The Death of Faith (5 page)

He studied the soft contours of her face, noticed for the first time two faint lines that extended down from the outside corners of her eyes, no doubt the result of frequent smiles, and found it difficult to believe that this was a person possessed of criminal craft and, in all likelihood, of criminal intent.

Not for a moment reflecting upon his oath of office, Brunetti asked, ‘But if they lived here, then you can get the information?’

He noticed the way she struggled to keep all evidence of pride out of her voice, struggled and failed. ‘The records in the registry office, Commissario?’

Amused at the tone of condescension which a former employee of the Banca D’ltalia used when speaking the name of a mere government office, he nodded.

‘I can get you the names of the principal heirs after lunch. Copies of the wills might take a day or two.’

Only the young and attractive can risk showing off, he realized. ‘After lunch will do nicely, Signorina.’ He left the list with the names and dates of death on her desk and went back up to his office.

When he sat at his desk, he looked at the names of the two men he’d written down: Dr Fabio Messini, and Father Pio Cavaletti. Neither of them was familiar to him, but in a city as socially incestuous as Venice, that was meaningless to a person in pursuit of information.

He called down to the office where the uniformed police had their desks. ‘Vianello, could you come up here for a moment? And bring Miotti along with you, would you?’ While he waited for the two policemen to arrive, Brunetti drew a row of checks under the names, and it was not until Vianello and Miotti appeared at his door that he realized they were crosses. He set his pen down and motioned the two policemen to the chairs in front of his desk.

As Vianello sat, his unbuttoned uniform jacket swung open, and Brunetti noticed that he looked thinner than he had during the winter.

‘You on a diet, Vianello?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ the Sergeant replied, surprised that Brunetti had noticed. ‘Exercise.’

‘What?’ Brunetti, to whom the idea of exercise bordered on the obscene, made no attempt to disguise his shock.

‘Exercise,’ Vianello repeated. ‘I go over to the
palestra
after work and spend a half hour or so.’

‘Doing what?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Exercising, sir.’

‘How often?’

‘As often as I can,’ Vianello answered, sounding suddenly evasive.

‘How often is that?’

‘Oh, three or four times a week.’

Miotti sat silent, his head turning back and forth as he followed this strange conversation. Is this how crime was fought?

‘And what do you do when you’re there?’

‘I exercise, sir,’ coming down on the verb with impressive force.

Interested now, however perversely so, Brunetti leaned forward, elbows on his desk, chin cupped in one hand. ‘But how? Running in place? Swinging from ropes?’

‘No, sir,’ Vianello answered, not smiling. ‘With machines.’

‘What kind of machines?’

‘Exercise machines.’

Brunetti turned his eyes to Miotti who, because he was young, might understand some of this. But Miotti, whose youth took care of his body for him, looked away from Brunetti and back to Vianello.

‘Well,’ Brunetti concluded, when it was evident that Vianello was going to be no more forthcoming, ‘you look very good.’

‘Thank you, sir. You might want to think about giving it a try yourself.’

Tucking in his stomach and sitting up straighter in his chair, Brunetti turned his attention back to business. ‘Miotti,’ he began, ‘your brother is a priest, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, evidently surprised that his superior would know.

‘What kind?’

‘A Dominican, sir.’

‘Is he here in Venice?’

‘No, sir. He was here for four years, but then they sent him to Novara, three years ago, to teach in a boys’ school.’

‘Are you in touch with him?’

‘Yes, sir. I speak to him every week, and I see him three or four times a year.’

‘Good. The next time you talk to him, I’d like you to ask him something.’

‘What about, sir?’ Miotti asked, taking a notebook and a pen from his jacket pocket and pleasing Brunetti by not asking why.

‘I’d like you to ask him if he knows anything about Padre Pio Cavaletti. He’s a member of the Order of the Sacred Cross here in the city.’ Brunetti saw Vianello’s raised eyebrows, but the Sergeant remained silent, listening.

‘Is there anything specific you’d like me to ask him, sir?’

‘No, anything at all that he can think of or remember.’

Miotti started to speak, hesitated, then asked, ‘Can you tell me anything more about him, sir? That I can tell my brother?’

‘He’s the chaplain for the
casa di cura
over near the Ospedale Giustiniani, but that’s all I know about him.’ Miotti kept his head down, writing, so Brunetti asked, ‘Do you have any idea about who he could be, Miotti?’

The young officer looked up. ‘No, sir. I never had much to do with my brother’s clerical friends.’

Brunetti, responding more to his tone than to the words, asked, ‘Is there any reason for that?’

Instead of answering, Miotti shook his head quickly and then looked down at the pages of his notebook, adding a few words to what he had written.

Brunetti glanced at Vianello over the lowered head of the younger man, but the Sergeant gave a barely perceptible shrug. Brunetti opened his eyes and nodded briefly toward Miotti. Vianello, interpreting this as a signal that he discover the reasons for the young man’s reticence when they went back downstairs, nodded in return.

‘Anything else, sir?’ Vianello asked.

‘This afternoon,’ Brunetti said, answering his question but thinking of the copies of the wills Signorina Elettra had promised him, ‘I should have the names of some people I’d like to go and talk to.’

‘Would you like me to come with you, sir?’ Vianello asked.

Brunetti nodded. ‘Four o’clock,’ he decided, thinking that would give him plenty of time to get back from lunch. ‘Good. I think that’s all for now Thank you both.’

‘I’ll come up and get you,’ Vianello said. As the younger man moved toward the door, Vianello turned, gestured toward the disappearing Miotti with his chin, and nodded to Brunetti. If there was anything to be discovered about Miotti’s reluctance to spend time with his brother’s clerical friends, Vianello would find it out that afternoon.

When they were gone, Brunetti opened a drawer and pulled out the Yellow Pages. He looked under doctors but found no listing in Venice for Messini. He checked the white pages and found three of them, one a Doctor Fabio, with an address in Dorsoduro. He made a note of Messini’s phone number and address, then picked up the phone and dialled a different number from memory.

The phone was picked up on the third ring, and a man’s voice said, ‘
Allò?’

‘Ciao,
Lele,’ Brunetti said, recognizing the painter’s gruff voice. ‘I’m calling about one of your neighbours, Dottor Fabio Messini?’ If someone lived in Dorsoduro, Lele Bortoluzzi, whose family had been in Venice since the Crusades, would know who they were.

‘Is he the one with the Afghan?’

‘Dog or wife?’ Brunetti asked with a laugh.

‘If it’s the one I’m thinking of, the wife’s a Roman, but the dog’s an Afghan. Beautiful, graceful thing. Just like the wife, if you think about it. She walks it past the gallery at least once a day.’

‘The Messini I’m looking for has a nursing home over near the Giustiniani.’

Lele, who knew everything, said, ‘He’s the same one who runs the place Regina’s in, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘How is she, Guido?’ Lele, only a few years younger than Brunetti’s mother, had known her all his life and had been one of her husband’s best friends.

‘She’s the same, Lele.’

‘God save her, Guido. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said. There was nothing else to be said. ‘What about Messini?’

‘As far as I can remember, he started with an
ambulatorio
over here, about twenty years ago. But then after he married the Roman, Claudia, he used her family’s money to start the
casa di cura.
After that, he gave up private practice. Well, I think he did. And now I believe he’s the director of four or five of them.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No. I see him every once in a while. Not often. Certainly not as often as I see the wife.’

‘How do you know who she is?’ Brunetti asked.

‘She’s bought a few paintings from me over the course of the years. I like her. Intelligent woman.’

‘With good taste in paintings?’ Brunetti asked.

Lele’s laugh came down the phone. ‘Modesty prevents my answering that question.’

‘Is there any talk about him? Or about them?’

There was a long pause, at the end of which Lele said, ‘I’ve never heard anything. But I can ask around if you’d like me to.’

‘Not so that anyone knows you’re asking,’ Brunetti said, even though he knew it was unnecessary.

‘My tongue shall be as gossamer,’ Lele said.

‘I’d appreciate it, Lele.’

‘It doesn’t have anything to do with Regina, does it?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Good. She was a wonderful woman, Guido.’ Then, as if suddenly realizing he’d used the past tense, Lele quickly added, ‘I’ll call you if I learn anything.’

‘Thanks, Lele.’ Brunetti came close to reminding him about being delicate, but he reflected that anyone who had thrived as Lele had in the world of Venetian art and antiquities had to have as much gossamer as steel in his nature, and so all he said was a quick goodbye.

It was still well before twelve, but Brunetti felt himself lured from his office by the scent of spring that had been laying siege to the city for the last week. Besides, he was the boss, so why couldn’t he just up and leave if he chose to? Nor did he feel himself obliged to stop and tell Signorina Elettra where he was going; she was probably elbow-deep in computer crime, and he didn’t want to be either an accessory or, truth be told, an impediment, so he left her to it and headed toward the Rialto and home.

* * * *

It had been cold and damp when he left the apartment that morning, and now, in the growing warmth of the day, he felt himself burdened by his jacket and his overcoat. He loosened both, removed his scarf and stuffed it in his pocket, but still it was so warm that he sensed the year’s first perspiration break out across his back. He felt trapped in his woollen suit, and then the traitorous thought came to him that both slacks and jacket were tighter than they had been in early winter when he had first worn the suit. When he got to the Rialto Bridge, he pushed ahead in a sudden surge of buoyant energy and started to trot up the steps. After a dozen steps, he found himself winded and had to slow down to a walk. At the top, he paused and gazed off to the left and up toward the curve that took the Grand Canal off toward San Marco and the Doge’s Palace. The sun glared up from the surface of the water on which bobbed the first black-headed gulls of the season.