Dressed for Death (22 page)

Pleased with the prospect of
something better than flowers, though he knew Brunetti would bring them as
well, Vianello pulled out his notebook and began to read the report compiled by
his wife.

‘The Lega was started about eight
years ago, no one quite knows by whom or for what purpose. Because it’s
supposed to do good works, things like taking toys to orphanages and meals to
old people in their homes, it’s always had a good reputation. Over the years,
the city and some of the churches have let it take over and administer vacant
apartments: it uses them to give cheap, sometimes free, housing to the elderly
and, in some cases, to the handicapped.’ Vianello paused for a moment, then
added, ‘Because all of its employees are volunteers, it was allowed to organize
itself as a charitable organization.’

‘Which,’ Brunetti interrupted
him, ‘means that it is not obliged to pay taxes and that the government will
extend the usual courtesy to it, and its finances will not be examined closely,
if at all.’

‘We are two hearts that beat as
one, Dottore.’ Brunetti knew Vianello’s politics had changed. But his rhetoric,
as well?

‘What is very strange, Dottore,
is that Nadia wasn’t able to find anyone who actually belonged to the Lega. Not
even the woman at the bank, as it turns out. Lots of people said they knew
someone who they thought was a member, but, after Nadia asked, it turned out
that they weren’t sure. Twice, she spoke to the people who were said to be
members, and it turned out that they weren’t.’

‘And the good works?’ Brunetti
asked.

‘Also very elusive. She called
the hospitals, but none of them had ever had any contact with the Lega. I tried
the social service agency that takes care of old people, but they’ve never
heard of anyone from the Lega doing anything for the old people.’

‘And the orphanages?’

‘She spoke to the mother superior
of the order that runs the three largest ones. She said she had heard of the
Lega but had never had any help from them.’

‘And the woman in the bank. Why
did Nadia think she was a member?’

‘Because she lives in an
apartment the Lega administers. But she’s never been a member, and she said she
didn’t know anyone who was. Nadia’s still trying to find someone who is.’ If
Nadia put this time down, as well, Vianello would probably end up asking for
the rest of the month oft

‘And Santomauro?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Everyone seems to know he’s the
boss, but no one seems to know how he became it. Nor, interestingly enough,
does anyone have an idea of what it means to be boss.’

‘Don’t they have meetings?’

‘People say they do. In parish
houses or private homes. But, again, Nadia couldn’t find anyone who had ever
actually been to one.’

‘Have you spoken to the boys in
Finance?’

‘No, I thought Elettra would take
care of that.’ Elettra? What was this, the informality of the converted?

‘I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to
put Santomauro into her computer, but I haven’t seen her yet this morning.’

‘She’s down in the archives, I
think,’ Vianello explained.

‘What about his professional
life?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Success and success and nothing
else. He represents two of the biggest building firms in the city, two city
councillors, and at least three banks.’

‘Is one of them the Bank of
Verona?’

Vianello looked down at his
notebook and flipped back a page. ‘Yes. How did you know that?’

‘I didn’t know it. But that’s
where Mascari worked.’

‘Two plus two makes four, doesn’t
it?’ Vianello asked.

‘Political connections?’ Brunetti
asked.

‘With two city councillors as
clients?’ Vianello asked by way of answering the question.

‘And his wife?’

‘No one seems to know much about
her, but everyone seems to believe she’s the real power in the family.’

‘And is there a family?’

‘Two sons. One’s an architect,
the other a doctor.’

‘The perfect Italian family,’
Brunetti observed, then asked, ‘And Crespo? What did you find out about him?’

‘Have you seen his record from
Mestre?’

‘Yes. Usual stuff. Drugs. Trying
to shake down a customer. Nothing violent. No surprises. Did you find out
anything else?’

‘Not much more than that,’
Vianello answered. ‘He was beaten up twice, but both times he said he didn’t
know who did it. The second time, in fact—’ he flipped a few pages ahead in his
notebook’—here it is. He said he was “set upon by thieves”.’

‘“Set upon?”‘

‘That’s what it said in the
report. I copied it down just like it was.’

‘He must read a lot of books, Signor
Crespo.’

‘More than is good for him, I’d
say.’

‘Did you find out anything else
about him? Whose name is on the contract for the apartment where he lives?’

‘No. I’ll check and see.’

‘And see if you can get Signorina
Elettra to find anything there might be about the finances of the Lega, or
Santomauro, or Crespo, or Mascari. Tax returns, bank statements, loans. That
sort of information should be available.’

‘She’ll know what to do,’
Vianello said, noting it all down. ‘Will there be anything else?’

‘No. Let me know as soon as you
hear anything or if Nadia finds someone who’s a member.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said,
getting to his feet. ‘This is the best thing that could have happened.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nadia’s getting interested in
this. You know how she’s been for years, not liking it when I have to work late
or on the weekends. But once she got a taste of it, she was off like a
bloodhound. And you should have heard her on the phone. She could get people to
tell her anything. It’s too bad we don’t hire free lance.’

* * * *

Chapter Seventeen

If
he hurried, Brunetti could get to the Bank of Verona before it closed, that is,
if an office that functioned from the second floor and appeared to have no
place in which to fulfil the public functions of a bank bothered to observe
regular hours. He arrived at 12.20 and, finding the downstairs door closed,
rang the bell next to the simple brass plate that bore the bank’s name. The
door snapped open, and he found himself back in the same small lobby where he
had stood with the old woman on Saturday afternoon.

At the top of the stairs, he saw
that the door to the bank’s office was closed, so he rang a second bell at its
side. After a moment, he heard steps approach the door, and then it was pulled
open by a tall blond man, clearly not the one he had seen go down the steps on
Saturday afternoon.

He took his warrant card from his
pocket and held it out to him. ‘
Buon giorno,
I’m Commissario Guido
Brunetti from the Questura. I’d like to speak to Signor Ravanello.’

‘Just one moment, please,’ the
man said and closed the door so quickly that Brunetti didn’t have time to stop
him. At least a full minute passed before the door was opened again, this time
by another man, neither tall nor blond, though neither was he the man Brunetti
had seen on the stairs. ‘Yes?’ he asked Brunetti, as though the other man had
been a mirage.

‘I’d like to speak to Signor
Ravanello.’

‘And who shall I say is here?’

‘I just told your colleague.
Commissario Guido Brunetti.’

‘Ah, yes, just a moment.’ This
time, Brunetti was ready, had his foot poised above the ground, ready to jam it
into the door at the first sign the man might try to close it, a trick he had
learned from reading American murder mysteries but which he had never had the chance
to try.

Nor was he to get the chance to
try it now. The man pulled the door back and said, ‘Please come in, Signor
Commissario. Signor Ravanello is in his office and would be happy to see you.’
It seemed a lot for the man to assume, but Brunetti allowed him the right to
his own opinion.

The main office appeared to
occupy the same area as did the old woman’s apartment. The man led him across a
room that corresponded to her living-room: the same four large windows looked
out on the
campo.
Three men in dark suits sat at separate desks, but
none of them bothered to look up from his computer screen as Brunetti crossed
the room. The man stopped in front of a door that would have been the door to
the old woman’s kitchen. He knocked and entered without waiting for an answer.

The room was about the same size
as the kitchen, but where the old woman had a sink, this room had four rows of
filing cabinets. In the space where she had her marble-topped table, there was
a broad oak desk, and behind it sat a tall, dark-haired man of medium build who
wore a white shirt and dark suit. He did not have to turn round and show the
back of his head for Brunetti to recognize him as the man who had been working
in the office on Saturday afternoon and whom he had seen on the vaporetto.

He had been at some distance, and
he had been wearing dark glasses when Brunetti saw him, but it was the same
man. He had a small mouth and a long patrician nose. This, coupled with narrow
eyes and heavy dark eyebrows, succeeded in pulling all attention to the centre
of his face so that the viewer tended at first to ignore his hair, which was
very thick and tightly curled.

‘Signor Ravanello,’ Brunetti
began. ‘I’m Commissario Guido Brunetti.’

Ravanello stood behind his desk
and extended his hand. ‘Ah, yes, I’m sure you’ve come about this terrible
business with Mascari.’ Then, turning to the other man, he said, ‘Thank you,
Aldo. I’ll speak to the commissario.’ The other man left the office and closed
the door.

‘Please, have a seat,’ Ravanello
offered and came around the desk to turn one of the two straight-backed chairs
that stood there so that it was more directly facing his own. When Brunetti was
seated, Ravanello went back to his own chair and sat down. ‘This is terrible,
terrible. I’ve been speaking to the directors of the bank in Verona, None of us
has the least idea what to do about this.’

‘About replacing Mascari? He was
the director here, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was. But, no, our
problem isn’t about who will replace him. That’s been taken care of.’

Though Ravanello clearly meant
this as a pause before he got to the real business of the bank’s concern,
Brunetti asked, ‘And who replaced him?’

Ravanello looked up, surprised by
the question. ‘I have, as I was Assistant Director. But, as I said, this is not
the reason for the bank’s concern.’

To the best of Brunetti’s
knowledge - and experience had never interfered to prove him wrong - the only
reason for a bank’s concern about anything was how much money it made or lost.
He smiled a curious smile and asked, ‘And what is that, Signor Ravanello?’

‘The scandal. The awful scandal.
You know how discreet we have to be, bankers, you know how careful.’

Brunetti knew they couldn’t be
seen in a
casino,
couldn’t write a bad cheque, or they could be fired,
but these hardly seemed onerous demands to place upon someone who, after all,
had in trust the money of other people.

‘Which scandal are you talking
about, Signor Ravanello?’

‘If you’re a police commissario,
then you know the circumstances in which Leonardo’s body was found.’