Just One Evil Act

yet.

Bruno’s eyes danced in his face. He took in Barbara Havers and clearly wondered who she was and why she was there. Barbara Havers helpfully added to his paranoia by taking a notebook and a pencil from her capacious shoulder bag. She settled into her chair, rested her right ankle on her left knee in a way that would have made an Italian woman pray for her sartorial salvation, and jotted down something, a perfect nonexpression expression on her face. Bruno demanded to know who she was. “Non importa” was Salvatore’s reply. Except . . . Well . . . She was here on a matter of murder, signore.

Bruno said nothing although his gaze skittered from Salvatore to Barbara to Salvatore. Interesting that he did not ask the victim, Salvatore thought.

“Tell me about your employment with DARBA Italia,” Salvatore said to Bruno in a friendly fashion. “This is a company your family owns, no?” And when Bruno gave a head jerk of a nod, Salvatore said, “For which you, Daniele, are director of marketing, no?” A shrug in reply. Bruno’s fingers suggested he wanted to light another cigarette. That was good, Salvatore thought. Anxiety was always useful. “This company manufactures equipments that are used in medicine and in scientific research, I understand.” Another nod. A glance at Barbara. She was busily writing something, although God alone knew what since she wouldn’t have the first clue what he was asking the other man. “And I would suppose that whatever is sold must also be tested to ensure its quality.” Bruno licked his lips. “This is true, yes?” Salvatore asked. “There is testing, yes? Because I see from my list of employees—your brother Antonio gave this to us just”—he looked at his watch elaborately—“some three hours ago—that you have a quality control department that your brother Alessandro heads. Would Alessandro tell me that his job is to oversee the testing of the equipments you make at DARBA Italia, signore? Should I call him to ask him this question or do you know the answer yourself?”

Bruno seemed to evaluate all possibilities attendant to giving a verbal reply. His jug ears reddened, like overlarge rose petals attached to his skull. He finally affirmed that the products made by DARBA Italia were indeed tested by the department overseen by Alessandro Bruno. But when Salvatore asked him how they were tested, he claimed that he did not know.

“Then we will use our imaginations,” Salvatore told him. “Let us start first with your incubators. DARBA Italia makes incubators, no? I mean the sort of equipments used to grow things inside. Things that need a steady temperature and a sterile environment. DARBA Italia makes these, no?”

Here Bruno asked once again for his avvocato to be summoned. Salvatore said, “But why is there this need, my friend? Let me bring you a caffe instead. Or some water? A San Pellegrino perhaps? Or a Coca-Cola? Perhaps a glass of milk? You were given lunch, no? A panino from the lunch trolley would have been correct . . . You want nothing? Not even a caffe?”

Next to him, Barbara stirred on her chair. He heard her murmur, “Venga, venga,” and he stopped his lips from curving into a smile at her use of his language, however she meant it.

“No?” he said to Bruno. “So we proceed for now. It is only information we need from you, signore. There is, as I told you, a small matter of murder.”

“Non ho fatto niente,” Daniele Bruno said.

“Certo,” Salvatore assured him. No one, after all, was accusing him of doing anything. His answers to their questions were all that was sought. Certainly, he could answer questions about DARBA Italia, no?

Daniele didn’t ask why he—of all the brothers Bruno—had been brought to the questura to answer questions. It was always the small mistakes like these, Salvatore thought, that ultimately gave away the game.

“Let us suppose a bacteria is used to test the worth of an incubator. This is a possibility, no?” And when Bruno nodded, Salvatore said, “So this bacteria would be right there in Alessandro’s quality control department.” Bruno nodded. He glanced at Barbara. “I see,” Salvatore said. He made a great show of thinking about this. He got up, walked from one side of the room to the other. Then he opened the door and called out for Ottavia Schwartz. Could she bring him, he asked, all of the materials from his desktop, per favore, as he seemed to have left them behind. He closed the door and returned to the table. He sat, thought, nodded as if reaching a profound conclusion, and said, “A family business, no? This DARBA Italia.”

Si, he had already confirmed this. It was a family business. His great-grandfather Antonio Bruno had started it in the day when medical equipment was confined to centrifuges and microscopes. His grandfather Alessandro Bruno had expanded it. His father Roberto had made it the jewel in his paternal crown, the inheritance of the brothers Bruno.

“Providing employment for all of you,” Salvatore said. “Va bene, Daniele. How nice this must be. To work among the members of your family. To see them daily. To stop by with an invitation to dinner. To chat about the nieces and nephews. This must be a very welcome kind of work.”

Daniele said this was so. Family, after all, was everything.

“I have two sisters. I know what you mean,” Salvatore told him. “La famiglia e tutto. You talk often with these brothers of yours? At home, at work, over caffe, over vino.” When Daniele said again this was so, Salvatore said, “At work and at play, eh? The brothers Bruno, everyone knows you at DARBA Italia. Everyone sees you and calls you by name.”

Daniele said that this was the case, but he pointed out that the company was not large and that most employees knew everyone there.

“Certo, certo,” Salvatore said. “You come, you go, they call out, ‘Ciao, Daniele. Come stanno Sua moglie e i Suoi figli?’ And you do the same. They are used to you. You are used to them. You are . . . Let us say you are a fixture there, like a piece of medical equipment yourself. You pop in to talk to Antonio one day, to Bernardo another, to Alessandro a third. On some days you pop in to talk to every one of your brothers.”

He loved his brothers, Daniele asserted. He did not think there was a crime in this.

“No, no,” Salvatore told him. “Love for one’s brothers . . . this is a gift.”

The door opened. All of them turned as Ottavia Schwartz came into the room. She passed the requested manila folders to Salvatore. She nodded, shot a glance at Daniele Bruno and another at Barbara Havers— particularly at her shoes—and left them. With much ceremony Salvatore set the folders on the table, but he did not open them. Bruno’s gaze flicked to them and then away.

“Allora,” Salvatore said expansively, “another question if you please. Back to this testing we were speaking of. I would assume that dangerous substances—of the sort that cause illness, death, disease?—are kept under close watch at DARBA Italia. Under lock and key perhaps? But safely away from anyone who might use them for mischief. Would that be true, my friend?” Bruno nodded. “And in order to test these equipments you make, I would assume more than one dangerous substance is used, eh? Because incubators . . . they differ, no? Some are used for this, some are used for that, and you at DARBA Italia make them all.”

Bruno’s gaze went to the folders again. He couldn’t control it, nerves not allowing him this small amount of discipline. He was, after all, not a bad man, Salvatore reasoned. He’d done something stupid, but stupidity was not a crime.

“Alessandro knows all these bacteria that are part of the testing of the equipments, vero? And you have no need to answer this, Signor Bruno, because my colleague has already ascertained this. He named all the bacteria for her. He was curious, naturally, about our questions. He said there are many controls in place that guard these substances so that they cannot be abused. Do you know what he means by that, signore? Me, I think it means that employees cannot put their hands upon these substances. Nor would they want to, eh? They are too dangerous, what is contained in the testing area. Exposed to them, someone could fall ill. At the extreme, someone could even die.”

Bruno’s forehead had begun to shine, and his lips had begun to dry. Salvatore imagined how thirsty he must be. Once again he offered something to drink. Bruno shook his head, one shake like a tremor seizing his brain.

“But one of the Bruno brothers . . . He comes and goes, and if he carefully takes some of the more dangerous bacteria, there is no one to notice. Perhaps he does it after hours. Perhaps early in the morning. And