comment.
'Did she ever mention her husband?'
'Seldom.'
'And how? That is, how did she speak about him? With rancour?
Anger?'
She thought for a moment and then answered, 'No, she mentioned him in a
normal way.'
'Affectionately?'
She gave him a quick glance, rich in unspoken curiosity, then answered,
'No, I couldn't say that. She simply mentioned him, quite
neutrally.'
'Could you give me an example?' Brunetti asked, wanting to get a feel
of it.
'Once, we were talking about the hospital.' She stopped here, then
sighed, and continued. 'We were talking about the mistakes they make,
and she said that her husband's report had put an end to that, but only
for a short time.'
He waited for her to clarify, but it seemed that she had said enough.
Brunetti could think of nothing else to ask her. He got to his feet.
'Thank you, Signora/ he said, leaning down to shake her hand.
She smiled in response and turned her wheelchair towards the door.
Brunetti got there first and was reaching for the handle when she
called out, 'Wait.' Thinking she had remembered something that might
be important, Brunetti turned, then looked down when he felt a sudden
pressure against his left calf. It was Gastone, serpentining his way
back and forth, suddenly friendly with this person who had the power to
open the door. Brunetti picked him up, amazed at the sheer mass of
him. Smiling, he placed him in the woman's lap, said goodbye, and let
himself out of the apartment, though he did not pull the door closed
until he made sure that there was no sign of Gastone between the door
and the jamb.
As he had known he would do ever since Signora Delia Vedova told him
that there had been no sign of Signora Moro for two days, Brunetti went
up the stairs to her apartment. The door was a simple one: whoever
owned the apartment had no concern that his tenants should be safe from
burglars. Brunetti took out his wallet and slid out a thin plastic
card. Some years ago, Vianello had taken it from a burglar so
successful he had become careless. Vianello had used it on more than
one occasion, always in flagrant violation of the law, and upon his
promotion from Sergeant to Inspector, he had given it to Brunetti in
token of his realization that the promotion was due primarily to
Brunetti's insistence and support. At the time, Brunetti had
entertained the possibility that Vianello was merely freeing himself of
an occasion of sin, but the card had since then proven so useful that
Brunetti had come to appreciate it as the gift it was.
He slipped it between the door and the jamb, just at the height of the
lock, and the door swung open at a turn of the handle. Long habit made
him stop just inside the door and sniff the air, hunting for the scent
of death. He smelled dust and old cigarette smoke and the memory of
some sharp
cleaning agent, but there was no scent of rotting flesh. Relieved, he
closed the door behind him and walked into the sitting room. He found
it exactly as he had left it: the furniture in the same position, the
single book that had been lying face down on the arm of a sofa still
there, still at the same page, for all he knew.
The kitchen was in order: no dishes in the sink, and when he pried the
door open with the toe of his shoe, he found no perishable food in the
refrigerator. He took a pen from the inner pocket of his jacket and
opened all of the cabinets: the only thing he found was an open tin of
coffee.
In the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet with the back of a
knuckle and found nothing more than a bottle of aspirin, a used shower
cap, an unopened bottle of shampoo, and a package of emery boards. The
towels on the rack were dry.
The only room left was the bedroom, and Brunetti entered it uneasily:
he disliked this part of his job as much as anything about it. On the
nightstand beside the bed a thin rectangle of clear space stood
outlined in the dust: she had removed a photo from there. Two more had
been taken from the dresser. Drawers and closet, however, seemed full
as far as he could tell, and two suitcases lay under the bed.
Shameless now, he pulled back the covers on the side of the bed closest
to the door and lifted the pillow. Under it, neatly folded, lay a
man's white dress shirt. Brunetti pulled it out and let it fall open.
It would have fitted Brunetti, but the shoulders would have fallen from
Signora Moro's, and the sleeves would have come far down over her
hands. Just over the heart of the man who would wear the shirt he saw
the initials 'FM' embroidered in thread so fine it could only have been
silk.
He folded the shirt and replaced it under the pillow, then pulled the
covers up and tucked them neatly in place. He went back through the
living room and let himself out of the
