‘You should call her. Take her out to lunch. Do something that will make her happy.’
‘Thanks, Guido. I will.’ Brunetti thought the Count had hung up without saying anything else, so long did the silence stretch out, but then the other man’s voice was back. ‘I hope you find whoever did this. And I’ll help you in any way I can.’
‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said.
This time the Count did cut the connection.
Brunetti opened his drawer and took out the photocopy of the note that had been found with Mitri. Why the accusation of paedophilia? And who was accused, Mitri himself or Mitri as the owner of a travel agency that encouraged it? If the killer was crazy enough to write something like this, then go ahead and murder the man to whom the threats were addressed, would he be someone a man like Mitri would allow into his apartment at night? Though he knew it was an archaic prejudice, Brunetti was of the opinion that flagrantly crazy people usually gave every evidence of being just that. He had only to think of the ones he often saw near Palazzo Boldu in the early morning to be reminded of this truth.
But this person had managed to get into Mitri’s apartment. Further, he – or she, Brunetti conceded, but he didn’t consider this a real possibility; another one of his prejudices – had managed sufficiently to soothe Mitri that he had allowed his visitor to get behind him and pull out the fatal cord or wire, or whatever it was. And he had come and gone unseen and unremarked: no one in the building – and they’d all been questioned – had seen anything at all strange that evening; most of them had been in their apartments all the time and had realized something was wrong only when Signora Mitri ran screaming into the hall in front of her door.
No, it didn’t sound to Brunetti like the behaviour of a madman, nor like that of a person who would write a note as unhinged as this one. Besides, he found it hard to reconcile the paradox that someone who was willing to take a stand against what they perceived as injustice – and here Paola slipped unsummoned into his mind as an example – would commit murder in order to correct that injustice.
He followed these ideas, discarding madmen and madwomen as he went, abandoning fanatics and zealots. That left him at the end asking the same question which was mooted in every murder investigation,
Something else, then. Brunetti lowered his head and stared at the copy of the message formed by cut-out letters. Something else. ‘Sex or money,’ he said out loud and heard Signorina Elettra’s startled gasp. She had come in unnoticed and stood in front of his desk, a folder in her right hand.
He looked up at her and smiled.
‘I beg your pardon, Commissario?’
‘That’s why he was killed, Signorina. Sex or money.’
She understood instantly. ‘Always in good taste, those two,’ she said and placed the file on his desk. ‘This one is about the second.’
‘Whose?’
‘Both of theirs.’ A look of dissatisfaction crossed her face. ‘I can’t make any sense out of the numbers there, those for Dottor Mitri.’
‘In what way?’ Brunetti asked, knowing that if Signorina Elettra found numbers confusing there was little chance that he would have any idea what they meant.
‘He was very rich.’
Brunetti, who had been inside his home, nodded.
‘But the factories and businesses he owned don’t make very much money.’
This was a common enough phenomenon, Brunetti knew. To go by their tax returns, no one in Italy made enough to live on; they were a nation of paupers, scraping by only by turning collars, wearing shoes until they could be worn no more and, for all he knew, surviving on chaff and nettles. And yet the restaurants were full of well- dressed people, everyone seemed to have a new car, and the airports never ceased sending off planeloads of happy tourists. Go figure, as an American friend of his was much in the habit of saying.
‘I can’t imagine you’d be surprised by that,’ Brunetti said.
‘No, I’m not. We all cheat on our taxes. But I’ve studied all the records for his companies, and it looks like they’re correct. That is, none of them makes him much more than twenty million or so a year.’
‘For a total of what?’
‘About two hundred million a year.’
‘Profit?’
‘That’s what he declared,’ she answered. ‘After his taxes he was left with less than half of that.’
It was considerably more than Brunetti earned per year and hardly meant a life of poverty. ‘But why are you so sure?’ he asked.
‘Because I’ve also checked his credit card expenses.’ She nodded down at the folder. ‘And they are not the expenses of a man who earns that little.’
Not at all sure how to react to that dismissive ‘little’, Brunetti said, ‘How much did he spend?’ He waved her to a seat.
She tucked her long skirt under her and sat on the front of the chair, her spine not even flirting with its back, and waved her right hand in front of her. ‘I don’t remember the exact sum. More than fifty million, I think. So if you add to that the costs of running his home, just running his life, there’s no way to explain how he could have almost a billion lire in savings and stocks.’
‘Maybe he won the lottery,’ Brunetti suggested with a smile.
‘No one wins the lottery,’ Signorina Elettra answered without one.
‘Why would he keep so much money in the bank?’ Brunetti asked.
‘No one expects to die, I suppose. But he’s been moving it around. During the last year, quite a bit of it disappeared.’
‘Where?’
She shrugged. ‘To the places money disappears to, I suppose: Switzerland, Luxembourg, the Channel Islands.’
‘How much?’
‘About half a billion.’
Brunetti gazed down at the folder, but didn’t open it. He glanced up. ‘Can you find out?’
‘I haven’t really begun to look, Commissario. That is, I’ve begun, but I’ve just been glancing around, as it were. I haven’t really started to pry open drawers or rifle through his private papers.’
‘Do you think you could find time to do that?’
Brunetti could not remember the last time he had offered candy to a baby, but he had a vague memory of a smile much like the one Signorina Elettra gave him. ‘There’s nothing that would give me greater joy,’ she said, surprising him only by her rhetoric, not by her response. She got to her feet, eager to be off.
‘And Zambino?’
‘Nothing at all. I’ve never found anyone whose records are so clear and so…’ She paused here, seeking the proper term. ‘So clear and so honest,’ she said, unable to restrain her wonder at the sound of the last word. ‘Never.’
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘Personally?’ Brunetti nodded, but instead of answering she enquired, ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason,’ he answered and then, made curious by her apparent reluctance, asked, ‘Do you?’
‘He’s a patient of Barbara’s.’
He considered this. He knew Signorina Elettra well enough to be aware that she would never reveal something she thought came under the seal of family, and her sister to realize she would always be bound by her oath as a doctor. He let it drop. ‘Professionally?’
