About Face

5
Neither man knew what to say after that. Brunetti got up and went to stand by the window, as much to give himself a moment’s calm as to provide the same to Guarino. He would have to tell Paola what he had said, how it had slipped out without a conscious thought.
He heard Guarino clear his throat and say, just as if he and Brunetti had come to some gentleman’s agreement no longer to discuss Ranzato or what he might have known, ‘I told you: because he was killed, and because the only link we have to the man he worked for is the link to San Marcuola, we need your help. You people here in Venice are the only ones who can tell us if there’s someone who lives there who might be involved in . . . well, in something like this.’ It did not sound like a finished statement, so Brunetti remained silent. After a moment, Guarino went on, ‘We don’t know who we’re looking for.’
‘Was it just the one man this Signor Ranzato worked for?’ Brunetti asked, turning back to face him. ‘He was the only one he told me about,’ Guarino answered.
‘That’s not the same thing, is it?’
‘I think it is, yes. Remember, I told you we’d become, if not friends, then at least close. We talked about things.’
‘For instance?’
‘I told him how lucky he was to be married to someone he loved so much,’ Guarino said in a voice that was steady except for the word ‘loved’.
‘I see.’
‘I meant it, too,’ Guarino said with what Brunetti considered defensive self-revelation. ‘It wasn’t one of those things you tell them to get them to trust you.’ He waited to be sure that Brunetti understood the distinction, then went on, ‘Maybe that’s how things were at the beginning, but as time passed, well, they changed between us.’
‘Did you ever meet his wife? Or see her?’
‘No. But her photo was on his desk,’ Guarino said. ‘I’d like to talk to her, but we can’t contact her or give any sign that we were ever in touch with him.’
‘If they killed him, then they already know that you were, wouldn’t you say?’ Brunetti asked, unwilling to be merciful.
‘Perhaps,’ Guarino agreed with some reluctance, then changed it to ‘probably.’ His voice grew a bit stronger. ‘But those are the rules. We can’t do anything that might put her at risk.’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said and stopped himself from observing that that had already been amply taken care of. He returned to his desk. ‘I don’t know how much we’ll be able to help you, but I’ll ask around and have a look at the files. I have to tell you now that no one comes to mind.’ It was implicit, in his use of the term ‘ask around’, that whatever was done beyond the usual search through the files would be done at the casual, private level: men talking to their informers, hinting, chatting in the bars. ‘However,’ Brunetti added, ‘Venice isn’t the best place to search for information about trucking.’
Guarino glanced at him, seeking sarcasm but finding none. ‘I’ll be grateful for whatever information you can give me,’ he said. ‘We’re at a loss. It’s always this way when we try to work someplace where we don’t know . . .’ Guarino’s voice trailed off.
It occurred to Brunetti that the other man could as easily have stopped himself from saying ‘who we can trust’ as anything else. ‘It’s strange that he never set it up so that you could have a look at this man,’ he said. ‘After all, you knew about him for a long time.’
Guarino said nothing.
There were countless questions to be asked, Brunetti realized. Had a truck even been stopped and the driver asked for papers? What if there was an accident?
‘You talked to the drivers?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And they weren’t very helpful.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It could mean that they drove where they were told to drive and didn’t give it a thought.’ Brunetti’s expression showed how believable he found this, so Guarino added, ‘Or that Ranzato’s murder helped to wipe out their memories.’
‘You think it’s worth trying to find out which?’
‘My guess is no. People up here don’t have a lot of direct experience with the Camorra, but they’ve already learned not to cause them trouble.’
‘If this is the way it is already, then there’s no hope of trying to stop them, is there?’ Brunetti asked.
Guarino got to his feet and leaned across Brunetti’s desk to shake his hand, saying, ‘You can reach me at the Marghera station.’
Brunetti shook his hand. ‘I’ll ask around.’
‘I’d be grateful.’ Guarino gave Brunetti a long look, nodded as if he believed him, and walked quickly to the door. He let himself out quietly.
‘Oh my, oh my, oh my,’ Brunetti muttered to himself. He sat at his desk for some time, thinking over what he had been told, then went down to Signorina Elettra’s office. She looked up from her computer screen as he came in. The winter sun streamed through the window of her office, illuminating the roses he had seen earlier, and her shirt, which managed to make the roses look dingy.
‘If you’ve got time, there’s something I’d like to ask you to look into,’ he said.
‘For you or for Maggior Guarino?’ she asked.
‘For both of us, I think,’ he answered, conscious of the warmth with which she pronounced the other man’s name.
‘In December, a man named Stefano Ranzato was killed in his office in Tessera,’ he said. ‘During a robbery.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ she said, then asked, ‘And the Maggiore is in charge?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can I help you both?’ she asked.
‘He has reason to believe that his killer might live close to San Marcuola.’ This was not exactly what Guarino had told him, but it was close enough to the truth. ‘The Maggiore, as you noticed, is not Venetian, and it turns out no one else in his squad is.’
‘Ah,’ she exclaimed, ‘the infinite wisdom of the Carabinieri.’
As if he had not heard her, Brunetti went on, ‘They’ve already checked the arrest records for the area around San Marcuola.’
‘For violent crime or assault?’ she asked.
‘Both, I imagine.’
‘Did the Maggiore say anything else about the murderer?’
‘That he was about thirty, good–looking, and dressed expensively.’
‘Well, that cuts the number down to about a million.’
Brunetti did not bother to reply.
‘San Marcuola, eh?’ she asked. She sat silent for some time; as he waited, he saw her touch her cuff and button it closed. It was after eleven o’clock, yet there was no wrinkle to be seen in either of the stark cuffs of her blouse. Should he warn her to be careful about cutting her wrists on the edges?
She tilted her head and glanced at the space above Patta’s door while one hand idly unbuttoned and rebuttoned the same cuff. ‘The doctors are a possibility,’ Brunetti said after some time.
She looked at him in open surprise, then smiled. ‘Ah, of course,’ she said appreciatively. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘I don’t know if Barbara . . .’ Brunetti prompted, naming her sister, a doctor, who had in the past spoken to him but had always made a clear distinction between what she could and could not tell the police.
Signorina Elettra’s answer was immediate. ‘I don’t think we’ll have to ask her. I know two doctors who have offices near there. I’ll ask them. People talk to them, so they might have heard something.’ In response to Brunetti’s look, she said, ‘They’re the ones Barbara would ask, anyway.’
He nodded and said, ‘I’ll ask down in the squad room.’ The men there usually knew about the lives of the people living in the neighbourhoods they patrolled.
As he was turning away, Brunetti paused as if remembering something, and said, ‘There’s another thing, Signorina.’
‘Yes, Commissario?’
‘A part of another investigation, well, not really an investigation, but something I’ve been asked to look into: I’d like you to see what you can find about a businessman here in the city, Maurizio Cataldo.’
Her ‘ah’ could have meant anything.
‘And his wife, as well, if there’s anything about her.’
‘Franca Marinello, sir?’ she said, head lowered above the paper on which she had written Cataldo’s name.
‘Yes.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘No,’ Brunetti said, then, offhandedly, ‘The usual things: business, investments.’
‘Are you interested in their personal life, sir?’
‘Not particularly, no,’ Brunetti said, then quickly added, ‘But if you find anything that might be interesting, make a note of it, would you?’
‘I’ll have a look.’
He thanked her and left.