‘All right,’ he said and pulled the paper Federica had given him from his pocket. ‘There’s a nursing home somewhere in Mira: Villa Flora. Could you have a look and see what sort of place it is? From what I’ve heard, it must be … basic.’ It seemed a neutral way to describe a place that could reduce a man to tears when speaking about it.
‘Of course, Signore. If they have a website, I’ll send you the link.’
‘We’ll be at Fondamente Nove in fifteen minutes. Could you ask Foa to meet us?’ Brunetti asked. When she said she would, he broke the connection.
When they pulled up to the landing, Brunetti saw the police launch bobbing in the water a few metres to the right. As the passengers started filing off the left side of the boat, Foa pulled alongside the other, and the sailor pulled back the metal bar and saluted the two police officers as they stepped on to the smaller boat bobbing beside them.
Foa touched his hand to his cap and swung away from the Number 13 in a graceful pirouette that started them back towards the entrance to the Rio dei Mendicanti that would take them quickly to the Questura.
Brunetti studied the building as they approached and was surprised to see someone standing at the window of his office. He was even more surprised when, as they drew closer, he could discern that it was Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta, who stood, like a whaler’s widow, two steps back from the window, casting his gaze to left and right in the only directions from which his beloved could return.
He nudged Vianello in the ribs and said, ‘Patta’s in my office.’
It was with the exercise of enormous restraint that Vianello refused to look upwards, thus losing the opportunity some day to tell his grandchildren what he had observed with his own eyes.
Foa glided up to the dock, and the Inspector followed his superior off the boat, careful to raise his eyes no higher than Brunetti’s head.
As they entered, the guard in the glass security booth raised his hand, then stood and came over to open the door. ‘Commissario,’ he said, leaning out. ‘The Vice-Questore would like to see you in his office.’
Brunetti nodded his thanks, and both men went silently towards the stairway. At the bottom, Brunetti paused for a moment and said, ‘Perhaps we should give him time to get back to his own office.’
‘You’ll spoil him if you’re not careful, Guido.’
Brunetti allowed two minutes to pass before he put his foot on the first stair. Vianello veered off towards the officers’ squad room. Brunetti walked towards his superior’s office and into the small anteroom, where he found Signorina Elettra, who was that day lightening the burden of the heat with white linen. Her blouse threw beams of reflected light at Brunetti. It gave the impression of flowing looseness, as though the material had alighted on her shoulders while being wafted to some astral location. Anyone glancing at it would at first think it should be worn by a larger person. Until, that is, the viewer observed just where the shoulders ended and how the pleats slid open when she raised her arm to push back a strand of hair.
‘How nice to have you back, Commissario,’ she said, her face tossing a few more beams his way.
‘One of life’s oft-repeating joys,’ Brunetti said.
‘To come here?’
‘In a word, yes.’
‘The Vice-Questore has just arrived and is waiting for you.’ With a sly smile, she added, ‘Another joy.’ Then, with an upraised hand, ‘Perhaps I should tell you, Commissario, that he’s not in the most tranquil of moods.’
‘How unusual,’ Brunetti said, passed in front of her desk, and went to the Vice-Questore’s office. He knocked, a sound that was acknowledged by a bark.
‘Good afternoon, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said as he closed the door. He came across the room.
‘Sit down.’ Patta’s eyes reflected quite a different light from that of Signorina Elettra’s blouse. Brunetti had had years to learn the signs of Patta’s irritation, and he saw immediately that the signals the Vice-Questore gave were mild. This, however, did not allow him to relax: Patta was as dangerous impatient as rabid.
‘What’s going on?’ his superior demanded. Brunetti found it interesting that Patta had said nothing about his recent, prolonged absence from the Questura nor about his supposedly compromised health.
‘If you’re referring to the man from Sant’Erasmo who died while I was there, I know only what everyone on the island knows: he was caught in a storm, fell from his boat, and drowned.’ Hearing this, Patta waved a hand, which Brunetti interpreted as an invitation to sit. Patta today wore a light tan linen suit, but this late in the afternoon, the elbows looked like accordions. Had he been doing push-ups while waiting for Brunetti to arrive? As was always the case in the summer – as well as after the two winter vacations he managed to afford himself – Patta was bronzed and as sleek as a well-oiled cricket bat.
‘Actually, I was talking about the problems Avvocato Ruggieri has been having.’
Aha, Brunetti told himself. Of course, and what a fool I am. How could Patta be interested in a man’s death when the son of a wealthy notary had suffered momentary embarrassment?
‘I’m sorry, Vice-Questore,’ Brunetti said, ‘but I know nothing about that.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I found the body of the man who drowned, Dottore, I thought it correct to file a report in the hope that this would speed things along.’
Patta’s eyes narrowed in a look so filled with suspicion that Brunetti feared he might soon be subjected to physical torture. ‘Is that the truth?’ Patta demanded in a voice he made deep enough to hold all of the menace he injected into it.
‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said. ‘I haven’t thought about that interview since it was interrupted,’ he said, trying to look like a person who had recently suffered a collapse from a weakened heart.
Patta put his wrinkled elbows on the table, wove his fingers together, and rested his chin on the bridge formed by his fingers. He kept Brunetti under scrutiny for a few moments, like an entomologist waiting for a dung beetle to begin rolling up its ball of lies. Finally he said, ‘I hope, Brunetti, that this isn’t another one of your—’
A knock on the door cut Patta off.
‘Come in,’ he barked.
The door opened, and Signorina Elettra appeared. ‘Ah, Vice-Questore, I didn’t know anyone was with you,’ she said, and gave every appearance of being embarrassed at having interrupted them. ‘You said earlier that you wanted to send an email to the Prefetto.’ Only then did Brunetti notice that she had a notebook in her hand. Was she actually going to take Patta’s dictation? His superior was indeed a remarkable man.
Brunetti’s face showed no expression as he got to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you to your work, Dottore,’ he said with a small nod. He went slowly to the door and paused to allow Signorina Elettra to pass in front of him, then he went out and closed the door.