Roberto, as not only Danilo and Brunetti but most of the police of the city knew, was the only son of Mario Beniamin, Chief Judge of the criminal court of Venice. Until that night, his addiction had never led him to violence, for he made do with false prescriptions and with what he managed to exchange for articles stolen from the homes of family and friends. But with his attack on the pharmacist, however unintentional it had been, Roberto had joined the criminals of the city.
After speaking to Danilo, Brunetti went to the Judges home and spent more than an hour with him; the next morning, Judge Beniamin accompanied his son to a small private clinic near Zurich, where Roberto spent the next six months, emerging to begin an apprenticeship in a pottery workshop near Milan.
The favour, spontaneously offered on Brunetti's part, had rested between him and the Judge for those years, much in the way a pair of shoes that cost too much will be in the bottom of a closet and be forgotten about until they are kicked aside or stepped on accidentally, only then to be remembered with a wince that the buyer could so foolishly have fallen into, such a false bargain.
The phone at the Judge's chambers was answered on the third ring by a woman's voice. Brunetti give his name and asked to speak to Judge Beniamin.
After a minute, the Judge came on to the line. 'Buon giomo, commissario. I've been expecting your call.’
‘Yes," Brunetti said simply. 'I'd like to speak to you, your honour.'
Today?'
‘If it's convenient for you.'
1 can give you a half-hour, this afternoon at five. Will that be sufficient?' 1 think so, your honour.'
‘I’ll expect you, then. Here,' the Judge said and hung up.
The main criminal court house of the city lies at the foot of the Rialto Bridge, not the San Marco side but the side that holds the fruit and vegetable market.
In fact, those who go early to the market can sometimes see men and women in handcuffs and shackles being led into and out of the various entrances to the court, and not infrequently machine-gun-carrying carabinieri stand amidst the crates of cabbages and grapes, guarding the people who are taken inside. Brunetti showed his warrant card to the armed guards at the door and climbed the two flights of broad marble stairs to Judge Beniamin's chambers. Each landing had a large window that looked across to the Fondazione dei Tedeschi, under the Republic the commercial centre for all German traders in the city, now the Central Post Office. At the top of the stairs, two carabinieri wearing flak jackets and carrying assault rifles stopped him and asked to see his identification.
'Are you wearing a weapon, commissario?' one of them asked after a close examination of his warrant card.
Brunetti regretted having forgotten to leave the gun in his office: it had been open season on judges in Italy for so long that everyone was nervous and, too late, very cautious. He slowly pulled his jacket open and held the sides far from his body to allow the guard to take the pistol from him.
The third door on the right was Beniamin's. Brunetti knocked twice and was told to enter.
In the years that had passed since his visit to Judge Beniamins home, the two men had passed one another occasionally on the street, nodding to one another, but it had been at least a year since Brunetti had seen the Judge, and he was shocked at the change in him.
Though the Judge was no more than a decade older than Brunetti, he now looked old enough to be his father. Deep lines ran from the sides of his nose down past his mouth before disappearing beneath his chin. His eyes, once a deep brown, seemed cloudy, as though someone had forgotten to dust them. And, wrapped in the flowing black robes of his calling, he seemed more trapped than dressed, so much weight had he lost.
'Have a seat, commissario,' Benjamin said. The voice was the same, deep and resonant, a singer's voice.
'Thank you, your honour,' Brunetti said and took his place in one of the four chairs in front of the Judge's desk.
‘I'm sorry to tell you that I have less time than I thought I would have.' After he spoke, the Judge paused for a moment, as if just hearing what he had said. He gave a small, sad smile and added, 'This afternoon, that is. So if we can be quick, I'd be very grateful to you. If not, we can talk again in two days if it's necessary.'
'Of course, your honour. It goes without saying that I appreciate your agreeing to see me.' He paused and the men's eyes met, each fully aware of how formulaic this sentence was.
'Yes,' was all the Judge answered.
'Carlo Trevisan,' Brunetti said.
'Specifically?' asked the Judge.
'Who profits from his death? What was his relationship with his brother-in-law? With his wife? Why did his daughter tell a story, about five years ago. that her parents were afraid she would be kidnapped? And what, if any, association did he have with the Mafia?'
Judge Beniamin had taken no notes, had simply listened to the questions. He propped his elbows on his desk and showed the back of his hand to Brunetti, his five fingers splayed out
'Two years ago, another lawyer, Salvatore Martucci, joined his firm, bringing with him his own clients. Their agreement stipulated that next year, Martucci would be made an equal partner in the practice. There is talk that Trevisan was no longer willing to honour this contract With Trevisan dead, Martucci is in sole charge of the practice.' judge Beniamin's thumb disappeared.
'The brother-in-law is slick, very slick. It is an unproven rumour which would make me criminally liable for a charge of slander were I to repeat, but anyone wanting to avoid paying taxes on international business or to know whom to bribe so that shipments arrive here without customs inspection knows he's the best man to see.' The top half of his forefinger disappeared.
"The wife is having an affair with Martucci.' His middle finger joined the others.
'About five years ago, Trevisan - and this, too, is merely rumour - was involved in some sort of financial dealings with two men from the Palermo Mafia, very violent men. I do not know the nature of his involvement whether it was criminal or not even whether it was voluntary or not but I do know that these men were interested in him, or he was interested in them, because of the possibility that Eastern Europe would soon open up, and there would consequently be more business between Italy and those countries. The Mafia has been known to kidnap or kill the children of people who oppose their business offers. It is said that for a time Trevisan was a very frightened man, but it is also said that the fear went away.' Pulling the tops of his two remaining fingers into his fist, the judge said, 'I think that answers all of your questions.'
Brunetti got to his feet. 'Thank you, your Honour.'
'You're welcome, commissario.'
No mention was made of Roberto, dead of an overdose a year ago, nor was any made of the cancer that was destroying the Judge's liver. Outside the office, Brunetti retrieved his pistol from the guard and left the court building.
18
The first thing Brunetti did when he arrived at his office the next morning was to dial Barbara Zorzi's home number. After the beep, he said, 'Dottoressa, this is Guido Brunetti. If you're there, please pick up. I need to talk to you about the Trevisans again. I've learned that...'
'Yes?' she said, cutting in but not surprising him by failing to exchange pleasantries or greetings.
'I'd like to know if Signora Trevisan's visit to your office had anything to do with a pregnancy.' Before she could answer, he added, 'Not her daughter's, her own.'
'Why do you want to know this?' she asked.
The autopsy report said her husband had had a vasectomy.'
'How long ago?'
'I don't know. Does that make a difference?'
There was a long pause before she spoke again. 'No, I suppose it doesn't Yes, when she came to me two years ago, she thought she was pregnant She was forty-one at the time, so it was possible.’
'Was she?'
'No.'
'"Was she particularly disturbed about it?'
'At the time, I thought not, well, not more than a woman her age wo
uld be, who thought all of that was behind her. But now I suppose I have to say that, yes, she was.'
'Thank you,' Brunetti said simply. 'Is that all?' Her surprise was audible. 'Yes.'
'You aren't going to ask if I knew who the father was?'
'No. I think if you had thought it was anyone other man Trevisan, you would have told me the other day.'
She didn't answer for a moment, but when she did, she drew the first word out. 'Yes, I probably would have.'
'Good.'
'Perhaps.'
"Thank you,' Brunetti said and hung up.
Next he called Trevisan's office and attempted to arrange an appointment with Avvocato Safvatore Martucci, but he was told that Signor Martucci had gone to Milan on business and would return Commissario Brunetti's call as soon as he returned to Venice. No new papers lay on his desk, and so he contented himself with the list he had made the day before and with reflecting upon his conversation with the Judge.
Not for a moment did it occur to Brunetti to question the truth of anything Judge Beniamin had told him nor to spend any time attempting to confirm it. Given, then, Trevisan's probable involvement with the Mafia, his death began to look even more like an execution: as sudden and anonymous as a bolt of lightning. From his name, Martucci would probably turn out to be a Southerner: Brunetti warned himself against the prejudice that would carry that fact towards certain assumptions, especially should Martucci turn out to be Sicilian.
That left the daughter, Francesca, and her story of her parents' fear of kidnapping. Before he left the house that morning, Brunetti had told Chiara that the police had straightened out the kidnapping story and didn't need any more help from her. Even the most remote possibility that someone might learn of Chiara's interest in a matter that had to do with the Mafia caused Brunetti profound uneasiness, and he knew that a display of casual uninterest was the best way to dissuade her from asking more questions.
He was brought back from these thoughts by a knock at his door. 'Avanti? he called and raised his eyes to see Signora Elettra pushing open the door to allow a man to enter. 'Cornmissario,' she said as she came in, ‘I'd like you to meet Signor Giorgio Rondini. He'd like to have a few words with you.'
The man she ushered in towered at least a head above her, though it was unlikely that he weighed much more than she. As gaunt as the subject of an El Greco portrait, Signor Rondini added to that resemblance with a pointed dark beard and black eyes that looked out at the world from beneath thick brows.
'Please have a seat, Signor Rondini,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet. 'How may I be of service to you?'
While Rondini was lowering himself into a chair, Signorina Elettra went back to the door she had left open and paused there for a moment, She stood immobile until Brunetti glanced across at her, when she pointed a finger at the now-seated man and mouthed, as if dealing with the newly deaf, 'Gi-or-gio.' Brunetd gave her the slightest of nods and said, 'Grazie, signor-ina,' as she left, closing the door behind her.
For a time, neither man spoke. Rondini looked around the office, and Brunetti looked down at the list on his desk. Finally Rondini spoke: 'Commissario, I've come to ask your advice.'
'Yes, Signor Rondini?' Brunetd asked, looking up.
'It's about the conviction,' he said and stopped.
The conviction. Signer Rondini?' Brunetti asked.
'Yes, because of that day on the beach.' He gave Brunetti a small smile of encouragement, prodding Brunetti to remember something he must have known about.
'I'm sorry, Signor Rondini, but I'm not familiar with the conviction. Could you tell me something more about it?'
Rondini's smile disappeared, replaced by a pained, embarrassed look.
'Elettra didn't tell you?'
'No, I'm afraid she hasn't spoken to me about it.' When Rondini's expression became even more grim at hearing this, Brunetti added, smiling, 'Other than to explain to me what a great help you've been to us, of course. It's because of your help that we've made the progress we have.' The fact that there was no real progress in the case didn't make the remark necessarily a lie, not that this would have stopped Brunetti from saying it.
When Rondini didn't say anything, Brunetti prodded him: 'Perhaps you could tell me a little bit about it, and then I can see how I can help you.'
Rondini's hands came together in his lap, the fingers of the right gently massaging those of the left 'As I said, it's about the conviction.' He looked up and Brunetti smiled, nodding his head encouragingly. 'For indecent exposure.' Brunetti's smile didn't change; Rondini seemed encouraged by that.
'You see, commissario, 1 was on the beach two summers ago, at the Alberoni.' Brunetti's smile didn't change, even at the name of the beach out at the end of the Lido so popular with gays that it had come to be known as 'Sin Beach'. The smile didn't change, but his eyes studied Rondini, and his hands, with sharpened attention.
'No, no, commissario,' Rondini said with a shake of his head, it's not me. It's my brother’ He stopped and shook his head again in mingled embarrassment and confusion. I'm just making it worse.' Again, he smiled, even more nervously, and sighed once. 'Let me start again.' Brunetti greeted this idea with a nod. 'My brother's a journalist. That summer he was doing an article about the beach, and he asked me to go out there with him. He thought that way we'd look like a couple and people would leave us alone. That is, leave us alone but talk to him.' Again, Rondini stopped and glanced down at his hands, now floundering about in his bp.
When he said nothing and gave no indication that he would speak again, Brunetti asked, 'Is that where it happened?' When Rondini neither looked up nor answered, Brunetti prodded. 'The incident?'
Rondini took a deep breath and started talking again. 'I went for a swim, but then it began to get cold, so I decided to change back into my clothes. My brother was way down the beach, talking to someone, and I thought I was alone. Well, there was no one within about twenty metres of the blanket. So I sat down and took off my swimming trunks, and just as I was pulling my trousers on, two policemen came up to me and told me to stand up. I tried to pull my trousers on, but one of the policemen stepped on them, so I couldn't.' As he spoke, Rondini s voice grew tighter, Brunetti couldn't tell whether with embarrassment or anger.
One of Rondini's hands moved up to his chin and began to rub absently at his beard. 'So I tried to put my swimming trunks back on, but one of them picked them up and held them.' Rondini stopped.
'Then what happened, Signor Rondini?'
‘I stood up.'
'And?'
'And they wrote up a summons against me, accusing me of public indecency.' 'Did you explain to them?' 'Yes.' 'And?'
They didn't believe me.'
'What about your brother? Did he come back?'
'No, it all happened in about five minutes. By the time he got back, they'd written out the summons and they were gone.'
'What did you do about it?'
'Nothing,' Rondini said and looked Brunetti in the eye. 'My brother told me not to worry, that they had to inform me if they were going to do anything about it.'
'And did they?'
'No. Or at least I never heard anything. Then, two months later, a friend called and told me he'd seen my name in that day's Gazzettino. There'd been some sort of legal process, but I was never notified. No fine, nothing. I never heard anything, not until they sent me a letter saying that I'd been convicted.'
Brunetti considered this for a moment, not finding it at all strange. A misdemeanour like this could very easily slip through the cracks of the justice system, and a man could find himself convicted without ever having been formally accused. What he did not understand was why Rondini was coming to him about it.
'Have you tried to get the decision changed?'
'Yes. But they told me that it was too late, that I had to do something about it before the proceedings. It wasn't a trial or anything like that’ Brunetti nodded, familiar with this system of ruling on misdemeanours. 'But it means I've b
een convicted of a crime.'
'A misdemeanour,’ Brunetti corrected him
'But still convicted,' Rondini insisted.
Brunetti tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows in a gesture he hoped was both sceptical and dismissive. 'I don't think you have anything to worry about, Signor Rondini.'
'I'm getting married’ Rondini said, an answer that baffled Brunetti completely.
'I'm afraid I don't follow you.'
Rondini's voice grew tight as he said, 'My fiancee. I don't want her family to learn that I was convicted of indecent exposure on a homosexual beach.'
'Does she know about it?' Brunetti asked.
He saw Rondini begin to give one answer, then change it 'No. I didn't know her when it happened, and since then there's never been a time when it seemed right to tell her. Or a way. With my brother and my friends, it's just a funny story now, but I don't think she'd like it' Rondini shrugged away any uneasiness he might have with this fact and added, 'And her family would like it even less.'
'And you've come to me to see if I can do anything about it?'
‘Yes. Elettra has talked about you a lot, said you were very powerful here at the Questura.' Rondini's voice was rich with deference when he said this; worse, it was equally filled with hope.
Brunetti shrugged this compliment away. 'What sort of thing did you have in mind?'
‘I need two things,' Rondini began. 'I'd like you to change my record,' he began, but as soon as he saw Brunetti begin to object he added, 'I'm sure you can do something as simple as that'
'It means altering an official government document,' Brunetti said in a voice he hoped he managed to make sound severe.
'But Elettra says that's...' Rondini began but stopped immediately.
Brunetti was afraid of how that sentence might have ended, so he said, 'This might be something that sounds a great deal easier than it is.'
Rondini looked up at him then, his gaze bold, his objection evident but unspoken. 'May I tell you the second thing?'