‘You finish that sentence, I’m hanging up, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Start again. What else did he tell you about the man he talked to?’
‘Someone in your house got a private email address?’
‘My kids. Why?’
‘I want to send you a photo.’
‘Not my kids. You can’t do that.’
‘Your wife, then?’
‘All right. At the university.’
‘Paola, dot, Falier, at Ca’Foscari, one word, dot, it?’
‘Yes. How did you know that address?’
‘I’ll send it tomorrow morning.’
‘Does anyone else know about this photo?’
‘No.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’
‘I’d rather not go into it.’
‘Is this the only lead you have?’
‘No, it’s not the only one. But we haven’t been able to check it.’
‘And the others?’
‘Nothing worked out.’
‘If I find anything, how do I get in touch with you?’
‘That means you’ll do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gave you my number.’
‘They said you weren’t there.’
‘It’s not easy to get me.’
‘The email you’ll be using tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘I can always call you there.’
‘Yes, you can; but I can’t move my office here to wait for your call. How do I get in touch with you?’
‘Call that same number and leave a message, saying your name is Pollini and give a time when you’ll call back. That’s when I’ll call you at this number.’
‘Pollini?’
‘Yes. But call from a public phone, all right?’
‘The next time we talk, I want you to tell me what’s going on. What’s really going on.’
‘But I’ve told. .’
‘Filippo, do I have to threaten to hang up again?’
‘No. You don’t. I have to think about it, though.’
‘Think about it now.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘I don’t like it that it’s this way, believe me. But it’s better for everyone involved.’
‘Me, too?’
‘Yes, you, too. I’ve got to go. Thanks.’
10
Brunetti studied his hand as he replaced the receiver to see if it trembled. Nope, steady as a rock. Besides, this cloak and dagger stuff from Guarino was more likely to cause him irritation than fear. What was next, leaving messages for one another in bottles and floating them down the Grand Canal? Guarino had seemed a sensible enough fellow, and he had accepted Brunetti’s scepticism with good grace, so why persist with all this James Bond nonsense?
He went to the doorway and asked Sergio, ‘You mind if I make a call?’
‘Commissario,’ he said with an open wave of his hands, ‘call whoever you want.’ Dark-complexioned, almost as wide as he was tall, Sergio always reminded Brunetti of the bear who was the hero of one of the first books he had ever read. Because the bear was in the habit of gorging himself on honey, Sergio’s substantial paunch only added to the resemblance. And, like that bear, Sergio was affable and generous, though equally prone to giving a growl now and again.
He dialled the first five digits of his home number but replaced the phone. He came out from the back room and returned to his place at the bar. But his glass was gone. ‘Someone drink my punch?’ he inquired.
‘No, Commissario. I thought it would be too cold to drink.’
‘Could you make me another?’
‘Nothing easier,’ the barman said and pulled down the bottle.
Ten minutes later, considerably warmed, Brunetti went back to his office. From there, he dialled his home number.
‘
‘It’s me. You going to your office tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you print a photo from your computer there?’
‘Of course,’ she said, and he heard the barely restrained sigh.
‘Good. It should arrive for you by email. Could you print out a copy of it for me? And maybe enlarge it?’
‘Guido, I could just as easily access my email from here,’ she said, using the voice of studied patience she reserved for the explanation of the self-evident.
‘I know,’ he said, though he had not thought of that. ‘But I’d like to keep this. .’
‘Out of the house?’ she suggested.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and then laughed. ‘I don’t want to delve into what understanding you have of technology, Guido, but thank you at least for that.’
‘I don’t want the kids. .’ he began.
‘You don’t have to explain,’ she cut him off. Her voice was softer still when she said, ‘I’ll see you later,’ and then she was gone.
He heard a noise at his door and looked towards it, surprised to see Officer Alvise. ‘Do you have a moment, Commissario?’ he asked, smiling, then serious, then smiling again. Short and weedy, Alvise was the least prepossessing man on the force: his intellect was in complete harmony with this lack of physical prowess. Affable and friendly, Alvise was usually eager to chat with anyone. Paola, the one time she met him, said he made her think of someone of whom an English poet had said, ‘Eternal smiles his emptiness betray.’
‘Of course, Alvise. Come in. Please.’ Alvise had only recently reappeared in the squad room after half a year spent working in symbiosis with Lieutenant Scarpa on some sort of European-Union-sponsored crime squad the precise nature of which had never been defined.
‘I’m back, sir,’ Alvise said as he sat down.
‘Yes,’ Brunetti said. ‘I know.’ Lambent thought and concise explanation were not attributes usually associated with Alvise’s name; thus, his declaration could refer to his return from his temporary assignment or, for all Brunetti knew, from the bar on the corner.
Alvise sat and looked around the room, as though seeing it for the first time. Brunetti wondered if the officer thought it necessary to reintroduce himself to his superior. The silence lengthened, but Brunetti decided to wait it
