Dressed for Death (35 page)

‘I think Avvocato Santomauro will
be very interested in talking to me, Sergeant.’

And so it was. The
Avvocato’
s
office was in Campo San Luca, on the second floor of a building that was within
twenty metres of three different banks. How fitting that proximity was,
Brunetti thought, as Santomauro’s secretary showed him into the lawyer’s
office, only a few minutes after his arrival.

Santomauro sat at his desk,
behind him a large window that looked out on the
campo.
The window,
however, was tightly sealed, and the office cooled to an almost uncomfortable
degree, especially in view of what could be seen below: naked shoulders, legs,
backs, arms all passed across the
campo,
yet here it was cool enough for
a jacket and tie.

The lawyer looked up when
Brunetti was shown in but didn’t bother to smile or stand. He wore a
conservative grey suit, dark tie, and gleaming white shirt. His eyes were
wide-spaced and blue and looked out on the world with candour. He was pale, as
pale as if it were midwinter: no vacations for those who labour in the
vineyards of the law.

‘Have a seat, Commissario,’ he
said. ‘What is it you want to see me about?’ He reached out and moved a photo
in a silver frame slightly to the right so as to provide himself with a clear
view of Brunetti and Brunetti with a clear view of the photo. In it stood a
woman about Santomauro’s age and two young men, both of whom resembled
Santomauro.

‘Any one of a number of things, Avvocato
Santomauro,’ Brunetti replied, sitting opposite him, ‘but I’ll begin with La
Lega della Moralità.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask my
secretary to give you information about that, Commissario. My involvement is
almost entirely ceremonial.’

‘I’m not sure I understand what
you mean by that, Avvocato.’

‘The Lega always needs a
figurehead, someone to serve as president. But as I’m sure you’ve already
ascertained, we members of the board have no say in the day-to-day running of
the affairs of the Lega. The real work is done by the bank director who handles
the accounts.’

‘Then what is your precise
function?’

‘As I explained,’ Santomauro
said, giving a minimal smile, ‘I serve as a figurehead. I have a certain - a
certain, shall I say stature? - in the community, and so I was asked to become
president, a purely titular post.’

‘Who asked you?’

‘The authorities at the bank
which handles the accounts of the Lega.’

‘If the bank director attends to
the business of the Lega, then what are your duties, Avvocato?’

‘I speak for the Lega in those
cases when a question is put to us by the press or when the Lega’s view is
sought on some issue.’

‘I see. And what else?’

‘Twice a year, I meet with the
bank official charged with the Lega’s account to discuss the financial status
of the Lega.’

‘And what is that status? If I
might ask.’

Santomauro laid both palms on the
desk in front of him. ‘As you know, we are a non-profit organization, so it is
enough to us that we manage, as it were, to keep our head above water. In the
financial sense.’

‘And what does that mean? In the
financial sense, that is.’

Santomauro’s voice grew even
calmer, his patience even more audible. ‘That we manage to collect enough money
to allow us to continue to bestow our charitable bequests upon those who have
been selected to receive them.’

‘And who, if I might ask, decides
who will receive them?’

‘The official at the bank, of
course.’

‘And the apartments which the
Lega has in its care, who is it that decides to whom they will be given?’

‘The same person,’ Santomauro
said, permitting himself a small smile, then added, ‘The board routinely approves
his suggestions.’

‘And do you, as president, have
any say in this, any decision-making power?’

‘If I were to choose to use it, I
suppose I might have. But, as I’ve already told you, Commissario, our positions
are entirely honorary.’

‘What does that mean, Avvocato?’

Before he answered, Santomauro
placed the very tip of his finger on his desk and picked up a small speck of
dust. He moved his hand to his side and shook it, removing the speck. ‘As I
said, my position is merely titular. I do not feel that it would be correct,
knowing so many people in the city as I do, for me to attempt to select those
who might profit in any way from the charity of the Lega. Nor, I am sure and if
I might take the liberty of speaking for them, would my fellow members of the
board.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said, making no
attempt to disguise his scepticism.

‘You find that hard to believe,
Commissario?’

‘It would be unwise of me to tell
you what I find hard to believe, Avvocato,’ Brunetti said and then asked, ‘And
Signor Crespo. Are you handling his estate?’

It had been years since Brunetti
had seen a man purse his lips, but that is precisely what Santomauro did before
he answered. ‘I am Signor Crespo’s lawyer, so of course I am handling his
estate.’

‘Is it a large estate?’

‘That is privileged information,
Commissario, as you, having taken your degree in law, should know.’

‘Ah, yes, and I suppose the
nature of whatever dealings you might have had with Signor Crespo is similarly privileged?’

‘I see you do remember the law, Commissario,’
Santomauro said and smiled.

‘Could you tell me if the records
of the Lega, the financial records, have been given to the police?’

‘You speak of them as though you
were no part of the police, Commissario.’

‘The records, Signor Santomauro?
Where are they?’

‘Why, in the hands of your
colleagues, Commissario. I had my secretary make copies of them this morning.’

‘We want the originals.’

‘Of course it’s the originals I’ve
given you, Commissario,’ Santomauro said, measuring out another small smile. ‘I
took the liberty of making copies for myself, just in case something should get
lost while they are in your care.’

‘How cautious of you, Avvocato,’
Brunetti said, but he didn’t smile. ‘But I don’t want to take any more of your
time. I realize how precious time is to someone who has your stature in the
community. I have only one more question. Could you tell me who the bank
official is who handles the accounts of the Lega. I’d like to speak to him.’

Santomauro’s smile blossomed. ‘I’m
afraid that will be impossible, Commissario. You see, the Lega’s accounts were
always handled by the late Leonardo Mascari.’

* * * *

Chapter Twenty-Five

He
went back to his office, marvelling at the skill with which Santomauro had
suggested Mascari’s guilt. It all rested on such fragile premises: that the
papers in the bank now looked like Mascari had been in charge of them; that
people at the bank would not know or could be induced not to remember if anyone
else had ever handled the accounts of the Lega; that nothing would be
discovered about the murders of Mascari or Crespo.

At the Questura, he discovered
that the papers of both the Banca di Verona and the Lega had been given to the
police who went to collect them, and a trio of men from the Guardia di Finanza
were even then going over them in search of any indication of who had overseen
the accounts into which rents were paid and out of which cheques were written
for the Lega’s charity works.

Brunetti knew that nothing was to
be gained by going down and standing over them while they worked, but he couldn’t
stop himself from wanting at least to walk past the room in which they had been
placed. To prevent this, he went out for lunch, deliberately choosing a
restaurant in the Ghetto, even though this meant a long walk there and back in
the worst heat of the day. When he got back, after three, his jacket was soaked
through, and his shoes felt as though they had melted to his feet.

Vianello came into his office
only minutes after he got back. Without preamble, he said, ‘I’ve been checking
the list of the people who receive cheques from the Lega.’

Brunetti recognized his mood. ‘And
what have you found?’

‘That Malfatti’s mother has
remarried and taken the name of her new husband.’

‘And?’

‘And she’s receiving cheques under
that name and under her former name. What’s more, her new husband also receives
a cheque, as do two of his cousins, but it looks like each of them is getting
them under two separate names.’

‘What does that make the total
for the Malfatti family?’

‘The cheques are all about five
hundred thousand a month, so it makes it close to three million a month.’
Involuntarily, the question sprang from Vianello’s mouth, ‘Didn’t they ever
think they’d be caught?’

Brunetti thought that too obvious
to answer and so, instead, he asked, ‘What about the shoes?’

‘No luck here. You talk to Gallo?’

‘He’s still in Milano, but I’m
sure Scarpa would have called me if they found anything. What are those men
from Finance doing?’

Vianello shrugged. ‘They’ve been
in there since the morning.’

‘Do they know what they’re
supposed to be looking for?’ Brunetti asked, unable to keep the impatience out
of his voice.

‘Some sign of who handled it all,
I think.’

‘Would you go down there and ask
them if they’ve found anything? If Ravanello’s involved, I want to move on him
as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said and
left the office.

While he waited for Vianello to
come back, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, more for something to do with
his hands than from any hope that it would make him feel any cooler.

Vianello came back, and the
answer was written on his face. ‘I just spoke to their captain. He said that,
so far, from what they can tell, it looks like Mascari was in charge.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Brunetti snapped.

‘It’s what they told me,’
Vianello said very slowly, voice level, and then added, after a long pause, ‘sir.’
Neither spoke for a moment. ‘Perhaps if you were to speak to them yourself, you’d
get a clearer idea of what it means.’

Brunetti looked away and rolled
down his sleeves. ‘Let’s go downstairs together, Vianello.’ It was as close as
he could come to an apology, but Vianello seemed to accept it. Given the heat
in the office, it was probably all he was going to get.

Downstairs, Brunetti went into
the office where three men in the grey uniforms of the Guardia di Finanza were
working. The men sat at a long desk covered with files and papers. Two small
pocket calculators and a laptop computer stood on the desk, one man in front of
each. In concession to the heat, they had removed their woollen jackets, but
they still wore their ties.

The man at the computer looked up
when Brunetti came in, peered over his glasses for a moment, then looked back
down and tapped some more information into the keyboard. He looked at the
screen, glanced down at one of the papers beside the keyboard, punched some
more keys, then looked at the screen again. He picked up the sheet of paper
from the pile to the right of the computer, placed it face down on the left,
and started to read more numbers from the next sheet of paper.