Donna Leon - About Face

Patta was on him like a ferret. ‘What is it, Brunetti?’

‘When I spoke to him, sir,’ Brunetti began with affected reticence, ‘Guarino told me he had a suspect for that murder in Tessera.’ Then, before Patta could ask, he added, ‘The man with the trucking company. Before Christmas.’

‘I’m not an idiot, Brunetti. I read the reports, you know.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Well, what did he say? This Carabiniere?’

‘He told me he didn’t give the name of his suspect to his colleagues, sir,’ Brunetti said.

‘That’s impossible,’ Patta said. ‘Of course he’d give it to them.’

‘I’m not sure he trusted them entirely.’ This could well be true, though Guarino had never said it.

Brunetti watched as Patta decided to pretend to be surprised at such a thing. Before he could express his disbelief, Brunetti went on. ‘He as much as told me that.’ This was a lie.

‘He didn’t give you the name, did he?’ Patta asked sharply.

‘Yes,’ Brunetti offered, with no explanation.

‘Why?’ It was almost a shout.

Patta, Brunetti knew, would not understand it if Brunetti were to suggest Guarino had trusted him because he recognized in him another honest man. Instead, he answered, ‘He suspected his investigation was being interfered with: he said it had happened in the past. Perhaps he thought we’d be more likely to run a careful investigation. And perhaps find the killer.’ Brunetti was tempted to suggest more, but caution prevailed and he left it to Patta to consider the advantages. When Patta did not respond, Brunetti went for broke, saying, ‘I have no choice but to give them the name, then, do I, sir?’

Patta studied the surface of his desk, a priest reading the runes. ‘Did you believe him about the suspect?’ he finally asked.

‘I did, yes.’ There was no need to tell Patta about the photo, about the trip to the Casinò: Patta was not a detail man.

‘Do you think we can continue this without their knowing what we’re doing?’ Patta’s use of the plural was enough to tell Brunetti that his superior had already decided to pursue the investigation: now what Brunetti had to do was ensure that it be left to him to do so.

‘Guarino thought we’d have the advantage because of our local knowledge, sir.’ Brunetti spoke as though neither Patta nor Scarpa was Sicilian.

In a contemplative voice, Patta said, ‘I’d like to be able to do that.’

‘What, sir?’

‘Take this right out of the mouths of the Carabinieri. First, Mestre took that murder investigation away from us, and now the Carabinieri want to take this, too.’ The speculative man had been replaced by the man of action, one who had buried the memory of his original delight when he believed the investigation was not to be theirs. ‘They’ll see they can’t do that, not while I’m Vice-Questore in this city.’

Brunetti was glad Patta managed to restrain the impulse to slam his fist down on his desk: it would have been a gesture too far. What a pity Patta had not worked in the historical archive of some Stalinist state: how he would have loved altering the photos, airbrushing out the old and replacing them with the new. Or writing, and then rewriting, the history books: the man had a call.

‘. . and Vianello, I suppose,’ Brunetti heard Patta conclude and dragged himself away from the delights of speculation.

‘Of course, sir. If that’s what you think is best,’ Brunetti said and got to his feet, a motion prompted by Patta’s tone, not whatever it was he had been saying that Brunetti had not heard.

He stood, waiting for Patta’s final remark, but he failed to make it and Brunetti went out to Signorina Elettra’s office. In a voice that might well have carried into Patta’s office, Brunetti said, ‘If you have a moment, Signorina, I have a few things I’d like to ask you to take care of.’

‘Of course, Commissario,’ she said formally, turning her head in the direction of Patta’s office. ‘I have some things to finish for the Vice-Questore. I’ll come up when I’m free.’

The first thing Brunetti noticed when he entered his own office was the light streaming in through the window. Beyond it he saw the glistening roof of the church, tiny patches of snow still clinging to it and, beyond that, the burnished sky. Now that the snow had drawn the pollution from the atmosphere, the mountains would be visible from the kitchen, should he get home while there was still light enough to see them.

He went over to the window and studied the play of light on the roof while he waited for Signorina Elettra to arrive. She had caught Guarino’s interest, and he felt himself blush at the thought of how he had resented her response to it. There was no better word to describe it: resented. Each had tried to learn about the other, and Brunetti had stifled their attempts. He placed both hands flat on the windowsill and contemplated his fingers, but that did not help him feel any better about the way he had behaved. He distracted himself with the memory of Guarino’s wry acceptance of his own secretary’s resemblance to Signorina Elettra. Her name had been an exotic one, as well, something operatic: Leonora, Norma, Alcina? No, it had been one of those droopy, suffering ones: Lord, there were so many of those.

Gilda, that was it. Gilda Landi. Or had she been one of those false trails people were always laying in spy novels? No, Guarino had been caught entirely off guard and had spoken quite impulsively of the — what was the word — indomitable? No, formidable, Signora Landi. A civilian, then.

Brunetti heard Signorina Elettra come in and turned to see her sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. She glanced in his direction but, in truth, she was looking beyond him and at the roof and the patch of clear sky beyond.

He took his place behind his desk and asked, ‘What was it you wanted to tell me, Signorina?’

‘This Terrasini,’ she said. ‘Antonio. It seems to be his real name.’ She had a manila file with her but made no attempt to open it.

Brunetti nodded.

‘He’s a member of a branch of the Terrasini family in Aspromonte, a cousin of one of the bosses.’

The news set Brunetti’s imagination running, but however much he managed to make possible connections with Guarino’s death, he always ran into the blank fact that he had no reason to question the man, let alone to arrest him. Guarino had never explained the photograph to Brunetti, and now never would.

‘How did you find this out?’ he asked her.

‘He’s in the files, sir. He was arrested the first few times using that name, but he’s also been arrested using an assortment of aliases.’ She glanced at Brunetti and said, ‘What I don’t understand is why he’d use his real name to go to the Casinò.’

‘It might be that they take more care in examining documents than we do,’ he suggested. He had spoken ironically, but as soon as he heard himself, he realized he was probably telling the truth.

‘What sort of things has he been arrested for?’ he asked.

‘The usual,’ she answered. ‘Assault, extortion, selling drugs, rape — this in the early stages of his career.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Since then he’s moved on to association with the Camorra. And twice for murder. But neither of those cases made it to trial.’

‘Why?’

‘In one case, the chief witness disappeared, and in the other the chief witness retracted his testimony.’

Comment being superfluous, Brunetti asked, ‘Where is he now, in jail?’

‘He was, but he was released with the indulto , though he’d been inside only a few months.’

‘For what?’

‘Assault.’

‘When was he let out?’