Through a glass, darkly

Brunetti?' When the Commissario made no attempt to respond, Patta demanded, 'Do you understand me, Brunetti?'

'Yes, sir. I do,' Brunetti said, surprised at just how true this was. He got to his feet.

'And what are you going to do about those numbers, Brunetti?' Patta asked, voice acid with sarcasm and menace.

'I'll keep the references to Dante, sir. It's always good to know where to locate the hypocrites and the opportunists.'

Patta's face went rigid, but he couldn't prevent himself from asking for more. 'And your laws and your coordinates?'

'Oh, I don't know, sir,' Brunetti said, turning and making for the door. 'But it's useful to know what the laws are and exactly where you stand.' He opened the door, said 'Buon giorno' very quietly, and closed the door behind him.

21

When he emerged from Patta's office, Brunetti paused at Signorina Elettra's desk long enough to take the folder she handed him. He thanked her, checked that he had the paper on which he had written Tassini's coordinates, and went outside the Questura to the dock in front. There was no sign of Foa, whom he finally found down at the bar by the bridge, having a coffee and reading La Gazzetta dello Sport.

He smiled when he saw Brunetti come in. 'Would you like a coffee, Commissario?'

'Gladly’ Brunetti said, wishing he knew enough about some sport, any sport, to be able to make some appropriate conversation, but, instead, he could do nothing more than remark on how warm it was.

When the coffee was in front of him, Brunetti asked, 'Have you got one of those location-finding things, Foa?'

'A GPS, sir?'

'Yes.'

'In the boat, sir,' the pilot said. 'You need it?'

'Yes’ Brunetti said, stirring his coffee. 'You doing anything now?'

'Other than reading about these hopeless clowns’ Foa said, slapping the paper with the backs of his fingers, 'nothing. Why, you need to go somewhere?'

'Out to Murano’ Brunetti said. 'Yes.'

As they walked back to the launch, Brunetti explained about the numbers Tassini had written and did nothing to deflect Foa's compliments at having figured out what they were. After they climbed on board, Foa unlocked a panel on the dashboard and took out a glass-faced instrument. He showed Brunetti the GPS, which was little larger than a telefonino and served the double function of pointing to true North and giving the exact coordinates of the point where the instrument was. He set it on the ledge in front of him and switched on the engine. He pulled away from the dock and, after a moment, turned into Rio di Santa Giustina and took them quickly out into the laguna.

'How does it work?' Brunetti asked, picking it up. Because he had grown up without proximity to cars, he always blamed Venice for his mechanical and technological ineptitude, when he knew the real explanation was simply his lack of interest in the way things, especially gadgets, functioned.

'Satellites’ the pilot said, suddenly deciding to cut across the wake of a 42 on its way to the cemetery. The heavy bouncing of the launch forced Brunetti to grab the railing beside him, but Foa seemed to float and bob with the waves. The pilot took his right hand from the wheel and waved towards the heavens. 'It's full of them, circling around, registering, recording, keeping an eye on matters.' Foa waited a moment, and then added, 'Probably taking photos of what we eat for breakfast, too.'

Brunetti opted to ignore this opening, and Foa returned to more prosaic things. 'The satellite sends down a message that tells you exactly where you are. Look at it,' he said, pointing to the face of the GPS, where two illuminated rectangles provided ever-changing digital readings. 'On the side there,' the pilot said, turning his attention from the waters in front of them and pointing to the face of the instrument, 'that's the latitude reading. And that's the longitude. It'll keep changing as long as we keep moving.' As if to show just how this worked, Foa swung the boat hard to the right, and then just as quickly to the left. If the latitude and longitude readings changed, Brunetti took no notice, for he was busy grabbing the railing again to keep from toppling out of the launch.

Brunetti handed the object back to Foa and devoted his attention to Murano, which they were approaching at considerable speed. 'You want to go back to where we went the last time?' Foa asked.

'Yes. And I'd like you to come with me.'

Foa made no attempt to hide the pleasure this gave him. He slowed the engine and slipped the boat up to the dock, then shifted into reverse until they were motionless in the water. A side current brushed them against the embankment; Foa leaped out and made the boat fast to a ring in the paving, then secured it at the bow with another rope.

Brunetti slipped the GPS into the pocket of his jacket and climbed up beside Foa. Together they started back towards De Cal's factory. 'You want to talk to the old man again?' Foa asked.

'No,' Brunetti answered. 'I want to find where these points are.' He took out his wallet and extracted the piece of paper on which he had written the coordinates.

Foa took the paper and read the sets of numbers. 'The latitude and longitude are right for the laguna,' he said, then added, 'They've all got to be right around here.' Brunetti, who had a vague idea from having checked the nautical charts, nodded.

Together they skirted the factory building and went around to the left, towards the barren field behind it. The side of the building that they walked along, Brunetti was glad to notice, had no windows.

They stopped just where the dry grass began, and Brunetti took out the GPS. He started to hand the piece of paper to Foa, but he realized that the pilot would be more familiar with the instrument so gave him that, instead. Foa took one final look at the paper and set off in the direction of the water.

He walked across the field, his eyes fixed to the instrument, moving at an angle that took him slightly to the left, towards the laguna to the north of the island. Halfway between De Cal's factory and the water, he stopped. When Brunetti joined him, Foa pulled the hand that held the paper towards him and checked the second number.

His attention on the GPS, Foa moved to the left, heading for the fence that had once stood between De Cal's property and the land next door. All that was left to indicate its previous existence or function was a line of bleached stakes and sticks, like the bones of some desiccated land animal long ago devoured by marauders. As if to provide a clearer demarcation between the two properties, nothing grew on the strip where once the fence had stood: the grass began only about a metre to either side of the tangled sticks.

After a time, Foa stopped and studied the instrument, then moved a few steps closer to the fence. 'What was the last digit, sir? Of the second number?'

Brunetti glanced at the paper. 'Point ninety.'

Foa took two small sideways steps until he was astride the rotting pieces of fence. He kicked them aside. He looked at the GPS and moved minimally to the right in response to whatever he read there, then called back to Brunetti, 'OK, this is it. Whatever this guy thought was important, this is the first place where he wanted you to look.' He took the paper from Brunetti, studied it for a moment, then turned and looked at De Cal's factory. 'The second lot of coordinates has got to be inside that building’ Foa said.

He checked the GPS, and looked around them again. 'The third place is probably inside that one’ he said, pointing to the factory that stood on the other side of the field, to the right of De Cal's.

Brunetti gazed around them. Could it be that something was visible from this point that might not be seen from another angle? They both turned in full circles and, without even discussing the possibility that they were meant to see something, dismissed it. Brunetti turned back towards De Cal's factory, and as he moved, both of them heard the squelching sound his foot made as he raised it. Neither had been aware of the dampness when they got there, but when they looked down and moved their feet, they saw the water quickly seep in to fill their footsteps.