Authors: Donna Leon
‘Is this true?’ Patta interrupted, speaking to Brunetti.
‘I have no idea what Officer Landi said to the lieutenant last night,’ was Brunetti’s calm response.
‘That’s not what I mean,’ Patta interrupted before the lieutenant could say anything. ‘Was it your wife?’
‘In the report which I read last night,’ Brunetti began, his voice still calm, ‘Officer Landi gave her name and address, and said she admitted breaking the window.’
‘What about the other time?’ Scarpa asked.
Brunetti didn’t bother to ask what other time he meant. ‘What about it?’
‘Was it your wife?’
‘You’ll have to ask my wife that, Lieutenant.’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘You can be sure I will.’
Dottor Mitri coughed once, hiding the sound behind a raised hand. ‘Perhaps I could interrupt here, Pippo,’ he said to Patta. The Vice-Questore, apparently honoured by the intimacy of address, nodded.
Mitri turned his attention to Brunetti. ‘Commissario, I think it would be helpful if we could come to an understanding about this matter.’ Brunetti turned towards him but said nothing. ‘The damages to the agency have been considerable: the first window cost me almost four million lire to replace, and I assume this time it will be the same. There is also the matter of lost business during the time the agency was closed while we waited for the glass to be replaced.’
He paused, as if waiting for Brunetti to say or ask something, but when he did not, Mitri continued. ‘Because no one was apprehended for the first crime, I assume my insurance company will pay for the original damages and perhaps even for some of the lost business. It will take a considerable time for this to be achieved, of course, but I’m certain we’ll reach a settlement. In fact, I’ve already spoken to my agent and he assures me this is the case.’
Brunetti watched him as he spoke, listened to the confidence in his voice. This was a man accustomed to the full attention of the people he dealt with; his assurance and sense of self radiated from him in waves that were almost tangible. The rest of him gave the same impression: razor-cut hair worn shorter than was then the fashion, a light tan, skin and nails that were taken care of by someone else. He had light-brown eyes, almost the colour of amber, and a voice so pleasing as to be almost seductive. Because he was seated, Brunetti wasn’t sure of his height, but he looked as if he’d be tall, with the long arms and legs of a runner.
During all this the lawyer sat silent, attentive, listening to his client, but he said nothing.
‘Do I have your attention, Commissario?’ Mitri asked, aware of Brunetti’s scrutiny and perhaps hot liking it.
‘Yes.’
‘The second case is, and will be, different. Since your wife has apparently admitted to breaking the window, it seems only just that she should pay for it. That’s why I asked to speak to you.’
‘Yes?’ Brunetti asked.
‘I thought you and I might come to an agreement about this.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Brunetti said, wondering how far he could push this man and what would happen when he overdid it.
‘What is it you don’t understand, Commissario?’
‘What it is you called me in here to talk about.’
Mitri’s voice tightened, but it remained light. ‘I want to resolve this matter. Between gentlemen.’ He nodded in the direction of Patta. ‘I have the honour of being a friend of the Vice-Questore, and I would prefer not to cause the police any embarrassment in this matter.’
That, Brunetti thought, could explain the silence of the press.
‘And so I thought we might settle this matter quietly, without causing unnecessary complications.’
Brunetti turned to Scarpa. ‘Last night, did my wife say anything to Landi about why she did it?’
Scarpa was caught off guard by the question and glanced quickly at Mitri, who spoke before the lieutenant did. ‘I’m sure that’s of no consequence now. What’s important is that she admitted the crime.’ He turned his attention to Patta. ‘I think it is in the best interests of us all that we settle this while we can. I’m sure you agree, Pippo.’
Patta permitted himself a sharp ‘Of course’.
Mitri returned his attention to Brunetti. ‘If you agree with me, then we can proceed. If not, then I’m afraid I’m wasting my time.’
‘I’m still not sure what it is you want me to agree to, Dottor Mitri.’
‘I want you to agree that your wife will pay me for the damage to my window and for the business lost by the agency while it’s being repaired.’
‘I can’t do that,’ Brunetti said.
‘And why not?’ Mitri demanded, not much patience left.
‘It’s none of my business. If you’d like to discuss the matter with my wife, you are certainly free to do so. But I can’t make any decision, much less one like this, for her.’ Brunetti thought his voice sounded as reasonable as what he had to say.
‘What sort of man are you?’ Mitri asked angrily.
Brunetti turned his attention to Patta. ‘Is there any other way I can be helpful to you, Vice-Questore?’ Patta seemed too surprised, or too angry, to answer, so Brunetti got to his feet and let himself quickly out of the office.
* * * *
8
In response to Signorina Elettra’s raised eyebrows and pursed mouth, Brunetti gave nothing more than a quick, inconclusive shake of his head signalling to her that he’d explain later. He went back up the stairs to his office, considering the real meaning of what had just happened.
Mitri, who boasted of his friendship with Patta, no doubt had sufficient influence to keep a story as potentially explosive as this out of the papers. It was a natural, had everything a reporter could want: sex, violence, police involvement. And if they managed to discover the way in which Paola’s first attack had been covered up, that would provide their readers with even headier delights - police corruption and the abuse of power.
What editor would renounce a possibility like this? What newspaper could deny itself the pleasure of printing such an item? Paola, as well, was the daughter of Conte Orazio Falier, one of the most famous and certainly one of the wealthiest men in the city. It was all such remarkably good press that the newspaper which would deny itself such a coup did not exist.
That meant there had to be some greater recompense to the editor or editors who did not use it. Or, he added after a moment’s reflection, to the authorities who managed to prevent the story from getting to the papers. There also existed the possibility that the story had been put off limits, dressed up in reasons of state and thus prohibited to the press. Mitri had not seemed a man to possess that much power, but that kind, Brunetti had to remind himself, was often invisible. He had but to think of a former politician, currently on trial for association with the Mafia, a man whose appearance had been the butt of cartoon humour for decades. One did not normally associate great power with a man who looked so thoroughly innocuous, yet Brunetti had no doubt that one wink of those pale-green eyes could bring about the destruction of anyone who opposed him in even the most insignificant way.
There had been as much bravado as truth in Brunetti’s disclaimer that he could not make a decision for Paola, but on sober reflection he realized that he meant it.
Mitri had appeared at Patta’s office with a lawyer, one known to Brunetti, at least by reputation. Brunetti had a vague memory that Zambino usually concerned himself with business law, normally for large companies out on the mainland. He thought he might live in the city, but so few companies remained here that Zambino, at least professionally, had been forced to follow the exodus to the mainland in search of work.
Why bring a business lawyer to a meeting with the police? Why involve him in something that was or might become a criminal matter? Zambino had the reputation, he recalled, of being a forceful man, not without enemies, yet he hadn’t said a word during the entire time Brunetti was in Patta’s office.
He called down and asked Vianello to come up. When the sergeant came in some minutes later, Brunetti waved him to a seat. ‘What do you know about a certain Dottor Paolo Mitri and Avvocato Giuliano Zambino?’
Vianello must have learned their names in some other way, for his answer was immediate. ‘Zambino lives in Dorsoduro, not far from the Salute. Big place, must be three hundred metres. He specializes in corporate and business law. Most of his clients are out on the mainland: chemicals and petrochemicals, pharmaceuticals and one factory that manufactures heavy earth-moving equipment. One of the chemical companies he works for was caught dumping arsenic into the
laguna
three years ago: he got them off with a fine of three million lire and the promise not to do it again.’
Brunetti listened until the sergeant had finished, wondering if Signorina Elettra had been the source of this information. ‘And Mitri?’
Brunetti sensed that Vianello was fighting hard to disguise his pride in having so swiftly gathered all of this information. He continued eagerly, ‘He got his start in one of the pharmaceutical companies, began there when he got out of university. He’s a chemist, but he doesn’t work at that any more, not after he took over the first factory, then two more. He’s branched out in the last few years and as well as a number of factories, he owns that travel agency, two estate agencies and is rumoured to be the major shareholder in the string of fast-food restaurants that opened last year.’
‘Any trouble, either of them?’
‘No,’ Vianello said. ‘Neither of them.’
‘Could that be negligence?’
‘On whose part?’
‘Ours.’
The sergeant considered this for a moment. ‘Possibly. There’s a lot of that around.’
‘We might take a look, eh?’
‘Signorina Elettra is already talking to their banks.’
‘Talking?’
Instead of answering, Vianello spread his hands flat on Brunetti’s desk and aped typing into a computer.
‘How long has he owned this travel agency?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Five or six years, I think.’
‘I wonder how long they’ve been arranging these tours.’ Brunetti said.
‘I can remember seeing the posters for them a few years ago, in the agency we use down in Castello,’ Vianello said. ‘I wondered how a week in Thailand could cost so little. I asked Nadia and she explained what it meant. So I’ve sort of kept an eye on the windows in travel agencies since then.’ Vianello did not explain the motive for his curiosity and Brunetti did not ask.
‘Where else do they go?’
‘The tours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Usually Thailand, I think, but there are lots of them to the Philippines. And Cuba. And in the last couple of years they’ve started them to Burma and Cambodia.’
‘What are the ads like?’ asked Brunetti, who had never paid any attention to them.
‘They used to say things overtly: “In the middle of the red light district, friendly companions, all dreams come true”, that sort of thing. But now that the law’s been changed, it’s all in a sort of code: “Hotel staff very open-minded, near the night spots, friendly hostesses.” It’s all the same sort of thing, though, lots of whores for men too lazy to go out on the road and look for them.’
Brunetti had no idea how Paola had learned about this or how much she knew concerning Mitri’s agency. ‘Has Mitri’s place got the same sort of ads?’
Vianello shrugged. ‘I suppose so. The ones who do it all seem to use a similar coded language. You learn to read it after a while. But most of them also do a lot of legitimate booking: the Maldives, the Seychelles, wherever there’s cheap fun and lots of sun.’