Friends in High Places

‘But what about these new medicines? Why weren’t they taking any?’ Brunetti demanded, as if he thought Rizzardi would have an answer.

‘I don’t know why they weren’t, Guido,’ Rizzardi said patiently, remembering that he was speaking to a man with children little younger than the two victims. ‘But I saw no sign in their blood, or anywhere inside them, that either one of them was taking anything. Drug addicts usually don’t.’

Neither of them chose to say anything further about that. Instead, Brunetti asked, ‘What about the bite? Tell me.’

‘There was a lot of flesh caught between her teeth, so whoever it was she bit has a nasty wound.’

‘Is it contagious like that?’ Brunetti asked, amazed that, after years of information and talk and articles in the papers and magazines, he had no clear idea.

‘Theoretically, yes,’ Rizzardi answered. ‘There are cases in the literature where it seems to have been spread that way, though I’ve never had first-hand knowledge of it. I suppose it could happen that way. But the disease isn’t like it was years ago: the new medicines control it pretty well, especially if they start taking them in the early stages.’

Brunetti listened, wondering about the possible consequences of ignorance like his own. If he, a man who read widely and had a reasonably broad knowledge of what was happening in the world, had no idea of how contagious a bite could be and still had a sort of primitive, atavistic horror that the disease could be passed on in this manner, then it would not surprise him in the least if the fear were widespread.

He pulled his attention back to Rizzardi. ‘But how bad is the bite?’

‘I’d say he’s got a chunk missing from his arm.’ And before Brunetti could ask, he said, ‘There were hairs in her mouth. Probably from the forearm.’

‘How big was it?’

After a moment’s thought Rizzardi said, ‘About the size of a dog’s bite, perhaps a cocker spaniel.’ Neither of them commented on the bizarre comparison.

‘Enough to go to a doctor about?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Maybe, maybe not. If it becomes infected, then yes.’

‘Or if they knew she was positive,’ Brunetti continued. ‘Or came to realize it after.’ Anyone aware that he’d been bitten by an infected person would flee, terrified, to anyone who could tell him whether the disease had been passed on to him, Brunetti was sure. He considered the consequences: doctors would have to be called, hospital emergency rooms notified, contact made even with pharmacies where the killer might go in search of antiseptics or dressings.

‘Is there anything else?’ Brunetti asked.

‘He would have been dead before the end of the summer. She might have lasted another year, but not much longer.’ Rizzardi stopped for a moment and then added, in an entirely different voice, ‘Do you think they leave scars on us, Guido, the things we have to say or do?’

‘Sweet Jesus, I hope not,’ Brunetti answered in a soft voice, said he’d be in touch with Rizzardi when he had an identification of the girl, and hung up.

22

He called down to the officers’ squad room and told them to be alert for any new reports of a girl gone missing, about seventeen, and to start checking back through the records to see if any had been reported in the last few weeks. Even as he spoke to them, however, he knew it was entirely possible that no one would report her: many kids had become disposable, their parents not at all concerned at prolonged absences. He wasn’t sure about her age, but seventeen would be his guess. He hoped she wasn’t any younger. If she was, Rizzardi would probably know, but he didn’t want to.

He went down to the men’s room and washed his hands, dried them, and washed them again. Back at his desk, he took a piece of paper from his drawer and wrote in bold capital letters the headline he wanted to see in tomorrow’s papers: ‘Killer’s Victim Takes Vengeance With Fatal Bite’. He looked down at it, wondering, like Rizzardi, what sort of scars these things would leave on him, drew an insert mark between ‘Vengeance’ and ‘With’ and added, ‘From Beyond the Grave’ on the line above. He studied this for a moment but decided the additional phrase made the line too long to fit in one column and so crossed it out. He pulled out the dog-eared notebook in which he kept names and phone numbers and again dialled the office number of the crime reporter of Il Gazzettino. His friend, flattered that Brunetti had liked the other story, agreed to see that this one got into next morning’s edition. He said he loved Brunetti’s headline and would make sure it appeared as written.

‘I don’t want you to get in any trouble,’ Brunetti said in response to the man’s eager compliance. ‘There’s no risk, is there, if you print it?’

The man laughed outright. ‘Trouble for printing something that’s not true? Me?’ Still laughing, he started to say goodbye, when Brunetti stopped him.

‘Is there any way you could get this into La Nuova, as well?’ he asked. ‘I want it in both papers.’

‘Probably. There’s someone over there who’s been hacking into our computer for years. It saves them the cost of a reporter. So I’ll just type this in, and they’ll use it, especially if I make it sound really lurid. They can’t resist blood. But they won’t use your headline, I’m afraid,’ he said with real regret. ‘They always change them, at least one word.’

Content with what he had got, Brunetti resigned himself to this, thanked his friend, and hung up.

In order to give himself something to do, or perhaps just to keep himself moving and away from his desk, he walked downstairs to Signorina Elettra’s office, where he found her, head bent over a magazine.

She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, ‘Ah, you’re back, Commissario,’ she said, beginning to smile. When she saw the expression he brought into the office with him, her smile dissolved. She closed the magazine, opened a drawer, and pulled a folder from it. Leaning forward, she passed it up to him. ‘I heard about the two young people,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

He didn’t know if he was meant to thank her for her condolences or not. Instead, he nodded as he accepted the folder, then pulled open the cover. ‘The Volpatos?’ he asked.

‘Uh huh,’ she answered. ‘You’ll see from what’s in there that they’ve got to be very well protected.’

‘By whom?’ he asked, glancing down at the first page.

‘Someone in the Guardia di Finanza, I’d say.’

‘Why?’

She stood and leaned over her desk. ‘On the second page,’ she prompted. When he turned to it, she pointed to a row of numbers. ‘The first number’s the year. Then comes the total of their declared wealth: bank accounts, apartments, stocks. And the third column is what they declared as income for those same years.’

‘So,’ he said, commenting on the obvious, ‘each subsequent year, they should earn more, as they certainly own more.’ That much was evident from the expanding list of properties.

He continued to study the lists. Instead of growing larger each year, the third number decreased, even though the Volpatos acquired more apartments, businesses, and houses. Relentlessly, they continued to acquire more and pay less.

‘Have they ever been audited by the Finanza?’ he asked, holding in his hands a fiscal red flag so large and incarnadine as to be easily visible as far away as the central offices of the Guardia di Finanza in Rome.

‘Never,’ she said, shaking her head and sitting back down. ‘That’s why I say they’ve got to be protected by someone.’

‘Did you get copies of their tax returns?’

‘Of course,’ she answered simply, making no attempt to disguise her pride. ‘Those numbers for what they earn every year are repeated on all of them, but they manage to prove that they’ve spent a fortune on capital improvements to their properties, year after year, and they seem incapable of selling a single piece of property at a profit.’

‘Who do they sell them to?’ Brunetti asked, though years of similar experiences had made him familiar with