The Girl of his Dreams

people

well’ he said with a nervous smile to suggest that he really ought not to be telling this sort of thing to a civilian 'they won't even bother to report a break-in.' He shrugged at this evidence of human behaviour as if to demonstrate sympathy with it.

‘I think you're right, Commissario’ Fornari said, as if the idea were a new one to him. 'In our case, we never even noticed the things were missing, so I can't say what we would have done had we realized a robbery had taken place.'

‘I see’ Brunetti said and smiled. Then he said, 'Your wife told me that your daughter was here that night.' Fornari's finger stopped moving, and Brunetti watched it join the others in a tight grip on the arm of the chair.

After a long pause, he said, 'Yes, that's what Orsola told me. She said she checked on her before she went to bed.' Fornari smiled tightly at Brunetti and asked, 'Do you have children, Commissario?'

'Yes. Two teenagers. A boy and a girl.'

'Then you know how hard it is to break the habit of checking on them at night, I suppose.' Fornari's tactic, however obvious, was clever, one Brunetti had often employed: find common ground with your subject and use it to lead the conversation where you want it to go.

More importantly, use it to lead a conversation away from where you do not want it to go.

While Fornari continued speaking, Brunetti considered the possibility that Fornari's daughter knew something her father did not want Brunetti to know. He nodded towards Fornari, not really listening, though he thought he heard the man begin a sentence with, 'Once, when Matteo was a child…'

Suddenly Brunetti was overcome by the temptation to do something he would despise himself for doing, something, in fact, that he had promised himself he would never do and then, after those times when he had done it, had promised himself he would never do again. Informers were everywhere: the police had them inside the Mafia; the Mafia had them even at the highest level of the magistratura; the military was full of them, as no doubt was industry. But no one had so far bothered to penetrate the world of teenagers and bring from it reliable information. He foresaw no danger to his own children in asking them to supply information about Fornari's, but the essence of danger was that it was unforeseen, wasn't it?

When he tuned back in, Fornari was coming to the end of a story about one of his children: Brunetti did not know which one. Brunetti smiled, then got to his feet and extended his hand to Fornari. ‘I suppose they're all much the same,' he said. 'They just don't pay attention to the same things we do.' He hoped it was an appropriate response to whatever story Fornari had been telling, and from the man's reaction it appeared that it was.

They shook hands, Brunetti thanked him for taking the time to speak to him, asked him to extend the same thanks to his wife, and left the apartment. On the way downstairs, he wondered which of his children he was willing to turn into a spy and how he would deal with Paola when she found out.

27

When he reached the calle, Brunetti turned to the right and, more from habit than conscious thought, started back the way he had come. He was halfway down Calle degli Avvocati when he changed his mind and decided to take the vaporetto back to the Questura. He turned abruptly, and when he did he noticed a sudden motion on the left about ten metres away as something slipped back around the corner of Calle Pesaro. Reminded of the sensation that he had been followed from the Questura, Brunetti decided to abandon caution and took off at a fast run towards the corner.

When he wheeled around it, he saw motion ahead as someone, perhaps a woman, ran down the other side of the bridge and to the right into Calle dell’Albero. Brunetti followed over the bridge, down the riva and left at the end. He paused only long enough to look down the calle at the right, which he knew to be a dead end.

And heard retreating footsteps. He followed them: the walls of the buildings on either side grew closer together as the calk narrowed, and then ahead of him he saw the tall metal doors of a palazzo. For a moment, he wondered if he had been imagining it all, but then he heard a sound on the left. He moved forward slowly, and as he walked he unbuttoned his jacket to put his pistol within reach.

He saw it then, in a doorway on the left, and at first it looked to him like a discarded overcoat or a garbage bag over which someone had tossed an old sweater. He approached, and the object moved, backed up somehow to get closer to the door, then slid silently to the right and pressed up against the wall.

Brunetti was still not sure what sort of creature he had cornered. He bent down to take a closer look, and it erupted in his direction, crashing against his legs. Instinctively, Brunetti grabbed at it, but it was like holding an eel or some sort of wild animal. It thrashed, and then two skinny legs began to kick at him.

Knowing then at least what manner of being he was dealing with, Brunetti lifted it from the ground and turned it so that the feet were facing away from him and would perhaps do less damage. Then he wrapped his arms around the upper part and pulled it to his chest, muttering the sort of things he had said to their dogs when he was a boy.

It's all right. It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you.' It kicked a few more times. Brunetti heard gasps, but gradually they subsided and the kicking stopped. It hung limp in his arms. 'I'm going to put you down now,' Brunetti said. 'Be careful where you put your feet, and don't fall.' The creature remained limp and unresponsive.

'Do you understand?'

Something under the hood of a dirty sports jacket nodded, and Brunetti lowered it to the ground. He felt the feet touch the ground one after the other, and, his hands still on the arms, he felt the entire body grow tense and prepare to flee. Effortlessly, he picked the child up again and said, 'Don't try to run away again. I'm much faster than you are.'

The tension relaxed and Brunetti lowered the child once more. The top of the hood came a few centimetres above Brunetti's belt. 'I'm going to let go and move away from you.' He did just that and then spoke to the back of the jacket. 'When you want, you can talk to me.'

There was no response. 'Is that why you were following me?' he asked. 'Do you want to talk to me?'

He saw a motion of the head, but it could have meant anything. 'All right. Then let's talk.'

A small, dirty hand came out of the sleeve of the jacket and motioned Brunetti to move farther away. Because the calle was a dead end and he was blocking the exit, he did this, moving back a full two paces. 'All right, I'm far enough away from you now. So we can talk.'

Brunetti leaned back against the wall of a building and folded his arms. He looked at the wall opposite him, though his attention was entirely on the child.

After what could have been a minute but might have been more, the child turned around. In the shadow created by the hood, Brunetti could make out eyes and mouth but not much more. He put his hands in his pockets and took another step away from the child, leaving an opening in front of him large enough for the child to try to bolt through. He watched as the child considered doing this and then discarded the idea.

The child slipped the same hand that had done the waving into the front pocket of the jacket. When it came out, the child took one step towards Brunetti and opened the ringers. In the palm Brunetti saw some small objects. He took a slow step closer, then leaned forward to see better. There was a ring and a cuff link.

Brunetti crouched down and extended his hand towards the child, who took one small step towards him. Brunetti saw that it was a boy, looking no older than eight, though he knew that the dead girl's brother was twelve. The boy let the jewellery drop into Brunetti's outstretched palm.

He pulled the objects closer and looked at them. The silver of the cuff link surrounded a small rectangle of lapis lazuli. Even Brunetti could see that the red stone in the ring was only a piece of glass. He glanced at the child, who was looking at him. 'Who sent you?' Brunetti asked.

'Mamma’ the child answered in a very light voice.

Brunetti nodded. 'You're a good boy,' he said. 'And very brave.' He didn't know how much of this the boy would understand, but when he saw the answering smile, he knew. 'And very clever,' Brunetti added, tapping the side of his own head, and the smile grew larger.

'What happened?' Brunetti asked. When the child did not answer, Brunetti asked, 'That night, what