Friends in High Places

‘Sara’s brother’s there, in the Department of Economics. I could ask him what he knows.’

The temptation was strong, but Brunetti dismissed it with a bored, ‘No, don’t bother. It was just an idea.’

Raffi lowered his cup to the table. ‘I’m not interested in them, you know, Papa.’

Brunetti was struck by how deep his voice had become. Soon he’d be a man. Or maybe his need to comfort his father meant that he already was one.

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Brunetti said. He reached across the table and patted his son’s arm. Once, twice, and then he got up and went over to the stove. ‘Shall I make some more?’ he asked, carrying the coffee pot to the sink and opening it.

Raffi glanced down at his watch. ‘No. Thanks, Papa, but I’ve got to go.’ He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and left the kitchen. A few minutes later, as Brunetti waited for the coffee, he heard the front door close. He listened to Raffi’s footsteps thundering down the first flight, but the sudden eruption of coffee wiped them out.

* * * *

Because it was still early enough for the boats not to be crowded, Brunetti took the 82 and got off at San Zaccaria. He bought two newspapers there and took them to his office. No further mention was made of Rossi’s death, and the article about Marco Landi gave little more than his name and age. Above it there was the by now routine story about a car full of young people that had splattered itself, and their lives, against a plane tree at the side of one of the state highways leading to Treviso.

He’d read the same grim story so many times during the last few years that he hardly had to bother to look at this one to know what had happened. The youths – in this case, two boys and two girls – had left a disco after three in the morning and had driven off in a car belonging to the father of the driver. Some time later, the driver had been struck by what the newspapers ritually referred to as, un colpo di sonno, and the car had gone off the road and into a tree. It was still too early to know the cause of the attack of sleepiness, but it generally turned out to be alcohol or drugs. Usually, though, that wasn’t determined until the autopsy was performed on the driver and on however many others he had killed along with himself. And by that time the story had dropped off the front pages and been forgotten, replaced by the photos of other young people, victims of their youth and its many desires.

He left the newspaper on the desk and went down to Patta’s office. Signorina Elettra was nowhere in sight, so he knocked at the door and, when he heard Patta’s shouted response, went in.

It was a different man who sat behind the desk, at least different from the one who had sat behind it the last time Brunetti was there. Patta was back: tall, handsome, dressed in a lightweight suit that caressed his broad shoulders with respectful, gossamer fingers. His skin glowed with health, his eyes with serenity.

‘Yes, what is it, Commissario?’ he asked, looking up from the single sheet of paper which lay on the desk in front of him.

‘I’d like a word with you, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said, coming to stand next to the chair in front of Patta’s desk, waiting to be told to sit down.

Patta flicked back a starched cuff and glanced down at the golden wafer on his wrist. ‘I have a few minutes. What is it?’

‘It’s about Jesolo, sir. And your son. I wondered if you’d come to any decision.’

Patta pushed himself back in his chair. Seeing that Brunetti could easily look down at the paper in front of him, he turned it over and folded his hands on its blank back. ‘I’m not sure that there’s any decision to be made, Commissario,’ he said, sounding puzzled that Brunetti should think of asking such a question.

‘I wanted to know if your son was willing to talk about the people from whom he got the drugs.’ With habitual caution, Brunetti restrained himself from saying, bought the drugs.

‘If he knew who they were, I’m sure he would be more than willing to tell the police whatever he could.’ In Patta’s voice he heard the same injured confusion he’d heard in the voice of a generation of unwilling witnesses and suspects, and on his face he saw that same patently innocent, faintly bewildered, smile. His tone invited no contradiction.

‘If he knew who they were?’ Brunetti repeated, turning it into a question.

‘Exactly. As you know, he has no idea of how these drugs came into his possession, nor of who might have planted them.’ Patta’s voice was as calm as his eyes were steady.

Ah, that’s how it’s going to be played, Brunetti thought. ‘And his fingerprints, sir?’

Patta’s smile was broad, and it appeared to be genuine. ‘I know. I know how that must have appeared when he was first questioned. But he told me, and he’s told the police, that he found the envelope in his pocket when he came back from dancing and reached into his pocket to get a cigarette. He had no idea of what it was, so, as anyone would do, he opened the envelope to see what was inside, and when he did that, he must have touched some of the packages.’

‘Some?’ Brunetti asked, his voice deliberately free of all scepticism.

‘Some,’ Patta repeated with a finality that put an end to discussion.

‘Have you seen today’s paper, sir?’ Brunetti asked, surprising himself as much as his superior with the question.

‘No,’ Patta answered, then added, Brunetti thought gratuitously, ‘I’ve been too busy since I got here to have time to read the paper.’

‘Four teenagers were involved in an accident near Treviso last night. Coming back from a disco, their car went off the road and into a tree. One boy’s dead, a university student, and the others are badly injured.’ Brunetti stopped, an entirely diplomatic pause.

‘No, I haven’t seen it.’ Patta said. He too paused for a moment, but this was the pause of an artillery commander, deciding how heavy to make the next salvo. ‘Why do you mention it?’

‘He’s dead, sir, one of the passengers. The paper said their car was going about a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour when they hit the tree.’

‘That’s certainly unfortunate, Commissario,’ Patta observed with much the same involvement one might devote to a remark about the decline of the banded nuthatch. He returned his attention to his desk, turned the paper over and studied it, then glanced up at Brunetti. ‘If it happened in Treviso, then I imagine the case belongs to them, not to us.’ He looked studiedly down at the paper, read a few lines, then looked back up at Brunetti, as if surprised to see him still there. ‘Was that all, Commissario?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. That’s all.’

Outside the office, Brunetti found that his heart was pounding so hard he had to lean against the wall, glad that Signorina Elettra was not at her desk. He stood still until his breathing quieted, and when he was again in control of himself, he went back up to his office.

He did what he knew he had to do: routine would direct his mind away from the rage he felt toward Patta. He pushed papers around on his desk until he found the number that had been in Rossi’s wallet. He dialled the Ferrara number. This time, the phone was picked up on the third ring. ‘Gavini and Cappelli,’ a woman’s voice answered.

‘Good morning, Signora. This is Commissario Guido Brunetti of the Venice police.’

‘One moment, please,’ she said, as though she’d been waiting for his call. ‘I’ll put you through.’

The line went dead as she transferred the call, then a man’s voice said, ‘Gavini. I’m glad someone finally answered our call. I hope you can tell us something.’ The voice was deep and rich and gave every sign of eagerness to hear Brunetti’s news, whatever it should be.

It took a moment for Brunetti to respond. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, Signor Gavini. I haven’t received any message from you.’ When Gavini said nothing, he added, ‘But I’d like to know what you’re expecting the Venice police to call you about.’

‘About Sandro,’ Gavini said. ‘I called there after his death. His wife told me he’d said he’d found someone in Venice who might be willing to talk.’

Brunetti was on the point of interrupting him when Gavini paused and asked, ‘Are you sure no one there got my message?’

‘I don’t know, Signore. Whom did you speak to?’

‘I spoke to one of the officers; I don’t remember his name.’