Transient Desires (Commissario Brunetti #30)(26)

On the way, Brunetti made a list, a short one, of people who might be able to give him information about the business or the man who ran it. The first person he called was a lieutenant at the police station near Sant’Eufemia, who told him he knew Pietro Borgato and didn’t much like him. No, he’d never given the police any trouble, had never done anything that would get him arrested, but years ago he’d called the police to say that a neighbour’s dog had bit him, and he wanted the dog put down. It was, he explained to Brunetti, one of those cases that left an impression, though he didn’t specify which kind. Brunetti thanked him and restrained his curiosity about the fate of the dog.

Next he called an old classmate of his who worked in the Human Resources section of Veritas, the company responsible for the garbage collection in the city and, after an exchange of information about their children, said he wanted to ask a favour of the spazzini.

‘Gli spazzini?’ repeated his friend. ‘Why in God’s name do you want to talk to the garbage men?’

‘Not to all of them, Vittore, just to whoever’s in charge of Giudecca 255.’

‘All right,’ his friend answered after only a moment’s hesitation and told Brunetti to hold the line while he took a look. A minute later he was back: ‘Valerio Cesco, 378 446 3967,’ he said. ‘That enough?’

‘Perfect,’ Brunetti answered, wrote down the number, and gave profuse thanks.

As soon as the call ended, he dialled the number. The phone was answered on the second ring: ‘Cesco.’

‘Signor Cesco,’ Brunetti said, almost choking on the thickness of the Veneziano he forced himself to speak. ‘This is Commissario Guido Brunetti.’

‘Police Commissario?’ Cesco asked.

‘Sì,’ Brunetti answered. He waited for Cesco to say something, and when he did not, went on. ‘I’d like to ask you about one of the people on your route.’

‘Who?’

‘Pietro Borgato.’

Brunetti listened to silence for what seemed to him a long time before Cesco asked, ‘Why do you want to know about him?’

‘He’s come to our attention,’ Brunetti answered.

‘Ah,’ Cesco said quietly. ‘He has a transport business.’

‘Yes. I know that.’

‘Lots of boats and lots of coming and going.’

‘Well, I’m happy to learn he has enough work,’ Brunetti answered in a friendly voice.

‘Yes. He does,’ Cesco said flatly.

‘Can you tell me anything about his transport business?’ Brunetti asked.

Cesco made a noise; half sigh, half snort. Then he said, ‘Not on the phone, I won’t.’

‘Sensible man,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Could we meet somewhere?’

‘I usually take the 6:52 from Zattere to Palanca, but if you like, I can meet you at the embarcadero at 6:40 and take the earlier boat.’

Making his voice as friendly as he could manage, Brunetti said, ‘I suppose you’re talking about tomorrow morning?’

‘Sì, Signore.’ When Brunetti was slow in answering, Cesco said, ‘Just be glad it’s not January.’

Brunetti could not stop himself from laughing and agreed he’d see him there. He hung up the phone and said aloud, ‘What have I done?’





10


That evening’s dinner did a great deal to relieve Brunetti of the thought of next morning’s ordeal, even allowed him to laugh at himself for asking that question for nothing more arduous than getting up early.

Paola had decided to roast a chicken after filling it with a combination of quinoa, rosemary, and thyme. She explained to them that she’d stolen the herbs from the garden of a colleague who had invited her to pick up a book after class.

‘Stolen’?’ Chiara inquired.

Paola glanced across at her daughter. ‘The plants were sitting there, overgrown, neglected, dry – one might even say abandoned – so all I did was trim them. It was an act of liberation.’

‘You didn’t ask her?’ Chiara insisted.

‘I didn’t notice them until I was leaving,’ Paola said in a less patient voice.

Chiara, who took a dim view of the eating of meat, took an even dimmer view, it seemed, of the justification of crime.

‘If she’d stopped wearing a bracelet, and you liked it, would you feel the same about “liberating” that?’

Raffi, who had been following the conversation, smiled, then returned his attention to his chicken leg before his mother could see his expression.

Instead of answering her daughter, Paola turned to Brunetti and said, ‘You’re the one familiar with logic and the rules for making a syllogism, aren’t you?’

‘I suppose so,’ Brunetti admitted, forking up another piece of chicken.

‘So what would you call what Chiara’s just said?’

Brunetti finished his chicken and took a sip of wine. He set the glass down and, in a very serious way, declared, looking at his daughter, ‘I’m afraid you’ve fallen into your old habit of using the argumentum ad absurdum. The two actions are somewhat simi--lar, but they are not the same, however mind-catching the comparison might be at first hearing.’

He emptied his glass and poured it half-full again, adding, ‘So it’s just a rhetorical trick.’ Before she could say anything in her own defence, Brunetti smiled at her and added, ‘Very clever, I must say, and likely to be effective.’