Donna Leon - Anonymous Venetian aka Dressed for Death

Attached to the back of the report was a list of the addresses of the one hundred and sixty-two apartments currently administered by the Lega, as well as their total area and the number of rooms in each. He pulled the paper Canale had given him closer and read through the addresses on it. All four appeared on the other list. Brunetti liked to think of himself as a man of broad views, relatively free of prejudice, yet he wasn’t sure whether he could credit five transvestite prostitutes as being people of the ‘highest moral standards’, even if they were living in apartments which were rented for the specific purpose of helping tenants ‘turn their thoughts and desires to the spiritual’.

He turned back from the list of addresses and continued reading through the body of the report. As he had expected, all of the tenants of Lega apartments were expected to pay their rents, which were no more than nominal, to an account at the Venice office of the Banca di Verona, which bank also handled the contributions the Lega made to the ‘relief of widows and orphans’, donations paid out of the funds raised from the minimal rents paid on the apartments. Even Brunetti found himself surprised that they would dare a rhetorical flourish like this – ‘the relief of widows and orphans’ – but then he saw that this particular form of charitable work was not undertaken until Avvocato Santomauro had assumed the leadership of the Lega. Flipping back, Brunetti saw that the five men on Canale’s list had all moved into their apartments after Santomauro became president. It was almost as it having achieved that position, Santomauro felt himself free to dare anything.

Brunetti stopped reading here and went and stood at the window of his office. The brick facade of San Lorenzo had been free of scaffolding for the last few months, but the church still remained closed. He looked at the church and told himself that he was committing an error against which he warned other police: he was assuming the guilt of a suspect, even before he had a shred of tangible evidence to connect the suspect with the crime. But just as he knew that the church would never be reopened, not in his lifetime, he knew that Santomauro was responsible for Mascari’s murder and for Crespo’s, and for that of Maria Nardi. He, and probably Ravanello. A hundred and sixty-two apartments. How many of them could be rented to people like Canale or to others who were willing to pay their rent in cash and ask no questions? Half? Even a third would give them more than seventy million lire a month, almost a billion lire a year. He thought of those widows and orphans, and he wondered if Santomauro could have been led so to overreach himself that they, too, were part of it, and even the minimal rents that reached the coffers of the Lega were then turned around and paid out to phantom widows and invented orphans.

He went back to his desk and paged through the report until he found the reference to the payments made to those found worthy of the charity of the Lega: yes, payments were made through the Banca di Verona. He stood with both hands braced on the desk, head bent down over the papers, and he told himself, again, that certainty was different from proof. But he was certain.

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.