He looked at Patta, who liked it when people did so when speaking to him. ‘Then, for no reason I can understand, Terrasini pulled out a pistol and aimed it up at us, or at the two security men — I don’t know which.’ This was certainly true enough: he had not known whom Terrasini was pointing his gun at.
‘Griffoni and I both had our guns in our hands by then, and when he saw them he must have changed his mind, because he lowered his and gave it to Signora Marinello.’
Brunetti found it encouraging that Patta seemed not to find it unusual that Brunetti should refer to her formally like this. He went on. ‘Then — it was only a few seconds later — he turned to her and raised his hand as if he were going to hit her. Not slap her, sir, but hit her. He had his hand in a fist. I saw that.’
Patta looked as if he was hearing a story with which he was already familiar.
‘And then she shot him. He fell, and she shot him again.’ Patta asked nothing about this, but Brunetti said, anyway, ‘I don’t know why she did that, sir.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all I saw, sir,’ Brunetti said.
‘Did she say anything?’ Patta asked, and Brunetti prepared to answer, but Patta specified, ‘When you spoke to her in the Casino? About why she did it?’
‘No, sir,’ Brunetti answered honestly.
Patta pushed himself back in his chair and crossed his legs, showing a sock blacker than night and smoother than a maiden’s cheek. ‘We have to be cautious here, Brunetti, as I think you can understand.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I’ve spoken to Griffoni, and she confirms your story, or you confirm hers. She said exactly what you did, that he gave her the gun and then pulled his fist back to hit her.’
Brunetti nodded.
‘I spoke to her husband today,’ Patta said, and Brunetti disguised his astonishment with a small cough. ‘We’ve known one another for years,’ Patta explained. ‘Lions Club.’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said, filling his voice with the admiration of non-members. ‘What did he say?’
‘That his wife panicked when she saw that Terrasini was going to hit her.’ Then, with a confidentiality that allowed Brunetti a one-day membership in the old boys’ club, Patta said, ‘You can imagine what would happen to her face if anyone hit it. It might fall apart.’
Brunetti’s stomach clenched with rage at the words, but then he realized that Patta was entirely serious and spoke literally. A moment’s reflection forced him to accept the fact that Patta was also probably right.
Patta went on, ‘And when he was on the ground, she saw his hand start to move towards her leg. Her husband told me that’s what made her shoot him again.’ Then, to Brunetti directly, he asked, ‘Did you see it?’
‘No, sir, I was looking at her, and I think the angle was wrong, anyway.’ That made no sense, but Patta wanted to believe what he had been told, and Brunetti saw no reason to prevent that.
‘That’s exactly what Griffoni said,’ Patta volunteered.
Some imp of the perverse urged Brunetti to ask, ‘What did you and her husband decide, sir?’
Patta heard the question but not the words, and answered, ‘I think what happened is pretty clear, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. I do,’ Brunetti answered.
‘She felt threatened and she defended herself the only way she knew how,’ Patta explained, and Brunetti was suddenly sure he had said the same to the Questore. ‘And this man, Antonio Terrasini — I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to find out about him, and once again she has done so with remarkable speed — has a criminal record filled with violence.’
‘Ah,’ Brunetti allowed himself to exclaim, then asked, ‘And so the possibility of criminal charges?’
Patta flicked the idea away as though it were a fly. ‘No, that’s certainly not necessary.’ Then, switching to the mode of pathos, the Vice-Questore went on, ‘They’ve certainly suffered enough.’ Presumably, her husband was the other part of that plural, and Brunetti thought how true his words were. They had.
He got to his feet. ‘I’m glad this is settled, then,’ he said.
Patta graced Brunetti with one of his rare smiles, and Brunetti was struck, as happened each time he smiled, by how very handsome the man was. ‘You’ll write a report, then, Brunetti?’
‘Of course, sir,’ Brunetti said, filled with the uncharacteristic desire to do his master’s bidding. ‘I’ll go up and do it now.’
‘Good,’ Patta said and pulled some papers towards him.
Upstairs, Brunetti remembered his missing computer but could not bring himself to care much about it. He wrote an account, neither brief nor long, of what had happened in the Casino two nights before. He confined himself to describing what he had seen, making reference to Franca Marinello in a passive way, as the person who had followed Terrasini down the steps and to whom he had handed his gun. She became active, in Brunetti’s account, only when Terrasini raised his hand to her, and then Brunetti described her response. He made no mention of having seen her speak to Terrasini, nor did he mention her asking him about Ovid, nor yet did he refer to his meeting with her in the
As he was writing, his phone rang and he answered.
‘It’s Bocchese,’ the chief technician said.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said, still writing.
‘They just emailed me the autopsy reports on that guy who got shot in the Casino.’
‘Yes?’
‘He had a good deal of alcohol in his blood, and something else they can’t identify. Might be Ecstasy, might be something like it. But something. They’re doing more tests.’
‘And you?’ Brunetti asked. ‘You find anything?’
‘They sent me the bullets, and I had a look. The guys in Mestre had already sent me the photos of the bullet they took out of the mud in that tank in Marghera. If it’s not a match, I’m going to retire and open an antique shop.’
‘Is that what you’re going to do when you retire?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No need to,’ the technician answered. ‘I know so many people in the business by now that I don’t have to bother with a shop. That way, I don’t have to pay taxes.’
‘Of course.’
‘You still want me to check on that, what was he, that guy with the trucks in Tessera?’
‘Yes, if you can.’
‘It’ll take a couple of days. I’ll have to nag them to send me the photos of the bullets.’
‘Keep at it, Bocchese. It might be something.’
‘All right, if you say so. Anything else?’
There was the dentist, Brunetti knew, and his still unsolved murder. If the police found a link between his death and the gun, then they would have a link between Terrasini and the dentist, wouldn’t they?
‘No, nothing else,’ Brunetti said and replaced the phone.
