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  director of the Casino to another position in the city administration,

  as well as the promotion of his chief assistants to places high in

  other city services. Further, the two leading witnesses found

  themselves promoted to positions of importance within the reorganized

  Casino, whereupon both began to realize that their previous

  interpretation of events must have been mistaken. Their case in

  rubble, the police backed away from the gorgeous palazzo on the Canal

  Grande, and the visiting detectives were sent home.

  These events resulted in a late-morning summons from Patta, who

  chastised Brunetti for what he considered an overaggressive attitude

  toward the Casino administration. Because Brunetti had at no time felt

  more than mild disapproval of the behaviour of the suspects always

  taking a broad-minded view of crimes against property Patta's

  heated words fell upon him with no more effect than spring rainfall

  upon sodden earth.

  It was when his superior turned his attention to the Moro family that

  he found himself attending to what Patta was saying. "Lieutenant

  Scarpa has told me that the boy was considered unstable, and so there's

  no further need to drag our heels on this. I think it's time we closed

  the case."

  "By whom, sir?" Brunetti inquired politely.

  "What?"

  "By whom? Who was it that thought he was unstable?" It was evident

  from Patta's response that he had not thought it necessary to ask this

  question: Scarpa's assertion would more than suffice by way of proof.

  "His teachers, I imagine. People at the school. His friends. Whoever

  the lieutenant talked to," Patta shot off in a quick list. "Why do you

  ask?"

  "Curiosity, sir. I didn't know the lieutenant was interested in the

  case."

  "I didn't say he was interested Patta said, making no attempt to

  disguise his disapproval at this latest evidence of Brunetti's

  inability though Patta suspected it was his refusal to do what every

  good policeman should do: realize when a suggestion was really an

  order. He took a long breath. "Whoever it was he talked to, they said

  that the boy was clearly unstable, and so it's even more likely that it

  was suicide."

  That's certainly what the autopsy indicated Brunetti affirmed mildly.

  "Yes, I know." Before Brunetti could ask, Patta went on, "I haven't

  had time to read it carefully, but the overview is certainly consistent

  with suicide."

  There was no doubt in Brunetti's mind as to the author of this

  overview; what was in doubt was why Lieutenant Scarpa should take an

  interest in a case in which he was not involved.

  "Has he had anything else to say about this?" Brunetti asked, trying

  his best to sound only mildly interested.

  "No. Why?"

  "Oh, merely that if the lieutenant is so convinced, then we can inform

  the boy's parents that the investigation is closed."

  "You've already spoken to them, haven't you?"

  "Some days ago, yes. But if you remember, sir, you asked me to be sure

  that no doubt could be cast on our conclusions so the father would have

  no reason to complain about our work, given that he's already created a

  great deal of trouble for other agencies of the state."

  "You mean his report?" Patta asked.

  "Yes, sir. I was of the understanding that you wanted to be certain he

  would have no grounds to launch a similar investigation of our handling

  of his son's death." Brunetti paused a moment to assess the effect of

  this, and when he saw the first signs of Patta's uneasiness, he drove

  in another nail. "He seems to be someone who has earned the trust of

  the public, so any complaint he might make would probably be picked up

  by the press." He allowed himself a small, dismissive shrug. "But if

  Lieutenant Scarpa is satisfied that there's enough evidence to prove to

  the parents that it was suicide, then there's certainly no reason for

  me to continue working on it." Slapping his hands on his thighs,

  Brunetti pushed himself to his feet, eager to go off in pursuit of some

  new project, now that the Moro case had so neatly been settled by his

  colleague, Lieutenant Scarpa.

  "Well," Patta said, drawing the word out, 'perhaps it's hasty to think

  that things are as conclusive as Lieutenant Scarpa would like to

  believe

  "I'm not sure I understand you, sir," Brunetti lied, unwilling to let

  Patta off so easily and wondering to what lengths he would go to

  distance himself from Scarpa's eagerness to settle matters. Patta said

  nothing, and so an emboldened Brunetti asked, "Is there some question

  about these people?

  These witnesses?" By a remarkable exercise of restraint, Brunetti kept

  all hint of sarcasm from the last word. Still Patta | said nothing,

  and so Brunetti asked, "What, exactly, did he tell you, sir?" I

  Patta waved Brunetti to his seat again and contented himself with

  leaning back in his chair, and holding his chin with one hand no doubt

  a non-threatening posture learned at a management seminar as a means to

  create solidarity with an inferior. He smiled, rubbed briefly at his

  left temple, then smiled again. "I think the lieutenant might be too

  eager to bring closure to the boy's parents." Surely, this was a word

  that had its origin in the same seminar. "That is, it was rumoured at

  the school that Moro was not his normal self during the days before his

  death. Upon sober reflection, it occurs to me that the lieutenant

  might have been hasty to interpret this as proof of suicide," Patta

  ventured, then added quickly, 'though I'm sure he's right."

  "Did these boys say how he was behaving?" Before Patta could answer

  the question, Brunetti asked a second, "And who were these boys?"

  "I'm not sure he said," Patta answered.

  "Surely it's in his report," Brunetti said, leaning forward minimally

  as though expecting Patta to satisfy him by producing the lieutenant's

  written report.

  "He gave his report orally

  "So he didn't mention any names?" Brunetti asked.

  "Not that I recall, no," Patta said.

  "Do you know if he subsequently submitted a written report?"

  "No, but I doubt he'd consider that necessary, not after having spoken

  to me," Patta said.

  "Of course."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Patta demanded, swiftly returning to

  his usual manner.

  Brunetti's smile was bland. "Only that he would have

  thought he had done his duty by reporting to his superior." He allowed

  a long pause to extend beyond this, then changed his expression to one

  he'd seen used by a tenor singing the Simpleton in Boris Godunov, "What

  should we do now, sir?"

  For a moment, he feared he'd gone too far, but Patta's response

  suggested he had not. "I think it might be wise to speak to the

  parents again," Patta began, 'to see if they're willing to accept the

  judgment that it was suicide." There were still times when Patta's

  honesty was breathtaking, so absolute was his lack of interest in the

  truth.

  Brunetti offered, "Perhaps the lieutenant should
go and speak to them,

  sir? '

  That caught Patta's attention. "No, it might be better if you went.

  After all, you've already spoken to them, and I imagine they thought

  you were sympathetic." Never had that quality sounded so much like a

  character defect as when Patta used it in reference to Brunetti. Patta

  considered further. "Yes, do it that way. Go and talk to them and see

  how they feel. You'll know how to handle it. Once they've accepted

  that it was suicide, we can close the case."

  "And turn our attention back to the Casino?" Brunetti could not

  prevent himself from asking.

  The coolness of Patta's glance not only lowered the temperature of the

  room; it removed Brunetti to a greater distance. "I think the city has

  proven itself capable of attending to that problem," Patta pronounced,

  forcing Brunetti, not for the first time, to suspect that his superior

  might not be as dull as he'd always found it convenient to believe

  him.

  Upstairs, he pushed papers around on his desk until he found the thin

  file which contained the papers generated by the death of Ernesto Moro.

  He dialled the father's number, and after six rings, a man's voice

  answered with the surname.

  "Dottor Moro," Brunetti said, 'this is Commissario Brunetti. I'd like

  to speak to you again, if possible." Moro did not

  answer, so Brunetti said into the silence, "Could you tell me a time

  that's> convenient for you?"

  He heard the other man sigh. "I told you I had nothing further to say

  to you, Commissario." His voice was calm, entirely without

  expression.

  "I know that, Dottore, and I apologize for disturbing you, but I need

  to speak to you again."

  "Need?"

  "I think so."

  "We need very little in this life, Commissario. Have you ever

  considered that?" Moro asked, quite as if he were prepared to spend

  the rest of the afternoon discussing the question.

  "Often, sir. And I agree."

  "Have you read Ivan Ilych?" Moro surprised him by asking.

  The writer or the short story, Dottore?"

  Brunetti's response must have surprised Moro in turn, for there

  followed a long silence before the doctor answered, The short story."

  "Yes. Often."

  Again, the doctor sighed, after which the line lay silent for almost a

  minute. "Come at four, Commissario/ Moro said and hung up.

  Though reluctant to face both of Ernesto's parents on the same day,

  Brunetti still forced himself to phone Signora Moro. He let the phone

  ring once, cut the connection, then pressed the "Redial' button, filled

  with relief when the phone rang on unanswered. He had made no attempt

  to keep a check on the whereabouts of either parent. For all he knew,

  she could have left the city any time after the boy's funeral two days

  ago; left the city, left the country, left everything behind save her

  motherhood.

  He knew that such thoughts would take him nowhere, and so he returned

  his attention to the papers on his desk.

  The man who let Brunetti into the Moro apartment at four

  that afternoon might well have been the doctor's older brother, if such

  a brother were afflicted with some wasting disease. The worst signs

  were to be found in his eyes, which seemed covered with a thin film of

  opaque liquid. The whites had taken on the tinge of ivory often seen

  in people of advanced age, and inverted dark triangles had settled

  under both eyes. The fine nose had become a beak, and the thick column

  of his neck was now a trunk held upright by tendons that pulled the

  skin away from the muscle. To disguise his shock at the change in the

  man, Brunetti lowered his gaze to the floor. But when he noticed that

  the cuffs of the doctor's trousers hung limply over the backs of his

  shoes and dragged on the floor, he raised his eyes and looked directly

  at the doctor, who turned away and led him into the sitting room.

  "Yes, Commissario? What is it you've come to say?" Moro asked in a

  voice of unwavering politeness when they were seated opposite one

  another.

  Either his cousin had come frequently or someone else was seeing that

  the apartment was kept clean. The parquet glistened, the rugs lay in

  geometrical regularity, three Murano vases held enormous sprays of

  flowers. Death had made no inroads into the evident prosperity of the

  family, though Moro might as well have been living in the atrium of a

  bank for all the attention he paid to his surroundings.

  "I think this has put you beyond lies, Dottore," Brunetti said

  abruptly.

  Moro displayed no sign that he found Brunetti's words at all unusual.

  "You might say that," he answered.

  "I've thought a great deal about our last meeting," Brunetti said,

  hoping to establish some connection with the man.

  "I don't remember it," Moro said, neither smiling nor frowning at the

  admission.

  "I tried to talk to you about your son."

  "That's understandable, Commissario, as he had just died, and you

  seemed to be in charge of investigating his death."

  Brunetti hunted, but hunted in vain, for sarcasm or anger in the

  doctor's tone. I've thought about him a great deal Brunetti

  repeated.

  "And I think of nothing but my son Moro said coolly.

  "Is there anything among your thoughts that you can tell me?" Brunetti

  asked, and then amended his question by adding, 'or will tell me?"

  "Of what interest could my thoughts be to you, Commissario?" the

  doctor asked. As Moro talked, Brunetti observed that his right hand

  never stopped moving, as his thumb and middle finger kept rubbing

  against one another, busy rolling some invisible object between them.

  "As I said, Dottore, I think you must be beyond lies now, so I won't

  hide from you the fact that I don't think your son killed himself."

  Moro's gaze drifted away from Brunetti for a moment and then returned

  to him. "Lies aren't the only thing I'm beyond, Commissario."

  "What does that mean?" Brunetti asked with conscious politeness.

  That I have little interest in the future."

  "Your own?"

  "My own or, for that fact, anyone else's."

  "Your wife's?" Brunetti asked, ashamed of himself for doing so.

  Moro blinked twice, appeared to consider Brunetti's question, and then

  answered, "My wife and I are separated."

  "Your daughter, then?" Brunetti said, recalling a reference to the

  child in one of the articles he had read about Moro.

  "She's in her mother's care Moro said with every evidence of

  indifference.

  Brunetti wanted to say that he was still the girl's father, but he

  couldn't bring himself to do so. Instead, he contented himself with

  saying, "That's a legal situation, a separation."

  It took Moro a long time to answer. Finally he said, "I'm not sure I

  understand you

  Until now Brunetti had paid little attention to their words, allowing

  his consciousness to move ahead as if on automatic pilot. His mind

  detached from meaning, he paid closer attention to Moro's tone and

  gestures, the way he sat and the pitch of his voice.
Brunetti sensed

  that the man had moved to some place distant from pain, almost as if

  his heart had been put in protective custody and his mind had been left

  behind to answer questions. But there remained, as well, an enormous

  sense of fear; not fear of Brunetti but of saying something that might

  reveal what lay behind the facade of calm restraint.

  Brunetti decided to answer what the doctor clearly intended as a

  question. "I've spoken to your wife, sir, and she voices no rancour

  towards you."

  "Did you expect her to?"

  "In the situation, yes, I think it would be understandable if she did.

  That way, she could somehow hold you responsible for what happened to

  your son. Presumably it was your decision that he attend the

  Academy."

  Moro shot him a stunned glance, opened his mouth as if to speak in his

  own defence, but stopped himself and said nothing. Brunetti averted

  his eyes from the other man's anger, and when he looked back, Moro's

  face was empty of feeling.

  For a long time, Brunetti could think of nothing to say until at last

  he spoke entirely without thinking. "I'd like you to trust me,

  Dottore."

  After a long time, Moro said, voice tired, "And I'd like to trust you,