A Sea of Troubles

'Let's go over to Malamocco’ he said, getting to his feet.

The engine of the launch sprang instantly to life. Vianello cast off, and Bonsuan swung them out from the pier and in a broad circle back the way they had come. Hugging the narrow peninsula on his right, he headed towards Malamocco. As they approached the canal that led out into the Adriatic, Brunetti leaned forward to tap Bonsuan on the shoulder. The pilot turned to him, and Brunetti pointed off to the left, where he saw smoke billowing up in the far distance. 'What's that?' he asked.

Covering his eyes with his left hand, Bonsuan followed Brunetti's gesture and said, 'Marghera.'

Seeing nothing of interest, Bonsuan turned his attention back to the waters ahead.

Suddenly, he switched the engine into neutral and then just as quickly into reverse, forcing the boat to glide to a halt. Brunetti, who had been trying to distinguish the source of the smoke, turned when he felt the abrupt change in the motor's rhythm.

'Maria Vergine,' escaped his lips as he saw an enormous ship looming, endlessly high, endlessly threatening, to their right. 'What is it?' he asked Bonsuan. Though they were a few hundred metres away, his perspective was still at an upward slant, and all he could see was the side of the hull, the Plimsoll line, and the left side of the glassed-in control deck, soaring as distant and high as a church tower.

'A tanker,' Bonsuan answered. He might as well have said, 'A rapist' or 'An arsonist', so fierce was his tone.

Their own engine silent, they were enveloped in the roar that issued from the tanker. The universe became noise, a force that battered against them as fiercely as the shock waves from an explosion. Involuntarily, all of them pressed their hands to their ears and kept them there until the tanker had passed them and was continuing up the Canale dei Petroli towards the factories on the mainland. The waves from its wake hit them then, and they were forced to grab at the railings to keep their balance as the launch bobbed up and down and back and forth, the three of them dancing like fools on the deck.

Both hands clenched on the railing in front of him, Brunetti leaned forward and took a deep breath. His gaze fell to the waters below them, and he saw small, button-sized blobs on the surface. There were only a few, and he could not be sure that they had not been there before he saw the ship.

Bonsuan switched the engine back into life. Silent, they continued towards Malamocco.

12

The trip proved useless, as there was no sign of Giacomini at the address the owner of the restaurant had provided. It was too late in the day to continue to Chioggia, so Brunetti decided to contact the police by phone and told Bonsuan to take them back to the Questura.

Whether it was the sight of the tanker or the small dark blobs they had seen on the water, something had darkened their spirits, and they said little on the way back. The light continued to single out the myriad beauties of the city, especially to those who approached it, as people were meant to do, from the sea. It was late afternoon, and the sun still bore down on them; Vianello said something about having forgotten to put on sun screen. Brunetti ignored him.

As they pulled up to the Questura, Brunetti saw that Pucetti was on guard duty that afternoon, and the sight of the young officer gave him the idea. Pucetti saluted as they stepped off the boat. Brunetti told Vianello to call the Chioggia police to see if they had any details on the incident between Scarpa and Bottin and said he'd wait for him in his office but wanted to have a word with Pucetti first.

'Pucetti,' Brunetti began, 'how long are you assigned to guard duty?'

'All this week, sir. Then next week I have night patrol.'

'Would you be interested in a special assignment?'

The young man's face lit up. 'Oh, yes, sir.'

Brunetti appreciated his not complaining about guard duty: having to stand there all day with little to do but open the door or break up the occasional altercation between people waiting in long lines outside the various offices.

'Good, let me go and check the schedules,' Brunetti said and started to walk away. He had taken only two steps when he turned back towards Pucetti. 'Did you ever work as a waiter?'

'Yes, sir,' he answered. 'My brother-in-law has a pizzeria in Castello, and I work there sometimes on the weekends.' Again Pucetti pleased him by asking no questions.

'Good. I'll be back.'

He went immediately to Signorina Elettra's office, where he found her arranging a spray of forsythia in a blue Venini vase. 'Is that yours?' he asked, pointing to the vase.

'No, sir. It belongs to the Questura. The other one, the one I used to use, was stolen last week, so I had to replace it.'

'Stolen?' he asked. 'From the Questura?'

'Yes. One of the janitors left it in the washroom after he washed it out, and it disappeared.'

'From the Questura?'

'I'll be more careful with this one,' she said, slipping a curved branch into place. Brunetti had a friend who worked for Venini and so knew the cost of such a vase: no less than three million.

'How is it that the Questura came to buy this one?' he asked, careful of his phrasing.

'Office equipment,' she answered. She put the last branch in place and stepped aside to allow him to lift it for her. With a languid hand, she pointed to a spot on the windowsill, and Brunetti set it gently down just where she indicated.

'Is Pucetti smart enough for you?' he asked.

'That sweet young man with the moustache?' she asked in a voice that ignored the fact that Pucetti was probably no more than five years younger than she. 'The one with the Russian girlfriend?' she added.

'Yes. Is he bright enough for you?'

'To do what with?' she asked.

'To be out on Pellestrina.'

'Doing what?'

'Working in a restaurant but keeping an eye on you.'

'May I ask how you are going to bring this about?'

'The waiter who gave us the first information about Bottin has disappeared. He called the owner and gave him some story about having to go and take care of a sick friend, and there's been no sign of him since then. So they need a waiter.'

'What does Pucetti have to say about this?' she asked, sitting down behind her desk.

'I haven't asked him yet. I wanted to ask you first.'

'That's very kind of you, sir.'

'He'd be there to protect you, so I wanted to be sure you thought he was capable of doing that.'

She considered this for a moment and said, 'Yes, I think he'd be a good choice.' She glanced at the forsythia, then back at Brunetti. 'Shall I take care of scheduling him?'

'Yes,' Brunetti answered but then couldn't resist the temptation to ask, 'How will you do it?'

'He'll be put on something I think I'll call 'Ancillary Duty'.'

'What does that mean?'

'It means anything I want it to mean.'

‘I see,' Brunetti said and then asked, 'What about Marotta? Isn't he in charge next week? Isn't it his decision?'

'Ah, Marotta,' she said with barely disguised contempt. 'He never wears a tie to work.' So much, thought Brunetti, for Marotta's chances of permanent promotion at the Venice Questura.

'While you're here, sir,' she said, pulling open a drawer and taking from it a few sheets of paper, 'let me give you this. It's everything I could find out about those people. And the autopsy report.'

He took the papers, and went back to his office. The autopsy, performed by a pathologist at the hospital whose name Brunetti did not recognize, stated that Giulio Bottin had died as the result of any one of three blows to his forehead and skull, the pattern of bone shattering consistent with the use of a cylindrical object of some sort, a metal pipe or pole, perhaps. His son had bled to death, the blade having sunk so deep as to nick the abdominal aorta. The absence of water in their lungs and the fact that Giulio Bottin would have taken some time to die made it