Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(13)
Brunetti stood on the deck of the vaporetto while he phoned Signorina Elettra to say he had a positive identification of the two suspects and wanted to bring them in for questioning. He stuffed his phone between his shoulder and his ear, pulled out the envelope, and read her their contact information. When she asked, he said he wanted the authorization of a magistrate and that Patta would surely approve, given the connection to the American Embassy. Brunetti remembered how Patta, some years ago, had ended up in the international press: The New York Times itself had mentioned Patta’s name and said, as was its wont, that ‘the arrest struck a serious blow against the Ndrangheta.’ All blows against the Mafia, for the international press, were always ‘serious’, even ‘crippling’. No major European languages were capable of using the more apposite ‘futile’, nor yet ‘pointless’.
Brunetti specified that the two men were not to be allowed to speak to or telephone anyone once they were in police custody. He did not have to tell her that each was to be taken to a separate interrogation room and did not tell her that one of them was ‘of interest’ to the Carabinieri.
‘Send Pucetti to get Vio and ask Vianello to take another launch and bring Duso in. All they know is that they were sent to take him to the Questura, always speaking in the singular.’
‘Certainly, Commissario,’ Signorina Elettra said. ‘Shall I begin having a look?’
‘A captain in the Carabinieri just told me they checked their records and found nothing,’ Brunetti said.
Was it a clicking sound he heard, as if she’d been told something beyond belief? Or was she disappointed by what he’d said?
In either case, the noise was enough to put Brunetti back on track, and he segued effortlessly into, ‘But by all means, you should take a closer look, Signorina.’ His grip on his telefonino relaxed minimally after he said that. Then, in the way a person sends flowers after behaving badly at dinner, he said, ‘One of them has an uncle who lives on the Giudecca. Pietro Borgato. Perhaps you could have a look at him, as well?’
‘Do you have an idea of when you might be here, Signore?’ she inquired. It took Brunetti a moment to recover from the delicacy of the question, and when he glanced at his watch, he was surprised to see that it was after one.
‘I should be there before two.’
‘Good. Anything else, Signore?’
In his mildest voice, Brunetti said, ‘Both of them grew up in the city.’
‘Indeed,’ she answered, accepting his entirely informal, and equally illegal, request that she check and see what might be available in the prohibited records of juvenile offenders about the earlier behaviour of these two young men.
‘Would you tell them both that I’m on my way?’ he asked, knowing it was unnecessary to specify the names of Vianello and Pucetti, ‘and to call me if there’s any trouble.’
‘Of course, Commissario,’ she answered.
Brunetti thanked Signorina Elettra and ended the call. He remembered then that he had failed to phone Paola and tell her he would not be home for lunch. Hoping he had not troubled or upset her by not calling earlier, he put in their home number. Perhaps he could speak to her before she started cooking.
The phone was picked up after four rings and, a moment later, a voice he did not recognize said, ‘Ristorante Falier. I’m sorry to tell you that the restaurant is not open for business today. Please call another time. Thank you for your understanding.’ The phone was replaced.
As a form of penance, Brunetti chose to have two tramezzini in one of the bars lined up on the Riva degli Schiavoni; he could bring himself to eat only a bite of each, and could not drink the wine. Telling himself not to grumble, he turned off the Riva and continued until he reached the bar at the Ponte dei Greci, said hello to Sergio, the owner, and asked for an asparagus and egg and a tuna and tomato. He stood while he ate them, drinking a glass of Pinot Grigio, then had a coffee. Thus lunch for the working man, he told himself as he walked down to the Questura. Next he’d be stopping to eat a slice of pizza or buying a paper box filled with spaghetti to eat while walking. ‘Or while sitting on the Rialto’ he muttered to himself, surprising an elderly woman whom he passed on his way back.
He entered the building, raised a hand in response to the salute of the man at the door, and went up to Signorina Elettra’s office. He had not seen her before he left to go to the Carabinieri station and, when he reached her office, found her at her desk, partially dressed for autumn or dressed for part of autumn. Brown sweater, beige trousers, brown shoes. There was no reference to the red and yellow of autumn leaves, no sign of the glorious orange of ripe persimmons. Nor were there traces of pomegranates dressed in their imperial scarlet. The sight of those three sober colours left Brunetti feeling somehow cheated. Not even the vase of red chrysanthemums sufficed to appease his colour-deprived eyes.
He smiled and asked, ‘Any news?’
When she swivelled on her chair as he approached her desk, Brunetti caught a glimpse of the arm of the jacket hanging from the back: theatre red velvet, the sort of colour one of the wildly mad emperors would have liked: Heliogabalus, perhaps. It cheered him and restored his faith in he wasn’t quite sure what.
‘Foa called to say he’d be back in,’ – she paused and looked at her watch – ‘. . . in about ten minutes.’
‘What rooms are free?’ Brunetti asked.