strategies.
Bonaventura got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry to be abrupt with you, Commissario, but I’ve got things to do here and these are questions I really can’t answer. I think it would be better if you contacted the directors of Paolo’s factories. I truly don’t know anything about his businesses or how he ran them. I’m sorry.’
Brunetti stood. It made sense. The fact that Mitri had once been a chemist didn’t necessitate his taking a part in the day-to-day running of the factories. In the multifaceted world of business, a man no longer needed to know anything about what a business did in order to run it. Just think of Patta, he told himself, to see how true that was. ‘Thank you for your time,’ he said, again extending his hand towards Bonaventura. Bonaventura shook it and led him back to the entrance hall, where they parted, leaving Brunetti to walk to the Questura through the back streets of Cannaregio, to him the most beautiful neighbourhood in the, city. Which meant, he supposed, in the world.
By the time he got back, most of the staff had gone to lunch, so he contented himself with leaving a note on Signorina Elettra’s desk, asking her to see what she could find out about Mitri’s brother-in-law, Alessandro Bonaventura. As he straightened up and took the liberty of slipping open her top drawer to replace the pencil he’d used, he thought of how much he’d like to leave a message on her e-mail. He had no idea how it worked or what he’d have to do to send her something, but still he wanted to do it, if only to show her that he was not the technological Neanderthaler she seemed to consider him. After all, Vianello had learned; he saw no reason why he couldn’t become computer literate. He had a degree in law; that surely must count for something.
He looked at the computer: silent, toasters stilled and screen dark. How difficult could it be? But, perhaps, the saving thought came to him, perhaps, like Mitri, he was more suited to be the man behind the scenes than the one who understood the day-to-day workings of the machines. With that salve fresh on his conscience, he went down to the bar at the bridge to have a tramezzino and a glass of wine, and wait for the others to get back from lunch.
That happened closer to four than to three, but Brunetti had long since abandoned any illusions about the level of industry on the part of the people with whom he worked, so it didn’t trouble him at all to sit quietly in his office for more than an hour, reading that day’s paper, even checking his horoscope, curious about the blonde stranger he was going to meet and happy to learn that he ‘was soon going to have some good news’. He could use some.
His intercom rang shortly after four and he picked it up, knowing it would be Patta, interested that things could have happened so quickly, curious to learn what the Vice-Questore wanted.
‘Could you come down to my office, Commissario?’ his superior asked and Brunetti replied politely that he was already on his way.
Signorina Elettra’s jacket hung on the back of her chair, and a list of names and what appeared to be numbers stood in neat lines on her computer screen, but there was no sign of her. He knocked on Patta’s door and entered at the sound of his voice.
And found Signorina Elettra seated in front of Patta’s desk, legs primly pressed together, a notebook resting on her lap, pencil raised as Patta’s last word hung in the air. Because it was only the shouted
Patta barely acknowledged Brunetti’s arrival, giving him the slightest of nods, and returned his attention to his dictation. ‘And tell them that I do not want… No, make that read, “I will not tolerate…” I think that has a more forceful sound, don’t you, Signorina?’
‘Absolutely, Vice-Questore,’ she said, eyes on what she was writing.
‘I will not tolerate’, Patta went on, ‘the continued use of police boats and vehicles in unauthorized trips. If a member of the staff…’ Here he broke off to add in a more casual style, ‘Would you look and see what ranks are entitled to use the boats and cars and add it, Signorina?’
‘Of course, Vice-Questore.’
‘Requires the use of police transportation, he is to… excuse me, Signorina?’ Patta broke off in response to the confusion on her face as she glanced up at those last words.
‘Perhaps it would be better to say “that person”, sir,’ she suggested, ‘to avoid the sound of sexual prejudice, as if only men had the authority to requisition boats.’ She lowered her head and turned a page of her notebook.
‘Of course, of course, if you think it wisest,’ Patta agreed and continued, ’… that person is to fill out the required forms and see that they are approved by the appropriate authority.’ His whole manner changed and his face became less imperious, as though he’d told his chin to stop looking like Mussolini’s. ‘If you’d be so kind, check and see who it is that’s supposed to authorize it and add their name to the memo, would you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ she said and wrote a few more words. She looked up and smiled. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Patta said. As Brunetti watched, he actually leaned forward in his chair as she rose, as if the sympathetic force of his motion could help her to her feet.
At the door, she turned and smiled at them both. ‘I’ll have that first thing tomorrow morning, sir,’ she said.
‘Not before?’ Patta asked.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’ve got the budget for our office’s expenses for next month to calculate.’ Her smile blended regret with sternness.
‘Of course.’
Without another word, she left, closing the door behind her.
‘Brunetti,’ Patta said with no preamble, ‘what’s been happening with the Mitri case?’
‘I spoke to his brother-in-law today,’ Brunetti began, curious to see if Patta had heard about that yet. The blankness in his face suggested that he had not, so Brunetti continued, ‘I’ve also learned that there have been three other murders in the last few years using what might have been a plastic-coated wire of some sort, perhaps electrical. And all the victims seem to have been taken from behind, the way Mitri was.’
‘What sort of crimes were they?’ Patta asked. ‘Like this?’
‘No, sir. It would seem that they were executions, probably Mafia.’
‘Then’, Patta said, dismissing the possibility out of hand, ‘they can have nothing to do with this. This is the work of a lunatic, some sort of fanatic driven to murder by…’ Here Patta either lost the thread of his argument or recalled to whom he was speaking, for he suddenly stopped.
‘I’d like to pursue the possibility that there is some connection between the murders, sir,’ Brunetti said, just as if Patta had not spoken.
‘Where did they happen?’
‘One in Palermo, one in Reggio Calabria and the most recent in Padova.’
‘Ah.’ Patta sighed audibly. After a moment he explained, ‘If they are related, that would make it likely it’s not ours, wouldn’t it? That it’s really the police in those other cities who should be looking at our crime as part of the series?’
‘That’s entirely possible, sir.’ Brunetti did not bother to mention that the same would hold true for the Venetian police: that they also should look into the series.
‘Well, then alert them, all of them, to what’s happened and let me know when you get an answer from them.’
Brunetti had to admit the genius of the solution. The investigation of the crime had been farmed out, tossed back to the police of those other cities, so Patta had done the officially correct, the bureaucratically efficient, thing: he had passed it on to the next desk and in so doing had fulfilled his own duty or, more important, would be perceived to have done, should his decision ever be questioned. Brunetti got to his feet. ‘Of course, sir. I’ll contact them immediately.’
Patta bowed his head in polite dismissal. It was seldom that Brunetti, a headstrong, difficult man, would prove so amenable to reason.
21
