Donna Leon - Friends in High Places

Looking up, he asked Franchi, ‘Did you notice anything else while you were there?’

‘What sort of thing, sir?’

‘Anything at all that seemed unusual or out of place in any way?’

‘No, sir. Nothing at all.’

‘I see,’ Brunetti said. “Thank you, Officer Franchi.’ Before anyone else could speak, Brunetti asked him, ‘Could you go and get that wallet for me?’

Franchi looked toward the lieutenant, who nodded.

‘Yes, sir,’ Franchi said and turned sharply on his heel and left the office.

‘He seems an eager young man,’ Brunetti said.

‘Yes,’ the lieutenant said, ‘he’s one of my best men.’ He gave a brief account of how well Franchi had done in his training classes, but before he could finish, the young officer was back with the plastic evidence bag. Inside was a brown leather wallet.

Franchi stood at the door, uncertain to whom to give the bag.

‘Give it to the Commissario,’ Lieutenant Turcati said, and Franchi couldn’t disguise his start of astonishment at learning the rank of the man who had questioned him. He walked over to Brunetti, handed him the bag, and saluted.

‘Thank you, officer,’ Brunetti said, taking the bag by one corner. He took out his handkerchief and carefully wrapped the bag in it. Then, turning to the lieutenant, he said, ‘I’ll sign a receipt for this if you like.’

The lieutenant passed a sheet of paper across his desk, and Brunetti wrote the date, his name, and a description of the wallet. He signed it at the bottom and passed it back toward Turcati, before leaving the office with Vianello.

When they emerged into the broad calle, it had started to rain.

They made their way through the increasing rain back toward the boat, glad that Bonsuan had insisted on waiting for them. When they climbed on board, Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was well after five, which meant it was high time to go back to the Questura. They emerged into the Grand Canal; Bonsuan turned right and into the long S that would take them up past the Basilica and Bell Tower, down toward the Ponte della Pieta and the Questura.

Down in the cabin, Brunetti pulled his handkerchief and the wallet it contained from his pocket and handed them to Vianello. ‘When we get back, could you take this to the lab and have it dusted for prints?’ As Vianello took them, Brunetti added, ‘Any prints on the plastic bag will be Franchi’s, I’d guess, so they can exclude those. And you better send someone over to the hospital to get a set of Rossi’s.’

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘When they’ve finished, send the wallet up to me. I’d like to have a look at what’s in it.’

‘And could you tell them it’s urgent,’ he said.

Vianello looked across at him and asked, ‘And when isn’t it, sir?’

‘Well, tell Bocchese that there’s a dead person involved. That might make him work a little faster.’

‘Bocchese would be the first person to say that’s proof there’s no need for hurry,’ remarked Vianello.

Brunetti chose to ignore this.

Vianello slipped the handkerchief into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and asked, ‘What else, sir?’

‘I want Signorina Elettra to check the records to see if there’s anything about Rossi.’ He doubted that there would be, couldn’t conceive of Rossi as ever having been involved in anything criminal, but life had given him larger surprises than that, so it would be best to check.

Vianello raised the fingers of one hand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but does this mean we’re going to treat it as a murder investigation?’

Both of them knew the difficulty of this. Until a magistrate had been assigned, neither of them could begin an official investigation, but before a magistrate would take it on and begin to treat it as a case of murder, there had to be persuasive evidence of a crime. Brunetti doubted that his impression of Rossi as a man terrified of heights would count as persuasive evidence of anything: not crime and certainly not murder.

‘I’ll have to try to persuade the Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said.

‘Yes,’ Vianello answered.

‘You sound sceptical.’

Vianello raised an eyebrow. It sufficed.

‘He won’t like this, will he?’ Brunetti volunteered. Again, Vianello didn’t respond. Patta allowed the police to accept crime when it was, in a sense, thrust upon them and could not be ignored. There was little chance that he would permit an investigation of something that so clearly appeared to be an accident. Until such time as it could not be ignored, until such time as evidence could be presented that would convince even the most sceptical that Rossi had not fallen to his death, it was destined to remain an accident in the eyes of the authorities.

Brunetti was blessed, or cursed, with a psychological double vision that forced him to see at least two points of view in any situation, and so he knew how absurd his suspicions must seem and could be made to seem by someone who did not share them. Good sense declared that he abandon all of this and accept the obvious: Franco Rossi had died after an accidental fall from scaffolding. ‘Tomorrow morning, get his keys from the hospital and have a look at his apartment.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘I have no idea,’ Brunetti answered. ‘See if you can find an address book, letters, names of friends or relatives.’

Brunetti had been so immersed in his speculations that he had not noticed them turning into the canal, and it was only the gentle thump of the boat against the Questura landing that told him they had arrived.

Together, they climbed up to the deck. Brunetti waved his thanks to Bonsuan, who was busy mooring the ropes that held the boat to the quay. He and Vianello walked through the rain to the front door of the Questura, which was pulled open before them by a uniformed officer. Before Brunetti could thank him, the young man said, ‘The Vice-Questore wants to see you, Commissario.’

‘He’s still here?’ He sounded surprised.

‘Yes, sir. He said I was to tell you as soon as you got here.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, and to Vianello, ‘I better go up, then.’

They went up the first flight of stairs together, neither willing to speculate on what Patta might want. At the first floor, Vianello headed down the corridor that led to the back stairs to the laboratory where Bocchese, the technician, reigned, unquestioned, unhurried, and unwilling to defer to rank.

Brunetti made his silent way toward Patta’s office. Signorina Elettra sat at her desk and looked up when he came in. She waved him toward her at the same time as she picked up her phone and pressed a button. After a moment she said, ‘Commissario Brunetti’s here, Dottore.’ She listened to Patta, replied, ‘Of course, Dottore,’ and replaced the receiver.

‘He must want to ask you a favour. It’s the only reason he hasn’t been screaming for your blood all afternoon,’ she had time to say before the door opened and Patta appeared.

His grey suit, Brunetti observed, had to be cashmere, and the tie was what passed in Italy for an English club tie. Though it had been a rainy, cool spring, Patta’s handsome face was taut and tanned. He wore a pair of thin-rimmed oval glasses. This was the fifth pair of glasses Brunetti had seen Patta wear in the years he’d been at the Questura, the style always a few months ahead of what everyone else would soon be wearing. Brunetti had once, caught without his own reading glasses, picked up Patta’s from his desk and held them up to take a closer look at a photograph, only to discover that the lenses were clear glass.

‘I was just telling the Commissario to go in, Vice-Questore,’ Signorina Elettra said. Brunetti noticed that there were two files and three pieces of paper on her desk that he was sure had not been there a moment ago.