A Venetian Reckoning (4 page)

'Used to be?' Brunetti asked, leaving
the question of Elettra's family to be considered at another time.

'Yes, until about a year ago. She and
her daughter were both patients. But one day she went into Barbara's office and
made some sort of a scene, demanding that Barbara tell her what she was
treating her daughter for.'

Brunetti listened but asked nothing.

'The daughter was only fourteen, but
when Barbara refused to tell her, Signora Trevisan insisted that Barbara had
given her an abortion or sent her to the hospital to have one. She shouted at
her and, in the end, she threw a magazine.'

'At your sister?'

'Yes.'

'What did she do?' Brunetti asked.

'Who?'

'Your sister?'

'She told her to get out of the
office. Finally, after some more shouting, she did.' 'And then what?'

"The next day, Barbara sent her
a registered letter with her medical records and told her to find another doctor.'

'And the daughter?'

'She never went back, either. But
Barbara's seen her on the street, and the girl's explained that her mother has
forbidden her to go back. Her mother took her to some private clinic'

'What was the daughter there for?'
Brunetti asked.

He watched Signorina Elettra weigh
this one out. She quickly came to the conclusion that Brunetti would find out
about it, anyway, and said, 'It was a venereal infection.' 'What sort?'

'I don't remember. You’ll have to ask
my sister.' 'Or Signora Trevisan.'

Elettra's response was immediate, and
angry. 'If she learned what it was, she never learned it from Barbara.'

Brunetti believed her. 'So the
daughter's about fifteen now?'

Elettra nodded. 'Yes, she must be.'

Brunetti thought for a moment The law
was vague here - when was it not? A doctor did not have to divulge information
about a patient's health, but surely a doctor was at liberty to provide
information about how a patient had behaved, and why, especially in a situation
where it was not his or her own health that was at issue. Better that he speak
to the doctor herself than ask Elettra to do it for him. 'Is your sister's
ambulatorio
still over near San Barnaba?’

'Yes. She'll be there this afternoon.
Do you want me to tell her to expect you?'

'Does that mean you won't tell her
I'm coming unless I ask you to, signorina?'

She glanced down at the keys of her
computer, apparently found the answer she wanted there, and glanced back at
Brunetti. 'It doesn't make any difference if she hears this from you or from me,
commissario. She hasn't done anything wrong. So, no, I won't tell her.'

Moved by curiosity, he asked, 'And if
it did make a difference? If she
had
done
something wrong?'

'If it would help her, I'd warn her.
Of course.'

'Even if it meant betraying a police
secret, signorina?' he asked, then smiled to show he was only joking, although
he wasn't.

She glanced at him, uncomprehending.
'Do you think police secrets would matter at all if something concerned my
family?'

Chastened, he answered, 'No, signorina,
I don't suppose they would.'

Signorina Elettra smiled, glad that
she had again assisted the commissario towards understanding.

'Do you know anything else about the
wife?' - he corrected himself - 'widow?'

'No, not personally. I've read about
her in the paper, of course. She's always involved in Worthy Causes,' she said,
making the capitals audible. 'You know, like collecting food to send to
Somalia, that gets stolen and sent to Albania and sold. Or organizing those
gala concerts at La Fenice that never seem to do anything but cover expenses
and give the organizers a chance to get dressed up and show off to their
friends. I'm surprised you don't know who she is.'

‘I have a vague memory of having seen
the name but no more than that. What about the husband?'

'International law, I think, and very
good at it. I think I might have read something about a deal with Poland or
Czechoslovakia - one of those places where they eat potatoes and dress badly -
but I can't remember which.'

'What sort of deal?'

She shook her head, unable to
remember.

'Could you find out?'

'If I went down to the
Gazzettino
offices and had a look, I suppose I could.'

'Do you have anything to do for the
Vice-Questore?'

'I’ll just make his lunch
reservation, and then I’ll go down to the
Gazzettino.
Would you like me to look for anything else?'

'Yes, about the wife, as well. Who is
it who writes the society stuff these days?'

'Pitteri, I think.'

'Well, speak to him and see if
there's anything he can tell you about either of them, the sort of thing he
can't publish.'

'Which is always the sort of thing
people most want to read’

'So it seems,' Brunetti said.

'Anything else, sir?'

'No, thank you, signorina. Is
Vianello here?' 'I haven't seen him yet.'

'When he comes in, would you send him
up to me, please?’

'Certainly,' she answered and went
back to her magazine. Brunetti glanced down to see what article she was
reading - shoulder pads - and then went back up to his own office.

The file, as was always the case at
the beginning of an investigation, contained little more than names and dates.
Carlo Trevisan had been born in Trento fifty years ago, had been educated at
the University of Padua, from which he took a degree in law and after which he
established himself as a lawyer in Venice. Eighteen years ago, he married
Franca Lotto, with whom he had two children, a daughter, Francesca, now
fifteen, and a son, Claudio, seventeen.

Avvocato Trevisan had never
interested himself in criminal law and had himself never been involved with the
police in any way. Nor had he ever come under the scrutiny of the Guardia di
Finanza, which suggested either a miracle or that the Avvocato's tax returns
were always in order, this in itself another kind of miracle. The file
contained the names of the people employed in Trevisan's law office and a copy
of his passport application.

'Lavata con Perlana’
Brunetti
said aloud as he laid the papers down on his desk, repeating the slogan of a
liquid detergent that promised to get everything, anything, cleaner than
clean. Who would be cleaner than Carlo Trevisan? More interestingly, who could
have put two bullets in his gut and not bothered to take his wallet?

Brunetti pulled out his bottom drawer
with the toe of his right foot, leaned back in his chair, and folded his feet
on the open drawer. Whoever did it must have done it between Padua and Mestre:
no one would have taken the chance of being caught on the same train when it
pulled into the station at Venice. The train wasn't a local, so Mestre was the
only stop between Padua and Venice. It was unlikely that someone getting off
the train at Mestre would have drawn any special notice, but it was worth
checking at the station. The conductors usually sat in the first compartment,
so they would have to be questioned to see what they remembered. Check for the
gun, of course; did the bullets match up with those used in any other crime?
Guns were closely controlled, so it might be possible to trace the weapon. Why
had Trevisan been in Padua? With whom? The wife, check the wife. Then check the
neighbours and friends to see if what she said was true. The daughter — a
venereal disease at the age of fourteen?

He leaned forward, pulled the drawer
all the way out, and reached down for the telephone directory. He flipped it
open and found the Zs. There were two listings for 'Zorzi, Barbara, Medico', one
for her home and one for her office. He dialled the office number and got a
machine, telling him that visiting hours began at four. He dialled the home
number and heard the same voice telling him that the Dottoressa was
momentaniamente
assente
and asking him to leave name, reason
for his call, and the number at which he could be reached. His call would be
returned
appena possibile.

'Good morning, dottoressa,' he began
after the beep. This is Commissario Guido Brunetti. I'm calling in regard to
the death of Avvocato Carlo Trevisan. I've learned that his wife and daughter
were...'

'Buon giorno,
commissario,'
the doctor's husky voice broke in. 'How may I help you?' Though it had been
more than a year since they last met, she used the 'tu' form of address with
him, making it clear to both of them by its use that the familiarity
established then would be continued.

'Good morning, dottoressa,' he said.
'Do you always filter your calls?'

'Commissario, I have a woman who has
called me every morning for the last three years, telling me I must make a
house call. Each morning, she has different symptoms. Yes, I filter my calls.'
Her voice was firm; but there was an undertone of humour.

‘I didn't realize there were that
many body parts,' Brunetti said.

'She plays interesting combinations,'
Dottoressa Zorzi explained. 'How may I help you, commissario?'

'As I was explaining, I've learned
that Signora Trevisan and her daughter were formerly patients of yours.' He paused
there, waiting to see what the doctor would volunteer. Silence. 'You've heard
about Avvocato Trevisan?’

'Yes.'

‘I wanted to ask if you'd be willing
to talk to me about them, his wife and daughter.'

'As people or as patients?' she
asked, voice calm.

'Whichever you'd feel more
comfortable in doing, dottoressa,' Brunetti answered.

'We could start with the first, and
men if it seemed necessary, take up the second.'

'That's very kind of you, dottoressa.
Could we do it today?'

‘I have some house calls to make this
morning, but I should be finished with them by eleven. Where would you like to
meet?'

Since it was she who was doing the
favour, Brunetti didn't feel comfortable asking her to come to the Questura.

'Where will you be at eleven,
dottoressa?'

'One moment, please’ she said and set
the phone down. In an instant, she was back. 'My patient lives near the
embarcadero
of San Marco,' she answered.

"Would you like to meet at
Florian's, then?' he asked.

Her answer was not immediate and,
remembering what he did of her politics, Brunetti half expected her to remark
on the way he was choosing to spend the taxpayer's money.

'Florian's is fine, commissario,' she
finally said.

'I look forward to it. And thank you
again, dottoressa.’

'Eleven, then,' she said, and was gone.

He tossed the phone book into the
drawer and slammed it closed with his foot. When he looked up, Vianello was
coming into his office.

'You wanted to see me, sir?' the
sergeant asked.

'Yes. Sit down. The Vice-Questore's
given me Trevisan.'

Vianello nodded, suggesting that this
was already old news at the Questura.

'How much have you heard?' Brunetti
asked.

'Just what was in the papers and on
the radio this morning. Found on the train last night, shot. No trace of a
weapon and no suspect'

Brunetti realized that, although he
had read the official police file, he knew no more than that himself. He nodded
Vianello towards a chair. 'You know anything about him?'

'Important,' Vianello began as he
lowered himself into a chair, his size making it look immediately smaller.
'Used to be city councillor in charge of, if I remember correctly, sanitation.
Married, a couple of children. Has a big office. Over by San Marco, I think.'
'Personal life?'