Dressed for Death (30 page)

Ravanello had promised him copies
of Mascari’s accounts at the bank, no doubt the records of the investments he
oversaw or the loans he approved. Clearly, if Ravanello was willing to supply
those documents, then whatever Brunetti was looking for would not be among
them. To have access to the complete files of the bank and of the Lega,
Brunetti would need an order from a judge, and that could come only from a
power higher than Brunetti had at his disposal.

* * * *

Patta’s
‘
Avanti’
came through the door, and Brunetti entered his superior’s
office. Patta looked up, saw who it was, and bent down again over the papers in
front of him. Much to Brunetti’s surprise, Patta seemed actually to be reading
them, not using them as props to suggest his own industry.

‘Buon giorno,
Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said as
he approached the desk.

Patta looked up again and waved
to the chair in front of him. When Brunetti was seated, Patta asked, pushing a
finger at the papers in front of him, ‘Do I have you to thank for this?’

Since Brunetti had no idea of
what the papers were and didn’t want to lose a tactical advantage by admitting
that, he had only the Vice-Questore’s tone to guide his answer. Patta’s sarcasm
was usually broad, but there had been no trace of it. Because Brunetti was
entirely unfamiliar with Patta’s gratitude, indeed, could only speculate as to
its existence, much in the way a theologian would think of guardian angels, he
could not be certain that this was the sentiment which underlay Patta’s tone.

‘Are they the papers Signorina
Elettra brought you?’ Brunetti ventured, playing for time.

‘Yes,’ Patta said, patting them,
much as a man would pat the head of a favoured dog.

That was enough for Brunetti. ‘Signorina
Elettra did all the work, but I did suggest a few places to look,’ he lied,
casting his eyes down in false humility to suggest that he dare not seek praise
for doing something so natural as being of use to Vice-Questore Patta.

‘They’re going to arrest him
tonight,’ Patta said with savage delight.

‘Who are, sir?’

‘The finance people. He lied on
his application for citizenship in Monaco, so that’s not valid. That means he’s
still an Italian citizen and hasn’t paid taxes here for seven years. They’ll
crucify him. They’ll hang him up by his heels.’

The thought of some of the tax
dodges which former and current ministers of state had managed to get away with
led Brunetti to doubt that Patta’s dreams would be realized, but he thought
this not the moment to demur. He didn’t know how to ask the next question and sought
to do so delicately. ‘Will he be alone when he’s arrested?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Patta said,
meeting his glance. ‘The arrest is secret. They’re going in at eight tonight. I
know about it only because a friend of mine in Finance called to tell me about
it.’ As Brunetti watched, Patta’s face clouded with preoccupation. ‘If I call
her and warn her, she’ll tell him, and then he’ll leave Milano and won’t be
arrested. But if I don’t call her, she’ll be there when they arrest him.’ And
then, he didn’t have to say, there was no way her name could be kept from the
press. And then, inevitably, Patta’s. Brunetti watched Patta’s face, fascinated
by the emotions that played upon it as he was torn between vengeance and
vanity.

As Brunetti knew it would, vanity
won. ‘I can’t think of a way to get her out of there without warning him.’

‘Perhaps, sir, but only if you
think it’s a good idea, you could have your lawyer call her and ask her to meet
him in Milano this evening. That would get her out of, er, where she is when
the police arrive.’

‘Why would I want my lawyer to
talk to her?’

‘Perhaps he could say you were
willing to discuss terms, sir? It would serve to get her somewhere else for the
evening.’

‘She hates my lawyer.’

‘Would she be willing to talk to
you, sir? If you said you were going to Milano to meet her?’

‘She ...’ Patta began but pushed
himself back from his desk and stood without finishing the thought. He walked
over to his window and began his own silent inspection of the facade of San
Lorenzo.

He stood there for a full minute,
saying nothing, and Brunetti realized the peril of the moment. Should Patta
turn round and confess to some sort of emotional weakness, confess that he
loved his wife and wanted her back, he would never forgive Brunetti for having
been there to hear it. Worse, should he give some physical sign of weakness or
need and Brunetti see it, Patta would be relentless in exacting vengeance upon
the witness.

Voice level and serious, as
though Patta and his personal problems were already dismissed from his mind,
Brunetti said, ‘Sir, the real reason I came down was to discuss this Mascari
business. I think there are some things you ought to know.’

Patta’s shoulders moved up and
down once as he took a deep breath, and then he turned around and came back to
his desk. ‘What’s been happening?’

Quickly, voice dispassionate and
interested only in this matter, Brunetti told him about the file on the Lega
and the apartments it had in its care, one of which was Crespo’s, then told him
about the sums which were given out each month to the deserving poor.

‘A million and a half a month?’
Patta said when Brunetti finished telling him about Canale’s visit. ‘What rent
is the Lega supposed to be collecting?’

‘In Canale’s case, a hundred and
ten thousand a month. And no one on the list pays more than two hundred
thousand, sir. That is, the Lega’s books say they collect no more than that for
any one apartment.’

‘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.’