'What's wrong?' Signorina Elettra asked, voice deep with alarm.
‘I don't know,' Brunetti said. Without another word, he turned and knocked at Patta's door. ‘Avanti’
Brunetti pushed open the door and walked quickly into the room. He forced himself to remain silent, hoping to get an idea of Patta's mood before he had to explain anything to the Vice-Questore.
'What's this I hear about that woman being transferred to Padua?' Patta demanded.
‘I don't know anything about it. I brought her in last night. She confessed to killing all three of them: Trevisan, Favero and Lotto.'
'Where did she confess?' Patta asked, confusing Brunetti with the question.
'In her car.'
'Her car’
‘I followed her to Piazzzle Roma. I spent a lot of tune with her, and then I brought her back here, to Venice. She told me how she did it. And why.’
Patta seemed uninterested in either. ‘Did you get a confession from her?
‘Was it witnessed?’
Brunetd shook his bead. ‘I got back here at four, and I asked her if she wanted to call her lawyer. She didn't I asked if she wanted to make a statement, but she refused, so I had her taken to a cefl. Officer Di Censo took her down to the women's section.'
'Without making a confession or a statement?’ Patta demanded.
There was no sense in delaying. "No. I thought I'd get one this morning.’
‘You thought you'd get one this morning’ Patta repeated in a nasty singsong.
‘Yes;
‘Well, that’s not going to happen, is it?’ Patta asked, making no attempt to disguise his anger. 'She's been taken to Padua.’
'Did she get there?" Brunetti interrupted.
Patta cast ms eyes tiredly to one side. 'If you'd let me finish speakmg, commissario.. .’
Brunetti nodded but didn’t bother to speak.
'As I was saying," Pitta began and paused long enough to make the point that he had been interrupted, 'she was taken to Padua this morning. Before you bothered to get here and without her having made a confession, practice which, as I think you know, commissario, is essential to the most routine police procedure. But she was taken to Padua, and I hope you know what that means.' Patta paused here, archly dramatic, waiting for Brunetti to admit to the full extent of his incompetence.
Then you think she's in danger?' Brunetti asked.
Patta squinted in confusion and pulled his head back. 'Danger? I don't know what you're talking about, commissario. The only danger is that Padua is going to get the credit for this arrest and for her confession. She's killed three men, two of them men of great standing in this community, and credit for her capture is now going to be given to Padua.’
"Then she's there?' Brunetti asked, voice sharp with hope.
‘I have no idea where she is,' Patta began, 'and, quite frankly, I don't much care. As soon as she was taken out of our jurisdiction, she ceased to be of any interest to me. Well be able to halt our investigation of the murders - there is at least that - but all of the credit for her arrest is going to be given to Padua.’ Patta's anger was raw. He reached across his desk and pulled a file towards him. ‘I have nothing else to say to you, Commissario Brunetti. I'm sure you can find something with which to busy yourself? He opened the file, bent his head, and began to read.
Back in his office, Brunetti gave in to his impulse and dialled della Cortes number. No one answered. He sat He got up and walked to the window. Then he came back and sat at his desk again. Time passed. The phone rang and he picked it up.
'Guido, did you know anything about this?' della Corte asked, voice wary.
Brunetti's hand was sfippery with sweat. He switched the phone to his other hand and wiped his palm on the leg of his trousers "What happened?’
'She hanged herself in her cell. They brought her back here about an hour ago and put her in a holding cefl while they tried to locate a tape-recorder for her confession. They didn't bother to take her things from her, and when they got hack to the cell, they found she'd used her panty-hose to hang herself from the heating vent." DeOa Corte stopped speaking, but Bru-netti said nothing.
'Guido? Are you there?"
‘Yes, I’m here,' Bnmctfi finally said. 'Where are the men from Special Branch?’
They're filling out forms. She told them on the way out that she killed the three men.’
‘Why?"
‘Why did she tell them or why did she kill them?' della Corte asked.
‘Why did she tell them?’
‘She told them she'd had affairs with all of them in the past and had been blackmailing them for years. Then all three of them told her they wouldn't pay any more, so she decided to kill them.’
‘I see,' Bnmetti said. "All three?’
That's what they say"
'How many of them are there?" Brunetti asked.
The men from Special Branch?’
‘Yes.'
Three’
'And they all say the same thing? That she killed them because she couldn't blackmail them any more?' ‘Yes.'
'Did you talk to them?'
'No. I got all this from the guard who found her.'
‘When did they start to talk about her confession?' Brunetti asked. 'Before or after she was dead?'
‘I don't know,' della Corte said. 'Does it matter?'
No, Brunetti realized, it didn't matter, for all three of the men from Special Branch, he was sure, would tell the same story. Adultery, blackmail, greed, and revenge: these were vices that would adequately explain what she had done. In fact, they were probably more believable than rage and horror, and the icy lust for retribution. The word of three officers of the Special Branch was hardly to be questioned.
Brunetti said, "Thank you', and put the phone down softly. He sat and searched for scraps, for any thread of evidence that would pull another person to the truth. In the face of Ceroni's confession and suicide, the only tangible evidence was the phone records for the offices of the dead men. And what of that? Calls to various legitimate businesses in a number of countries, to a seedy bar in Mestre. It was little more than nothing and certainly not enough to merit investigation. Mara, he was sure, was back on the streets now, probably moved to some other city. And Silvestri would tell whatever story he was ordered to tell by the people who gave him drugs. Or he could just as easily be found dead of an overdose. Brunetti still had the videotape, but to trace it back to the Trevisans would mean asking Chiara to talk about it, to remember it, and he would not do that, no matter the consequences of his refusal.
She had warned him, but he had refused to listen. She had even named the man who would send her killers. Or perhaps there was someone even more powerful than him involved in this, another respectable man who, like the centurion in the Bible, had but to say, 'Go' and someone went. Or three such servants went to do his bidding.
From memory, he dialled a number of a friend who was a colonel at the Guardia di Finanza and briefly explained about Trevisan, Favero and Lotto and the money they must have been receiving, and hiding, for years. The colonel said they'd look into Signora Trevisan's finances as soon as they had time and personnel available. When Brunetti put the phone down, he felt no better. He put his elbows on his desk, lowered his head into his cupped hands, and sat that way for a long time. He had brought her in before dawn, but by eight o'clock the men from Special Branch had already come to get her.
He pushed himself up from his desk and went down to the officers’ room two floors below, seeking Preside, the man who had been on guard duty when he brought Signora Ceroni in. He had gone off duty at eight but in his logbook he had noted, '6:18 a.m. Lt Scarpa takes over day shift. Comm. Brunetti's report to Lt Scarpa.'
He left the room and stood for a moment in the hall, surprised that it took a few moments to feel entirely steady. He turned and walked towards the stairway that would take him from the Questura, forcing his mind away from the knowledge that remained behind him there. He started down
the stairs, thinking of Signora Ceroni and of their strange journey through the night He realized that he would never understand why she had done it Perhaps you had to be a woman. He'd ask Paola. She usually understood things. At that thought Brunetti's heart came back to him, and he left the Questura, going home.
Donna Leon, A Venetian Reckoning
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