the place, the faster he moves - then I’ll know that whoever wants this thing shut down has a certain amount of power.’
‘Like who?’
He took another piece of bread and wiped at the gravy on his plate. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, but it makes me very uncomfortable, thinking about who it might be.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, not exactly. But if the American military is involved, then you can be sure it’s political, and that means the government. Theirs. And that means ours, as well.’
‘And hence a phone call to Patta?’
‘Yes.’
‘And hence trouble?’
Brunetti was not given to remarking upon the self-evident.
‘And if Patta doesn’t try to stop you?’
Brunetti shrugged. He’d wait and see.
Paola removed the plates. ‘Dessert?’
He shook his head. ‘What time will the kids be home?’
Moving about the kitchen, she answered, ‘Chiara will be here by nine. I told Raffaele to be home by ten.’ The difference in the way she expressed it told the whole story.
‘You speak to his teachers?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No. It’s too soon in the year.’
‘When’s the first meeting for the parents?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got the letter from the school around here somewhere. In October, I think.’
‘How is he?’ Even as he asked it, he hoped Paola would just answer the question, not ask him what he meant, because he didn’t know what he meant.
‘I don’t know, Guido. He never talks to me, not about school or about his friends or what he’s doing. Were you like that when you were his age?’
He thought about being sixteen and what it had been like. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I was. But then I discovered girls, and I forgot all about being angry or lost, or whatever I was. I just wanted them to like me. That’s the only thing that was important to me.’
‘Were there a lot of them?’ she asked.
He shrugged.
‘And did they like you?’
He grinned.
‘Oh, go away, Guido, and find yourself something to do. Watch television.’
‘I hate television.’
‘Then help me do the dishes.’
‘I love television.’
‘Guido,’ she repeated, not exasperated, but on the way, ‘just get up and go away from me.’
Both of them heard the sound of a key in the lock. It was Chiara, banging the door open and dropping a school book as she came into the apartment. She came down the hall to the kitchen, kissed both of her parents, and went to stand next to Brunetti, arm draped on his shoulder. ‘Is there anything to eat, Mamma?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t Luisa’s mother feed you?’
‘Yes, but that was hours ago. I’m starved.’
Brunetti wrapped his arm around her and pulled her onto his lap. In his bad cop voice he said, harshly, ‘All right, I’ve got you. Confess. Where do you put it?’
‘Oh, Papa, stop it,’ she said, squirming with delight. ‘I just eat it. But then I get hungry again. Don’t you?’
‘Your father usually waits at least an hour, Chiara.’ Then, more kindly, Paola asked, ‘Fruit? A sandwich?’
‘Both?’ she pleaded.
By the time Chiara had eaten a sandwich, a massive thing filled with prosciutto, tomato, and mayonnaise, then devoured two apples, it was time for all of them to go to bed. Raffaele had not returned by eleven-thirty, but Brunetti, waking in the night, heard the door open and close and his son’s footsteps in the hall. After that, he slept deeply.
* * * *
13
Ordinarily, Brunetti would not bother to go to the Questura on a Saturday, but this morning he did, more to see who else turned up than for any other reason. He made no attempt to get there on time, ambled through Campo San Luca and had a cappuccino at Rosa Salva, the bar Paola insisted had the best coffee in the city.
