A Venetian Reckoning (18 page)

Though Brunetti had expected
something like this, the news disappointed him. He asked Signorina Elettra to
see if Giorgio - Brunetti surprised himself by speaking of Giorgio as though
he were an old friend - could get a list of the calls made from and to the
phone in Pinetta's bar. When he had done that, he contented himself with
reading through his mail and then made a few phone calls in response to one of
the letters.

He called Vianello and arranged to
have three men go to Pinetta's that night and arrest Mara and her pimp.

Then he had no choice but to address
himself to the papers on his desk, though he found it difficult to pay
attention to what he read: statistics from the Ministry of the Interior gave
staffing projections for the next five yean, discussed the cost of a computer
link with Interpol, and gave the specifications and performance records on a
new type of pistol. Brunetti tossed the papers down on his desk in disgust. The
Questore had recently received a memorandum from the Minister of the Interior,
informing him that the national police budget for the next year was going to be
cut by at least 15 per cent, perhaps 20, and that no increase in funding was
foreseeable in the near future. Yet these fools in Rome kept sending him
projects and plans, as if there were money to spend, just as if it hadn't all
been stolen or sent to secret accounts in Switzerland.

He pulled out the paper on which were
written the specifications for the pistols that would never be bought, flipped
it over, and began to list the people he wanted to speak to: Trevisan's widow
and her brother, her daughter Francesca, and someone who could give him
accurate information about both Trevisan's legal practice and his personal
life.

In a second column, he listed those
things that grated at his mind: Francesca's story — or was it boast? - that
someone might try to kidnap her; Lotto's reluctance to provide a list of
Trevisan's clients; Lotto's surprise at the mention of Favero's name.

And overriding all of this, he
realized, were the phone numbers and the phone calls to so many places, still
without pattern, still without explainable cause.

As he reached into his bottom drawer
for the phone book, he thought how helpful it would be to emulate' Favero and
keep a notebook with frequently called numbers. But this was a number he had
never called, never before wanting to call in the favour he was owed.

Three years ago, his friend Danilo, the
pharmacist, had called him early in the evening and asked him to come to his
apartment, where he found the young man with one eye swollen almost shut,
looking as though he'd been in a brawl. There had, indeed, been violence, but
it had been entirely one-sided, for Danilo had made no attempt to resist the
young man who pushed his way into the pharmacy just as he was closing up for
the night. Nor had he offered any opposition when the young man pried open the
cabinet where the narcotic drugs were kept and pulled out seven ampoules of
morphine. But Danilo did recognize him and, as the young man was leaving, said
only, 'Roberto, you shouldn't be doing this,' which was enough to provoke the
man into giving Danilo an angry shove, sending the pharmacist crashing sideways
against the angle of a display cabinet.

Roberto, as not only Danilo and
Brunetti but most of the police of the city knew, was the only son of Mario
Beniamin, Chief Judge of the criminal court of Venice. Until that night, his
addiction had never led him to violence, for he made do with false
prescriptions and with what he managed to exchange for articles stolen from the
homes of family and friends. But with his attack on the pharmacist, however
unintentional it had been, Roberto had joined the criminals of the city.

After speaking to Danilo, Brunetti
went to the Judges home and spent more than an hour with him; the next morning,
Judge Beniamin accompanied his son to a small private clinic near Zurich, where
Roberto spent the next six months, emerging to begin an apprenticeship in a
pottery workshop near Milan.

The favour, spontaneously offered on
Brunetti's part, had rested between him and the Judge for those years, much in
the way a pair of shoes that cost too much will be in the bottom of a closet
and be forgotten about until they are kicked aside or stepped on accidentally,
only then to be remembered with a wince that the buyer could so foolishly have
fallen into, such a false bargain.

The phone at the Judge's chambers was
answered on the third ring by a woman's voice. Brunetti give his name and asked
to speak to Judge Beniamin.

After a minute, the Judge came on to
the line.
'Buon
giomo
,
commissario.
I've been expecting your call.’

‘Yes," Brunetti said simply. 'I'd
like to speak to you, your honour.'

Today?'

‘If it's convenient for you.'

1 can give you a half-hour, this
afternoon at five. Will that be sufficient?' 1 think so, your honour.'

‘I’ll expect you, then. Here,' the
Judge said and hung up.

The main criminal court house of the
city lies at the foot of the Rialto Bridge, not the San Marco side but the side
that holds the fruit and vegetable market.

In fact, those who go early to the
market can sometimes see men and women in handcuffs and shackles being led into
and out of the various entrances to the court, and not infrequently machine-gun-carrying
carabinieri stand amidst the crates of cabbages and grapes, guarding the people
who are taken inside. Brunetti showed his warrant card to the armed guards at
the door and climbed the two flights of broad marble stairs to Judge Beniamin's
chambers. Each landing had a large window that looked across to the Fondazione
dei Tedeschi, under the Republic the commercial centre for all German traders
in the city, now the Central Post Office. At the top of the stairs, two
carabinieri wearing flak jackets and carrying assault rifles stopped him and
asked to see his identification.

'Are you wearing a weapon,
commissario?' one of them asked after a close examination of his warrant card.

Brunetti regretted having forgotten
to leave the gun in his office: it had been open season on judges in Italy for
so long that everyone was nervous and, too late, very cautious. He slowly
pulled his jacket open and held the sides far from his body to allow the guard
to take the pistol from him.

The third door on the right was
Beniamin's. Brunetti knocked twice and was told to enter.

In the years that had passed since
his visit to Judge Beniamins home, the two men had passed one another
occasionally on the street, nodding to one another, but it had been at least a
year since Brunetti had seen the Judge, and he was shocked at the change in
him.

Though the Judge was no more than a
decade older than Brunetti, he now looked old enough to be his father. Deep
lines ran from the sides of his nose down past his mouth before disappearing
beneath his chin. His eyes, once a deep brown, seemed cloudy, as though someone
had forgotten to dust them. And, wrapped in the flowing black robes of his
calling, he seemed more trapped than dressed, so much weight had he lost.

'Have a seat, commissario,' Benjamin
said. The voice was the same, deep and resonant, a singer's voice.

'Thank you, your honour,' Brunetti
said and took his place in one of the four chairs in front of the Judge's desk.

‘I'm sorry to tell you that I have
less time than I thought I would have.' After he spoke, the Judge paused for a
moment, as if just hearing what he had said. He gave a small, sad smile and
added, 'This afternoon, that is. So if we can be quick, I'd be very grateful to
you. If not, we can talk again in two days if it's necessary.'

'Of course, your honour. It goes
without saying that I appreciate your agreeing to see me.' He paused and the
men's eyes met, each fully aware of how formulaic this sentence was.

'Yes,' was all the Judge answered.

'Carlo Trevisan,' Brunetti said.

'Specifically?' asked the Judge.

'Who profits from his death? What was
his relationship with his brother-in-law? With his wife? Why did his daughter
tell a story, about five years ago. that her parents were afraid she would be
kidnapped? And what, if any, association did he have with the Mafia?'

Judge Beniamin had taken no notes, had
simply listened to the questions. He propped his elbows on his desk and showed
the back of his hand to Brunetti, his five fingers splayed out

'Two years ago, another lawyer,
Salvatore Martucci, joined his firm, bringing with him his own clients. Their
agreement stipulated that next year, Martucci would be made an equal partner in
the practice. There is talk that Trevisan was no longer willing to honour this
contract With Trevisan dead, Martucci is in sole charge of the practice.' judge
Beniamin's thumb disappeared.

'The brother-in-law is slick, very
slick. It is an unproven rumour which would make me criminally liable for a
charge of slander were I to repeat, but anyone wanting to avoid paying taxes on
international business or to know whom to bribe so that shipments arrive here
without customs inspection knows he's the best man to see.' The top half of his
forefinger disappeared.

"The wife is having an affair
with Martucci.' His middle finger joined the others.

'About five years ago, Trevisan - and
this, too, is merely rumour - was involved in some sort of financial dealings
with two men from the Palermo Mafia, very violent men. I do not know the nature
of his involvement whether it was criminal or not even whether it was
voluntary or not but I do know that these men were interested in him, or he was
interested in them, because of the possibility that Eastern Europe would soon
open up, and there would consequently be more business between Italy and those
countries. The Mafia has been known to kidnap or kill the children of people
who oppose their business offers. It is said that for a time Trevisan was a
very frightened man, but it is also said that the fear went away.' Pulling the
tops of his two remaining fingers into his fist, the judge said, 'I think that
answers all of your questions.'

Brunetti got to his feet. 'Thank you,
your Honour.'

'You're welcome, commissario.'

No mention was made of Roberto, dead
of an overdose a year ago, nor was any made of the cancer that was destroying
the Judge's liver. Outside the office, Brunetti retrieved his pistol from the
guard and left the court building.

18

The first thing Brunetti did when he
arrived at his office the next morning was to dial Barbara Zorzi's home number.
After the beep, he said, 'Dottoressa, this is Guido Brunetti. If you're there,
please pick up. I need to talk to you about the Trevisans again. I've learned
that...'

'Yes?' she said, cutting in but not
surprising him by failing to exchange pleasantries or greetings.

'I'd like to know if Signora Trevisan's
visit to your office had anything to do with a pregnancy.' Before she could
answer, he added, 'Not her daughter's, her own.'

'Why do you want to know this?' she
asked.

The autopsy report said her husband
had had a vasectomy.'

'How long ago?'

'I don't know. Does that make a
difference?'

There was a long pause before she
spoke again. 'No, I suppose it doesn't Yes, when she came to me two years ago,
she thought she was pregnant She was forty-one at the time, so it was possible.’

'Was she?'

'No.'

'"Was she particularly disturbed
about it?'

'At the time, I thought not, well,
not more than a woman her age would be, who thought all of that was behind her.
But now I suppose I have to say that, yes, she was.'

'Thank you,' Brunetti said simply.
'Is that all?' Her surprise was audible. 'Yes.'

'You aren't going to ask if I knew
who the father was?'

'No. I think if you had thought it
was anyone other man Trevisan, you would have told me the other day.'

She didn't answer for a moment, but
when she did, she drew the first word out. 'Yes, I probably would have.'

'Good.'

'Perhaps.'

"Thank you,' Brunetti said and
hung up.

Next he called Trevisan's office and
attempted to arrange an appointment with Avvocato Safvatore Martucci, but he
was told that Signor Martucci had gone to Milan on business and would return
Commissario Brunetti's call as soon as he returned to Venice. No new papers lay
on his desk, and so he contented himself with the list he had made the day
before and with reflecting upon his conversation with the Judge.