Dressed for Death Page 14

  “You’re very kind, Sister.”

  “It’s the Lord who is kind, Dottore. We merely do His service.”

  Brunetti found nothing to say. He put out his hand and shook hers, kept her hand in his for long seconds, and then wrapped his other hand around it. “Thank you, Sister.”

  “God bless you and give you strength, Dottore.”

  16

  A week had passed, so the story of Maria Lucrezia Patta was no longer the sun around which the Questura of Venice revolved. Two more cabinet ministers had resigned over the weekend, each vociferous in his protestations that his decision had nothing whatsoever to do with and was in no way related to his having been named in the most recent scandals about bribery and corruption. Ordinarily, the staff of the Questura, like all of Italy, would yawn over this and turn to the sports page, but as one of them happened to be the Minister for Justice, the staff took a special interest, if only to speculate about what other heads would soon be seen rolling down the steps of the Quirinale.

  Even though this was one of the biggest scandals in decades— and when had there ever been a small scandal?—popular opinion held that it would all be insabbiata, buried in sand, hushed up, just as had happened with all of the other scandals in the past. Once any Italian got this particular bit between his teeth, he was virtually unstoppable, and there usually followed a list of the cases that had been effectively covered up: Ustica, PG2, the death of Pope John Paul I, Sindona. Maria Lucrezia Patta, no matter how dramatic her exit from the city had been, could hardly be expected to keep company at such dizzy heights, and so life drifted back to normal, the only news being that the transvestite found in Mestre last week had turned out to be the director of the Banca di Verona, and who would have expected that, a bank director, for God’s sake?

  One of the secretaries in the passport office up the street had heard in her bar this morning that this Mascari was pretty well known in Mestre and that it had been an open secret for years what he did when he went away on his business trips. Furthermore, it was learned at another bar, his marriage wasn’t a real marriage, just a cover for him because he worked in a bank. Here someone interjected that he hoped his wife had at least worn the same size clothing; why else marry her? One of the fruit vendors at the Rialto had it on very good authority that Mascari had always been like this, even when he was at school.

  By late morning it was necessary for public opinion to pause for breath, but by the afternoon, common knowledge had it that Mascari was dead not only as a result of the “rough trade” he pursued, even against the warnings of those few friends who knew of his secret vice, but that his wife was refusing to claim his body and give it a Christian burial.

  Brunetti had an appointment with the widow at eleven and went to it ignorant of the rumors swirling around the city. He called the Banca di Verona and learned that, a week before, their office in Messina had received a phone call from a man identifying himself as Mascari, explaining that his visit would have to be delayed, perhaps for two weeks, perhaps a month. No, they had not bothered to confirm this call, having no reason to suspect its validity.

  The Mascari apartment was on the third floor of a building one block back from Via Garibaldi, the main thoroughfare of Castello. When she opened the door for Brunetti, the widow looked much the same as she had two days before, save that her suit today was black, and the signs of weariness around her eyes were more pronounced.

  “Good morning, Signora. It’s very kind of you to speak to me today.”

  “Come in, please,” she said and stepped back from the door. He asked permission, then walked into the apartment and, for a moment, he felt a complete dislocation, a strange sense that he had already been here. It was only after he looked around that he realized the source of this feeling: the apartment was almost identical to the apartment of the old woman in Campo San Bartolomeo and had the look of a place in which the same family had lived for generations. An identical heavy credenza stood against the far wall, and the velvet upholstery on the two chairs and sofa was the same vaguely patterned green. Curtains were also pulled closed in front of these windows, to keep out either the sun or the eyes of the curious.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, an offer that was clearly formulaic.

  “No, please, nothing, Signora. I would like only a bit of your time. There are some questions we have to ask you.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said and moved back into the room. She sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, and Brunetti took the other. She removed a small piece of thread from the arm of the chair, rolled it into a ball, and put it carefully in the pocket of her jacket.

  “I don’t know how much you’ve heard of the rumors surrounding your husband’s death, Signora.”

  “I know he was found dressed as a woman,” she said in a small, choking voice.

  “If you know that, then you must realize that certain questions must be asked.”

  She nodded and looked down at her hands.

  He could make the question sound either brutal or awkward. He chose the latter. “Do you have any or did you have any reason to believe that your husband was involved in such practices?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, although it must be clear what he meant.

  “That your husband was involved in transvestism.” Why not just say the word, “transvestite,” and have done with it?

  “That’s impossible.”

  Brunetti didn’t say anything, waiting for her.

  All she did was repeat, stolidly, “That’s impossible.”

  “Signora, has your husband ever received strange phone calls or letters?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Has anyone ever called and spoken to him, after which he seemed worried or preoccupied? Or perhaps a letter? Or had he seemed worried lately?”

  “No, nothing like that,” she said.

  “If I might return to my original question, Signora, did your husband ever give any indication that he might have been drawn in that direction?”

  “Toward men?” she asked, voice high with disbelief, and with something else. Disgust?

  “Yes.”

  “No, nothing. That’s a horrible thing to say. Revolting. I won’t let you say that about my husband. Leonardo was a man.” Brunetti noticed that her hands were drawn into tight fists.

  “Please be patient with me, Signora. I am merely trying to understand things, and so I need to ask you these questions about your husband. That does not mean that I believe them.”

  “Then why ask them?” she asked, voice truculent.

  “So that we can find out the truth about your husband’s death, Signora.”

  “I won’t answer any questions about that. It’s not decent.”

  He wanted to tell her that murder wasn’t decent, either, but instead asked, “During the last few weeks, had your husband seemed different in any way?”

  Predictably, she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “For example, did he say anything about his trip to Messina? Did he seem eager to go? Reluctant?”

  “No, he seemed like he always did.”

  “And how was that?”

  “He had to go. It was part of his job, so he had to do it.”

  “Did he say anything about it?”

  “No, just that he had to go.”

  “And he wouldn’t call you during these trips, Signora?”

  “No.”

  “Why was that, Signora?”

  She seemed to sense that he wasn’t going to let this one go, so she answered, “The bank wouldn’t allow Leonardo to put personal calls on his expense account. Sometimes he’d call a friend at the office and ask him to call me, but not always.”

  “Ah, I see,” Brunetti said. Director of a bank, and he wouldn’t pay for a phone call to his wife.

  “Do you and your husband have any children, Signora?”

  “No,” she answered quickly.

  Brunetti dropped tha
t and asked, “Did your husband have any special friends at the bank? You mentioned a friend you called; could you give me his name?”

  “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “Perhaps your husband said something at work, or perhaps he gave some indication of how he felt about the trip to Messina. I’d like to speak to your husband’s friend and see if he noticed anything unusual about your husband’s behavior.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “I’d nevertheless like to speak to him, Signora, if you could give me his name.”

  “Marco Ravanello. But he won’t be able to tell you anything. There was nothing wrong with my husband.” She shot Brunetti a fierce glance and repeated, “There was nothing wrong with my husband.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you any more, Signora,” Brunetti said, getting to his feet and taking a few steps toward the door. “Have the funeral arrangements been made?”

  “Yes, the mass is tomorrow. At ten.” She didn’t say where it was to be held, and Brunetti didn’t ask. That information was easily enough obtained, and he would attend.

  At the door, he paused. “Thank you very much for your help, Signora. I’d like to extend my personal condolences, and I assure you that we will do everything in our power to find the person responsible for your husband’s death.” Why did “death” always sound better than “murder”?

  “My husband wasn’t like that. You’ll find out. He was a man.”

  Brunetti did not extend his hand, merely bowed his head and let himself out the door. As he went down the steps, he remembered the last scene of The House of Bernardo Alba, the mother standing on stage, screaming at the audience and at the world that her daughter had died a virgin, died a virgin. To Brunetti, only the fact of their deaths mattered; all else was vanity.

  At the Questura, he asked Vianello to come up to his office. Because Brunetti’s was two floors higher, it was more likely to catch whatever wisp of breeze was available. When they got inside and Brunetti had opened the windows and taken off his jacket, he asked Vianello, “Well, did you get anything on the Legal”

  “Nadia expects to be put on the payroll for this, Dottore,” Vianello said as he sat down. “She spent more than two hours on the phone this weekend, talking to friends all over the city. Interesting, this Lega della Moralità”

  Vianello would tell the story in his own way, Brunetti knew, but he thought he’d sweeten the process and said, “I’ll stop at the Rialto tomorrow morning and get her some flowers. Will that be enough, do you think?”

  “She’d rather have me home next Saturday,” Vianello said.

  “What are you scheduled for?” Brunetti asked.

  “I’m supposed to be on the boat that brings the Minister of the Environment in from the airport. We all know he’s not going to come to Venice, that he’s going to cancel at the last minute. You think he’d dare come here in August, with the algae stinking up the city, and talk about their great new environmental projects?” Vianello laughed scornfully; interest in the new Green Party was another result of his recent medical experiences. “But I’d like not to have to waste the morning going out to the airport, only to get there and be told he isn’t coming.”

  His argument made complete sense to Brunetti. The minister, to use Vianello’s words, wouldn’t dare present himself in Venice, not in the same month when half the beaches on the Adriatic coast were closed to swimming because of high levels of pollution, not in a city that had recently learned that the fish that made up a major part of its diet contained dangerously high levels of mercury and other heavy metals. “I’ll see what I can do,” Brunetti said.

  Pleased with the prospect of something better than flowers, although he knew Brunetti would bring them, as well, Vianello pulled out his notebook and began to read the report compiled by his wife.

  “The Lega was started about eight years ago, no one quite knows by whom or for what purpose. Because it’s supposed to do good works, things like taking toys to orphanages and meals to old people in their homes, it’s always had a good reputation. Over the years, the city and some of the churches have let it take over and administer vacant apartments; it uses them to give cheap, sometimes free, housing to the elderly and, in some cases, to the handicapped.” Vianello paused for a moment, then added, “Because all of its employees are volunteers, it was allowed to organize itself as a charitable organization.”

  “Which,” Brunetti interrupted him, “means that it is not obliged to pay taxes and that the government will extend the usual courtesy to it, and its finances will not be examined closely, if at all.”

  “We are two hearts that beat as one, Dottore.” Brunetti knew Vianello’s politics had changed. But his rhetoric as well?

  “What is very strange, Dottore, is that Nadia wasn’t able to find anyone who actually belongs to the Lega. Not even the woman at the bank, as it turns out. Lots of people said they knew someone who they thought was a member, but, after Nadia asked, it turned out that they weren’t sure. Twice she spoke to the people who were said to be members, and it turned out that they weren’t.”

  “And the good works?” Brunetti asked.

  “Also very elusive. She called the hospitals, but none of them had ever had any contact with the Lega. I tried the social service agency that takes care of old people, but they’ve never heard of anyone from the Lega doing anything for the old people.”

  “And the orphanages?”

  “She spoke to the mother superior of the order that runs the three largest ones. She said she had heard of the Lega but had never had any help from them.”

  “And the woman in the bank. Why did Nadia think she was a member?”

  “Because she lives in an apartment the Lega administers. But she’s never been a member, and she said she didn’t know anyone who was. Nadia’s still trying to find someone who is.” If Nadia put this time down, as well, Vianello would probably end up asking for the rest of the month off.

  “And Santomauro?” Brunetti asked.

  “Everyone seems to know he’s the boss, but no one seems to know how he became it. Nor, interestingly enough, does anyone have any idea of what it means to be boss.”

  “Don’t they have meetings?”

  “People say they do. In parish houses or private homes. But, again, Nadia couldn’t find anyone who had ever actually been to one.”

  “Have you spoken to the boys in Finance?”

  “No, I thought Elettra would take care of that.” Elettra? What was this, the informality of the converted?

  “I’ve asked Signorina Elettra to put Santomauro into her computer, but I haven’t seen her yet this morning.”

  “She’s down in the archives, I think,” Vianello explained.

  “What about his professional life?” Brunetti asked.

  “Success and success and nothing else. He represents two of the biggest building firms in the city, two city counsellors, and at least three banks.”

  “Is one of them the Bank of Verona?”

  Vianello looked down at his notebook and flipped back a page. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know it. But that’s where Mascari worked.”

  “Two plus two makes four, doesn’t it?” Vianello asked.

  “Political connections?” Brunetti asked.

  “With two city counsellors as clients?” Vianello asked by way of answering the question.

  “And his wife?”

  “No one seems to know much about her, but everyone seems to believe she’s the real power in the family.”

  “And is there a family?”

  “Two sons. One’s an architect, the other a doctor.”

  “The perfect Italian family,” Brunetti observed, then asked, “And Crespo? What did you find out about him?”

  “Have you seen his record from Mestre?”

  “Yes. Usual stuff. Drugs. Trying to shake down a customer. Nothing violent. No surprises. Did you find out anything else?”

  “Not much m
ore than that,” Vianello answered. “He was beaten up twice, but both times he said he didn’t know who did it. The second time, in fact,” Vianello began, flipping a few pages ahead in his notebook, “here it is. He said he was ‘set upon by thieves.’”

  “’Set upon’?”

  “That’s what it said in the report. I copied it down just like it was.”

  “He must read a lot of books, Signor Crespo.”

  “More than is good for him, I’d say.”

  “Did you find out anything else about him? Whose name is on the contract for the apartment where he lives?”

  “No. I’ll check and see.”

  “And see if you can get Signorina Elettra to find anything there might be about the finances of the Lega, or Santomauro, or Crespo, or Mascari. Tax returns, bank statements, loans. That sort of information should be available.”

  “She’ll know what to do,” Vianello said, noting it all down. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Let me know as soon as you hear anything or if Nadia finds someone who’s a member.”

  “Yes, sir,” Vianello said, getting to his feet. “This is the best thing that could have happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nadia’s getting interested in this. You know how she’s been for years, not liking it when I have to work late or on the weekends. But once she got a taste of it, she was off like a bloodhound. And you should have heard her on the phone. She could get people to tell her anything. It’s too bad we don’t hire freelancers.”

  17

  If he hurried, Brunetti could get to the Bank of Verona before it closed, that is, if an office that functioned from the second floor and appeared to have no place in which to fulfill the public functions of a bank bothered to observe regular hours. He arrived at 12:20 and, finding the downstairs door closed, rang the bell next to the simple brass plate that bore the bank’s name. The door snapped open, and he found himself back in the same small lobby where he had stood with the old woman on Saturday afternoon.