That left Brunetti with Lieutenant Scarpa. He toyed with the idea of
summoning the lieutenant to his office but, thinking it better to
appear before him unannounced, went
down two flights of stairs to the office Scarpa had insisted he be
given. The room had for years functioned as a storeroom, a place where
officers could leave umbrellas and boots and coats to be used in the
event of a change in the weather or the sudden arrival of ac qua alia.
Some years ago, a sofa had appeared as if by magic, and since then
officers on the night shift had been known to steal an hour's sleep.
Legend had it that a female commissa rio had been introduced to the
pleasures of adultery on that very sofa. Three years ago, however,
Vice-Questore Patta had ordered the boots, umbrellas and coats removed;
the next day the sofa disappeared, replaced by a desk made of a plate
of mirrored glass supported by thick metal legs. No one lower than
commissa rio had a private office at the Questura, but Vice Questore
Patta had installed his assistant behind that glass desk. There had
been no official discussion of his rank, though there had certainly
been more than ample comment.
Brunetti knocked at the door and entered in response to Scarpa's
shouted 'Avantil' There ensued a precarious moment during which
Brunetti observed Scarpa deal with the arrival of one of his superiors.
Instinct asserted itself, and Scarpa braced his hands on the edge of
his desk as if to push himself back and get to his feet. But then
Brunetti saw him react, not only to the realization of just which
superior it was, but also to the territorial imperative, and the
lieutenant transformed the motion into one that did no more than propel
himself higher in his chair. 'Good morning, Commissario,' he said.
'May I help you?'
Ignoring what Scarpa tried to make a gracious wave towards the chair in
front of his desk, Brunetti remained standing near the door and said,
'I'm putting Pucetti on a special assignment.'
Scarpa's face moved in something that was perhaps meant to be a smile.
'Pucetti is already on special assignment, Commissario.'
Tronchetto, you mean?'
'Yes. What's going on there is very harmful to the image of the
city.'
Telling his better self to ignore the dissonance between the sentiments
and the Palermitano accent in which they were voiced, Brunetti
answered, 'I'm not sure I share your concern for the image of the city,
Lieutenant, so I'm reassigning him.'
Again, that motion of the lips. 'And you have the approval of the
Vice-Questore, of course?'
'I hardly think a detail as insignificant as where a police officer is
assigned is of much interest to the Vice-Questore/ Brunetti answered.
'On the contrary, Commissario, I think the Vice-Questore is deeply
interested in anything that concerns the police in this city.'
Tired of this, Brunetti asked, What does that mean?'
'Just what I said, sir. That the Vice-Questore will be interested to
learn about this.' Like a tenor with register problems, Scarpa could
not control his voice as it wobbled between civility and menace.
'Meaning you intend to tell him about it?' Brunetti asked.
'Should the occasion arise,' Scarpa answered blandly.
'Of course,' Brunetti answered with equal blandness.
'Is that all I can do for you, Commissario?'
'Yes/ Brunetti said and left the office before giving in to the
temptation to say something else. Brunetti knew almost nothing about
Lieutenant Scarpa or what motivated him: money was probably a safe
guess. This thought called to mind a remark Anna Comnena had made
about Robert Guiscard: 'Once a man has seized power, his love of money
displays exactly the same characteristics as gangrene, for gangrene,
once established in a body, never rests until it has invaded and
corrupted the whole of it.'
An old woman lay injured in the hospital in Mestre, and
he had to concern himself with turf battles with Patta's I
creature and with the attempt to understand the lieutenant's motives.
He walked up the stairs, inwardly fuming about
Scarpa, but by the time he got back to his office he had f accepted the
fact that his real anger was directed at his own '
failure to foresee the attack on Moro's mother. It mattered I
little to Brunetti that this was entirely unrealistic; somehow, j he
should have realized the danger and done something to * '
protect her.
He called the hospital and, adopting the harsh, authoritarian voice he
had learned to use when dealing with mindless bureaucracies, announced
