and took them quickly out into the
laguna.

‘How does it work?' Brunetti asked, picking it up. Because he had grown up without proximity to cars, he always blamed Venice for his mechanical and technological ineptitude, when
he knew the real explanation was simply his lack of interest in the way things, especially gadgets, functioned.

‘Satellites,' the pilot said, suddenly deciding to cut across the wake of a 42 on its way to the cemetery. The heavy bouncing of the launch forced Brunetti to grab the railing beside him, but Foa seemed to float and bob with the waves. The pilot took his right hand from the wheel and waved towards the heavens. ‘It's full of them, circling around, registering, recording, keeping an eye on matters.' Foa waited a moment, and then added, ‘Probably taking photos of what we eat for breakfast, too.'

Brunetti opted to ignore this opening, and Foa returned to more prosaic things. ‘The satellite sends down a message that tells you exactly where you are. Look at it,' he said, pointing to the face of the GPS, where two illuminated rectangles provided ever-changing digital readings. ‘On the side there,' the pilot said, turning his attention from the waters in front of them and pointing to the face of the instrument, ‘that's the latitude reading. And that's the longitude. It'll keep changing as long as we keep moving.' As if to show just how this worked, Foa swung the boat hard to the right, and then just as quickly to the left. If the latitude and longitude readings changed, Brunetti took no notice, for he was busy grabbing the railing again to keep from toppling out of the launch.

Brunetti handed the object back to Foa and devoted his attention to Murano, which they
were approaching at considerable speed. ‘You want to go back to where we went the last time?' Foa asked.

‘Yes. And I'd like you to come with me.'

Foa made no attempt to hide the pleasure this gave him. He slowed the engine and slipped the boat up to the dock, then shifted into reverse until they were motionless in the water. A side current brushed them against the embankment; Foa leaped out and made the boat fast to a ring in the paving, then secured it at the bow with another rope.

Brunetti slipped the GPS into the pocket of his jacket and climbed up beside Foa. Together they started back towards De Cal's factory. ‘You want to talk to the old man again?' Foa asked.

‘No,' Brunetti answered. ‘I want to find where these points are.' He took out his wallet and extracted the piece of paper on which he had written the coordinates.

Foa took the paper and read the sets of numbers. ‘The latitude and longitude are right for the
laguna
,' he said, then added, ‘They've all got to be right around here.' Brunetti, who had a vague idea from having checked the nautical charts, nodded.

Together they skirted the factory building and went around to the left, towards the barren field behind it. The side of the building that they walked along, Brunetti was glad to notice, had no windows.

They stopped just where the dry grass began, and Brunetti took out the GPS. He started to
hand the piece of paper to Foa, but he realized that the pilot would be more familiar with the instrument so gave him that, instead. Foa took one final look at the paper and set off in the direction of the water.

He walked across the field, his eyes fixed to the instrument, moving at an angle that took him slightly to the left, towards the
laguna
to the north of the island. Halfway between De Cal's factory and the water, he stopped. When Brunetti joined him, Foa pulled the hand that held the paper towards him and checked the second number.

His attention on the GPS, Foa moved to the left, heading for the fence that had once stood between De Cal's property and the land next door. All that was left to indicate its previous existence or function was a line of bleached stakes and sticks, like the bones of some desiccated land animal long ago devoured by marauders. As if to provide a clearer demarcation between the two properties, nothing grew on the strip where once the fence had stood: the grass began only about a metre to either side of the tangled sticks.

After a time, Foa stopped and studied the instrument, then moved a few steps closer to the fence. ‘What was the last digit, sir? Of the second number?'

Brunetti glanced at the paper. ‘Point ninety.'

Foa took two small sideways steps until he was astride the rotting pieces of fence. He kicked them aside. He looked at the GPS and
moved minimally to the right in response to whatever he read there, then called back to Brunetti, ‘OK, this is it. Whatever this guy thought was important, this is the first place where he wanted you to look.' He took the paper from Brunetti, studied it for a moment, then turned and looked at De Cal's factory. ‘The second lot of coordinates has got to be inside that building,' Foa said.

He checked the GPS, and looked around them again. ‘The third place is probably inside that one,' he said, pointing to the factory that stood on the other side of the field, to the right of De Cal's.

Brunetti gazed around them. Could it be that something was visible from this point that might not be seen from another angle? They both turned in full circles and, without even discussing the possibility that they were meant to see something, dismissed it. Brunetti turned back towards De Cal's factory, and as he moved, both of them heard the squelching sound his foot made as he raised it. Neither had been aware of the dampness when they got there, but when they looked down and moved their feet, they saw the water quickly seep in to fill their footsteps.

The idea came to them simultaneously. ‘I've got an empty bucket in the launch, Commissario. In case you'd like to take some of this stuff to Bocchese.'

‘Yes,' Brunetti said, not at all sure what would be there but absolutely certain that something
would be. He waited while the pilot headed for the factory and cut around it in the direction of the launch. Every so often Brunetti shifted his feet and heard and felt the sibilance of the mud.

Foa was quickly back with a pink plastic bucket and a small spade, the sort of thing a child would use for building castles on the beach. When Foa saw the attention Brunetti devoted to these objects, he pressed his lips together nervously and said, ‘Well, I take the boat home with me on weekends sometimes, to work on the engine.'

‘Does your daughter help you?' Brunetti asked.

‘She's only three, sir,' Foa said with a smile. ‘But she likes to come along when I go out in the
laguna
to dig for clams.'

‘Better to go out there in a boat you know is safe, I suppose, especially if you have a child,' said Brunetti.

Foa answered with a smile. ‘I buy my own gas,' he said, and Brunetti believed him. He liked the fact that Foa felt it important to tell him.