Fatal Remedies

  ‘And Lily?’

  Signorina Elettra shrugged. ‘She doesn’t go out alone any more, so she gets around less.’

  The young man was currently in jail for having stabbed his girlfriend, but Brunetti didn’t think that would matter to Lily, nor would it change anything.

  ‘How did he react to losing the case?’

  ‘I don’t know. Lily never said.’ She didn’t offer anything after this and got to her feet. ‘I’ll go and have a look,’ she said, reminding him that they were here about Mitri and not about a woman whose courage had been broken.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I think I’ll have a word with Awocato Zambino.’

  ‘As you will, Commissario.’ She turned to the door. ‘But, believe me, if anyone is clean, he is.’ As the person named was a lawyer, Brunetti gave this the attention he devoted to the mutterings of the lunatics in front of Palazzo Boldù.

  * * * *

  17

  He decided not to take Vianello with him, hoping that his visit to the lawyer would thus appear a more casual thing, though he hardly believed a man as exposed to the law in all its workings as Zambino would be much affected by the sight of a uniform. A quotation Paola often used slipped into his mind, the description of one of Chaucer’s pilgrims, the Man of Law: ‘He seemed busier than he was.’ Brunetti thus thought it might be wise to call ahead and let the avvocato know that he was coming and thus avoid being kept waiting while he did lawyerly things. His secretary, or whoever it was that answered the phone, said that he would be free in about half an hour and would be able then to speak to the commissario.

  The office was in Campo San Polo, so Brunetti could end his morning close to home and would have plenty of time for lunch. He called Paola to tell her this. Neither of them discussed anything but time and menu.

  As soon as he’d finished talking to her, Brunetti went downstairs into the officers’ room, where he found Vianello at his desk, reading the morning paper. When he heard Brunetti approach, the sergeant looked up and closed the paper.

  ‘Anything today?’ Brunetti asked. ‘I haven’t had time to read them.’

  ‘No, it’s tapering off, probably because there’s not much to say. Not until we arrest someone.’

  Vianello started to get to his feet, but Brunetti said, ‘No, don’t bother, Sergeant. I’m going to go and see Zambino. Alone.’ Before the other could say anything to this, Brunetti added, ‘Signorina Elettra said she’s going to take a closer look at Mitri’s finances and I thought you might like to see how she does it.’

  Recently, Vianello had become absorbed in the manner in which Signorina Elettra discovered things with the help of her computer and the scores of friends, some of whom she’d never met, it linked her to. No barriers of nation or language seemed any longer to impede the free exchange of information, much of it very interesting to the police. Brunetti’s attempt to follow along had met with failure, so he was pleased at Vianello’s enthusiasm. He wanted someone else to be able to do what Signorina Elettra did, or at least understand how she did it, in case they ever had to work without her. Even as the thought came, he breathed a silent incantation against its possibility.

  Vianello finished folding up the paper and let it drop on his desk. ‘Gladly. She’s shown me a lot, but there’s always something she thinks of when the regular paths don’t work. The kids are amazed,’ he went on. ‘They used to kid me about how little I understood of what they brought home from school or what they talked about, but now they come and ask me if they have trouble or can’t access someone.’ Unconsciously, he used the English verb, the language in which he and Signorina Elettra pursued most of their information.

  Strangely unsettled by this brief conversation, Brunetti took his leave of the sergeant and left the Questura. A single cameraman stood outside, but his back was to the entrance as he faced away from the wind and lit a cigarette, so Brunetti walked away unnoticed. When he arrived at the Grand Canal, the wind made him decide not to take the traghetto and, instead, he crossed the Rialto. As he walked, he ignored the glory that surrounded him on all sides and, instead, thought about what he wanted to ask Avvocato Zambino. He was distracted from this only once when he saw what he was sure were porcini mushrooms on one of the vegetable stalls and was filled with a momentary hope that Paola would see them too and serve them with polenta for lunch.

  He walked quickly along Rughetta, past his own calle, through the underpass, and out into the campo. The leaves had long since fallen from the trees, so the broad expanse seemed curiously naked and exposed.

  * * * *

  The lawyer’s office was on the first floor of Palazzo Soranzo, and when he arrived Brunetti was surprised to have the door opened by Zambino himself.

  ‘Ah, Commissario Brunetti, this is a pleasure,’ the lawyer said, extending his hand and shaking Brunetti’s firmly. ‘I can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you, since we’ve already met, but it’s a pleasure to have you come here to speak to me.’ At their first meeting Brunetti had paid most attention to Mitri, so the lawyer had passed all but unobserved. He was short, stocky, with a body that showed signs of a lot of good living and not much exercise. Brunetti thought he was wearing the same suit he’d had on in Patta’s office, though he wasn’t sure. Thinning hair covered a head that was disconcertingly round; the face was the same and the cheeks as well. His eyes were those of a woman: thick-lashed, almond-shaped, cobalt-blue and strikingly beautiful.

  ‘Thank you,’ Brunetti said, looking away from the lawyer and around the office. It was, he saw to his considerable surprise, humble, the sort of room he’d expect to find in the ambulatorio of a doctor just graduated from medical school who had recently set up his first practice. The chairs were metal, with seats and backs made from formica that was disguised, badly, to look like wood. A single low table stood in the centre of the room and on it lay a few copies of outdated magazines.

  The lawyer led him to an open door and into what must be his office. The walls were covered with books Brunetti recognized instantly as law texts, case studies, and the codes of law, both civil and criminal, of the State of Italy. They filled each wall from floor to ceiling. Four or five of them lay open on Zambino’s desk.

  As Brunetti took his place in one of the three chairs that faced the lawyer’s, Zambino went around to his own chair and closed the books, carefully slipping small pieces of paper into the open pages of all of them, before setting them aside in a little pile.

  ‘I’ll waste no time and say that I assume you’re here to talk about Dottor Mitri,’ Zambino began. Brunetti nodded. ‘Good, then if you’ll tell me what you’d like to know, I’ll try to give you what help I can.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Avvocato,’ Brunetti began with formulaic politeness.

  ‘There’s no kindness in it, Commissario. It’s my duty as a citizen and my desire as a lawyer to assist you in any way that might in turn help you to find Dottor Mitri’s murderer.’

  ‘You don’t call him Paolo, Avvocato?’

  ‘Who, Mitri?’ the lawyer asked. When Brunetti nodded, he said, ‘No. Dottor Mitri was a client, not a friend.’

  ‘Is there any reason why he wasn’t a friend?’

  Zambino had been a lawyer far too long to show surprise at anything he was asked, so he answered calmly, ‘No, no reason at all, except that we never came in contact before he called me for advice about the incident at the travel agency.’

  ‘Do you think he would have become a friend?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘I can’t speculate about that, Commissario. I spoke to him on the phone, met him here in the office once, then went to the Vice-Questore’s office with him. That is the only contact I had with him, so I have no idea if I would have become a friend of his or not.’

  ‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘Could you tell me what he had decided to do about what you call the incident at the travel agency?’

  ‘About pressing charges?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After speaking to you and
then to the Vice-Questore, I suggested he submit a claim for damages for the window and the lost business he thought it would cost the agency - he was entitled to his percentage of that, though the window was entirely his responsibility, as he was the owner of the physical space occupied by the agency.’

  ‘Was it difficult for you to persuade him, Avvocato?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he answered, almost as if he’d been expecting this question. ‘In fact, I’d say that he had already made up his mind to this course even before he spoke to me and wanted only to confirm his opinion with a lawyer.’

  ‘Have you any idea why he selected you?’ Brunetti asked.

  A man less certain of his position would surely have paused here and feigned surprise at anyone’s daring to question why he would have been chosen to work as someone’s lawyer. Instead, Zambino said, ‘No, none at all. There was certainly no need for him to come to someone like me.’

  ‘By that do you mean someone who works primarily in business law or someone who has a reputation as high as your own?’

  Zambino smiled here, and Brunetti warmed to it and to the man.

  ‘That’s very gracefully put, Commissario. You give me little chance but to sing my own praises.’ When he saw Brunetti’s answering smile, he continued, ‘I’ve no idea, as I said. I might have been recommended to him by someone he knew. For all I know, he might have picked my name at random out of the phone book.’ Before Brunetti could say it, Zambino added, ‘Though I hardly think Dottor Mitri was the sort of man to make a decision that way.’

  ‘Did you spend enough time with him to form an opinion about what sort of man he was, Awocato?’

  Zambino considered this for a long time. Finally he answered, ‘I got the impression that he was a very sharp businessman and that he was very interested in success.’

  ‘Did you find it surprising that he would so easily abandon the case against my wife?’ When Zambino did not answer this immediately, Brunetti continued, ‘That is, there’s no chance a decision would have gone against him. She admitted her responsibility,’ - both men noticed that Brunetti did not use the word ‘guilt’ - ‘she said as much to the arresting officer, so he could have claimed virtually any sum he wanted against her - for slander, or suffering, for whatever he chose to claim - and he would probably have won the case.’

  ‘And yet he chose not to,’ Zambino said.

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘It could have been that he had no desire for revenge.’

  ‘Is that what you thought?’

  Zambino considered this question. ‘No, in fact, I think he would have enjoyed revenge a great deal. He was very, very angry at what happened.’ Before Brunetti could say anything, he went on, ‘And he was angry not only at your wife but at the manager of the travel agency because he had given him quite specific instructions that he was to avoid that sort of tourism at all costs.’

  ‘Sex-tourism?’

  ‘Yes. He showed me a copy of a letter and contract he’d sent to Signor Dorandi three years ago, telling him quite plainly that he was not to engage in anything of that kind, or he’d cancel his lease and take back the licence. I’m not sure how legally binding the contract would have been had Dorandi contested it - I didn’t draw it up - but I think it shows that Mitri was serious.’

  ‘Did he do this for moral reasons, do you think?’

  Zambino’s answer was long in coming, as if he had to consider his legal obligations to a client who was now dead. ‘No. I think he did it because he realized it would be a bad business move. In a city like Venice, publicity like that could be devastating for a travel agency. No, I don’t think he considered morality an issue; it was entirely a business decision.’

  ‘Do you, Avvocato, consider it a moral issue?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the lawyer shortly and with no need to think before he gave his answer.

  Leaving that subject, Brunetti asked, ‘Have you any idea what his intentions were regarding Dorandi?’

  ‘I know he wrote a letter, reminding him about the contract and asking him to explain the sort of tours your wife protested against.’

  ‘Did he send this letter?’

  ‘He faxed Signor Dorandi a copy and sent another by registered mail.’

  Brunetti thought about this. If Paola’s ideals were going to be considered a valid reason for murder, then the loss of the lease on a very lucrative business was just as good. ‘I’m still puzzled by the fact that he hired you, Avvocato.’

  ‘People do strange things, Commissario.’ The lawyer smiled. ‘Especially when they are forced to deal with the law.’

  ‘Businessmen seldom do expensive things, if you will excuse my vulgarity, unnecessarily.’ And before Zambino could take exception to that, Brunetti added, ‘Because it hardly seems a case where a lawyer would be necessary at all. He merely had to make his conditions known to the Vice-Questore, either with a phone call or a letter. No one opposed those conditions. Yet he hired a lawyer.’

  ‘At considerable expense, I will add,’ Zambino offered.

  ‘Exactly. Do you understand it?’

  Zambino leaned back in his chair and latched his hands behind his head. In so doing he exposed a considerable breadth of stomach. ‘I think it was what the Americans call “overkill”.’ Still looking at the ceiling, he continued, ‘I think he wanted there to be no question that his demands be met, that your wife accept his conditions and the thing be ended there.’

  ‘Ended?’

  ‘Yes.’ The lawyer brought his body forward, rested his arms on the desk and said, ‘I had a very strong sense that he wanted this episode to cause him absolutely no trouble and no publicity whatsoever. Perhaps the second was even more important than the first. At one point I asked him what he was prepared to do if your wife, who seemed to be acting out of principle, refused to pay the damages; whether he would then consider initiating a civil case. He said no. He was quite insistent on this. I told him there would be no chance of his losing this case, but he still said he wouldn’t do it, or even consider it.’

  ‘So if my wife had refused to pay, he would not have taken any legal steps against her?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You tell me this, knowing that she could still change her mind and refuse to pay?’

  Zambino, for the first time, looked surprised. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Even knowing that I could tell her what Mitri had decided and thus influence her decision?’

  Zambino smiled again. ‘Commissario, I imagine you spent a good deal of time before you came here in finding out all you could about me and about my reputation in the city.’ Before Brunetti could admit or deny this, the lawyer went on, ‘I did the same thing, as any of us would. And what I learned suggests to me that I am entirely safe in telling you this and that there is no danger of any kind that you would tell your wife or, because of this information, attempt to influence her decision in any way.’

  Embarrassment prevented Brunetti from acknowledging the truth of this. He merely nodded and went on to inquire, ‘Did you ever ask him why it was so important to avoid bad publicity?’

  Zambino shook his head. ‘It interested me, I’ll admit, but it wasn’t part of my responsibility to discover that. There was no way it could be of use to me as his lawyer and that’s what he hired me to be.’

  ‘But did you speculate on it?’ Brunetti wondered.

  Again that smile. ‘Of course I speculated, Commissario. It seemed so out of keeping with the man as I understood him to be: wealthy, well-connected, if you will, powerful. Such men can usually get anything at all hushed up, no matter how bad. And this was hardly his responsibility, was it?’

  Brunetti shook his head in negative agreement and waited for the lawyer to continue.

  ‘So that meant either that he had a sensibility or sense of ethics which viewed the agency’s involvement as wrong - and I’d already excluded that possibility - or there was some reason, personal or business, why he wanted or needed to avo
id any sort of bad publicity or the scrutiny it would cause.’

  This had been Brunetti’s conclusion, and he was glad to have it confirmed by someone who had known Mitri. ‘And did you speculate on what that might be?’ he asked.

  This time Zambino laughed outright, now caught up in the game and enjoying it. ‘If we lived in a different century, I’d say he was afraid for his good name. But since that is now a commodity anyone at all can buy on the open market, I’d say it was because that scrutiny might bring to light something he didn’t want examined.’

  Again his thoughts had mirrored Brunetti’s. ‘Any ideas?’

  Zambino hesitated a long time before he answered. ‘I’m afraid this is a complicated point for me, Commissario. Even though the man is dead, I still have a professional responsibility to him, so I cannot allow myself to alert the police to anything I might know or indeed might only suspect about him.’