merely, 'Indeed,' and turned back to her computer.
Brunetti called down to the officers' room and asked where Pucetti was,
only to be told that he was out on patrol and wouldn't be back until
the following morning. After he hung up, he sat and wondered how long
it would take before his appreciation of Pucetti's intelligence would
begin to work to the young man's disadvantage. Most of the others,
even those arch-fools, Alvise and Riverre, were unlikely to turn
against him: the uniformed officers were pretty much devoid of
jealousy, as least so far as Brunetti could discern. Perhaps Vianello,
closer to them in rank and age, would have a better sense of this.
Someone like Scarpa, however, was bound to regard Pucetti with the same
suspicion with which he viewed Vianello. Even though Vianello had for
years kept his own counsel, it had been obvious to Brunetti that the
antipathy between the two men had been instant and fierce, on both
sides. Possible motives abounded: dislike between a southerner and a
northerner, between a single man and one so happily married, between
one who delighted in the
imposition of his will upon those around him and another |
who cared only to live peacefully. Brunetti had never been able to
make more sense of it than that the men felt a visceral antipathy for
one another.
He felt a flash of resentment that his professional life should be so
hampered by the complications of personal ,
animosity: why couldn't those who enforced the law be 4
above such things? He shook his head at his own crazy |
utopianism: next he would be longing for a philosopher-king. f
He had only to think of the current leader of government, >
however, for all hopes of the philosopher-king's arrival to wither and
die.
Further reflection was made impossible by the arrival of Alvise with
the latest tabulations of crime statistics, which he placed on
Brunetti's desk, saying that the Vice-Questore needed the finished
report by the end of the day and that he wanted figures he could
present to the press without embarrassment.
'What do you think that means, Alvise?' Brunetti allowed himself to
ask.
'That he solved them all, I'd guess, sir,' Alvise answered
straight-faced. He saluted and left, leaving Brunetti with the
lingering suspicion that Lear was not the only man who had a wise fool
in his following.
He worked through lunch and well into the late afternoon juggling
figures and inventing new categories until he had something that would
both supply the truth and satisfy Patta. When he finally glanced at
his watch, he saw that it was after seven, surely time for him to
abandon these concerns and go home. On an impulse, he called Paola and
asked her if she felt like going out to dinner. She hesitated not an
instant, said only that she'd have to prepare something for the kids
and would meet him wherever he chose.
'Sommariva?' he asked.
'Oh my,' she answered. 'What brings this on?'
'I need a treat he said.
'Maria's cooking?' she asked.
'Your company he answered. Till meet you there at eight.'
Almost three hours later, a lobster-filled Brunetti and his
champagne-filled consort climbed the stairs to their apartment, his
steps slowed by satisfying fullness, hers by the grappa she'd drunk
after dinner. Their arms linked, they were looking forward to bed, and
then to sleep.
The phone was ringing as he opened the door, and Brunetti for an
instant thought of not answering it, of leaving whatever it was until
the next morning. Had there been time to see that the children were in
their rooms and thus the call unrelated to their safety, he would have
let it ring on unanswered, but paternity asserted itself, and he
answered it on the fourth ring.
'It's me, sir Vianello said.
'What's wrong?' came Brunetti's instinctive response to Vianello's
voice.
'Moro's mother's been hurt.'
'What?'
Sudden static filled the line, drowning out Vianello. When it came to
an end, Brunetti heard only, '.. . no idea who.'
'Who what?' Brunetti demanded.
