A Noble Radiance (24 page)

1 can understand your
feelings’ Brunetti said, knowing this was a lie, ‘But I need to get more
information from your uncle, and from you.'

'What sort of
information?
⁷

'About Roberto's
friends. About a number of things. About the Lorenzoni businesses, for one.'

'What about the businesses?'
Maurizio asked, this time having to raise his voice over the background noise.
Whatever he said next was blotted out by a man's voice speaking over what
sounded like a public address system.

'Where are you?'
Brunetti asked.

'On the 82, just pulling
into Rialto,' Maurizio answered, then repeated his question, 'What about the
businesses?'

'The kidnapping could
be related to them.'

'That's absurd,'
Maurizio said heatedly, his next words drowned out by the repeated message that
Rialto was the next stop.

'What time may I come
and talk to you tonight?' Brunetti asked as if Lorenzoni had raised no
objections.

There was a pause.
Both of them listened to the voice on the public address system, this time in
English, and then Maurizio said, 'Seven,' and broke the connection.

The idea that the
Lorenzoni business interests might have been involved in the kidnapping was
anything but absurd. Quite the contrary, the businesses were the source of the
wealth that made the boy a target. From what he had heard about Roberto, it
seemed unlikely to Brunetti that anyone would kidnap him for the pleasure of
his company or the delights of his conversation. The thought had come unbidden,
but Brunetti was ashamed at having entertained it even for an instant. For
God's sake, he was only twenty-one years old, and he had been killed by a
bullet through his head.

Some odd linkage of
ideas in his mind had Brunetti remembering something Paola had once said, years
ago, when he told her about the way Alvise, the dullest policeman on the force,
had been suddenly transformed by love, raving on about the many charms of his
girlfriend or wife - Brunetti could now no longer remember which. He recalled
laughing at the very idea of Alvise in love, laughing until Paola had said,
voice icy, 'Just because we're smarter than people doesn't mean our emotions
are any finer, Guido.'

Embarrassed, he had
tried to argue the point, but she had been, as she always was when intellectual
truth was concerned, both rigorous and relentless. 'It's convenient for us to
think that the nasty emotions, hate and anger, can adhere to the lower orders as
if they owned them by right. So that leaves us, not surprisingly, to lay claim
to love and joy and all those high-souled things.' He'd tried to protest, but
she'd cut him short with a gesture. "They love, the stupid and the dull
and the crude, quite as strongly as we do. They just can't dress their emotions
up in pretty words the way we do.'

Part of him had known
she was right, but it had taken him days to admit it. He thought of that now:
no matter how arrogant the Count or how spoilt the Contessa might have been,
they were parents whose only child had been murdered. That their blood and
manners were noble did not exclude the fact that their grief was, too.

He arrived at seven,
and this time a maid let him into the Lorenzonis' home. She led him to the same
room as before, and he found himself in the company of the same people. Only
they were not the same. The Count's face was drawn more tightly over the bones
beneath it, the nose sharper and more aquiline than before. Maurizio had lost
whatever glow of health or, if nothing else, youth he had possessed the last
time and seemed to be wearing clothes a size too large for him.

But the worst was the
Contessa. She sat in the same chair, but now she gave the impression that the
chair was in the process of devouring her, so little of her body seemed to
remain within its enveloping wings. Brunetti glanced at her and was shocked by
the skull-like hollows in front of her ears, the tendons and bones visible in
the hands that clutched the beads of a rosary.

None of them acknowledged
his entrance, though the maid spoke his name when she led him in. Suddenly
uncertain how to proceed, Brunetti spoke to a point somewhere between the Count
and his nephew. ‘I know this is painful for you, all of you, but I need to know
more about why Roberto might have been taken and to discover who might have
done it.'

The Countess said
something so softly that Brunetti didn't hear her. He glanced down at her, but
her eyes remained on her hands and on the beads that slipped through her thin
fingers.

‘I don't see why any
of this is necessary,' the Count said, making no attempt to disguise his anger.

'Now that we know
what has happened’ Brunetti began, 'we'll continue our investigation’ 'To what
purpose?' the Count demanded. 'To find the people who are responsible for this’

'What difference will
that make?' ‘Perhaps to prevent its happening again.' 'They can't kidnap my son
again.
They
can't kill him again’

Brunetti glanced down
at the Countess to see if she was following what was being said, but she gave
no sign of hearing. 'But they could be stopped from doing it again, to someone
else, or to someone else's son’

'That hardly matters
to us,' the Count said, and Brunetti believed he meant it.

'Then to see that
they are punished?' Brunetti suggested. Vengeance was usually attractive to the
victims of crime.

The Count shrugged
this away then turned towards his nephew. Because Brunetti was blocked from
seeing the young man's face, he had no idea of what passed between them, but
when the Count turned around, he asked, 'What sort of things do you want to
know?'

If you have ever had
business dealings with
...'
and
here Brunetti paused, not certain which euphemism to use. 'Have you ever dealt
with companies or persons who later proved to be criminals?'

'Do you mean the
Mafia?' the Count asked. 'Yes.'

'Then why not just
say it, for God's sake?'

At his uncle's
explosion, Maurizio took a step towards him, one hand raised to the level of
his waist, but a glance from the Count stopped him. He lowered his hand and
stepped back.

The Mafia, then,'
Brunetti said. "Have you ever had dealings with it?'

'Not that I know of’
the Count answered.

'Have any companies
you've done business with been involved in criminal activity?'

'Where do you live,
on the moon?' the Count suddenly demanded, his face flushing red with anger.
'Of course I deal with companies involved in criminal activity. This is Italy.
There's no other way to do business.'

'Could you be more
specific, sir?' Brunetti asked.

The Count threw up
his hands in what seemed like disgust at Brunetti's ignorance. 'I buy raw
materials from a company that has been fined for dumping mercury into the Volga
River. The president of one of my suppliers is in jail in Singapore for
employing ten-year-olds and making them work fourteen-hour days. Another one,
the vice-president of a refinery in Poland, has been arrested on drug charges.'
As he spoke, the Count paced back and forth in front of the empty fireplace. He
stopped in front of Brunetti and demanded, 'Do you want more?'

'They all seem very
far away’ Brunetti said mildly.

'Far away?'

'Far away from here.
I had something in mind a little closer, perhaps in Italy.'

The Count appeared
utterly at a loss how to take what Brunetti said, whether to respond with anger
or information. Maurizio chose this moment to interrupt. 'We had some trouble,
about three years ago, with a supplier in Naples.' Brunetti gave him a
quizzical glance and the young man continued, lie was providing engine parts
for our trucks, but they turned out to have been stolen from shipments made
through the port of Naples’ 'What happened?
⁷

'We changed supplier’
Maurizio explained. 'Was it a large contract?'Brunetti asked. 'Large enough’
the Count interrupted. 'How large?' Brunetti asked. 'About fifty million lire a
month.' 'Were there bad feelings? Threats?' Brunetti asked.

The Count shrugged.
There were words, but no threats.' 'Why?'

The Count took so
long in answering this that Brunetti was finally prompted to repeat the
question. 'Why?'

‘I recommended him to
another trucking company.'

'A
competitor?'Brunetti asked.

'Everyone's a
competitor’ the Count said.

'Was there ever any
other trouble? Perhaps with an employee? Did one of them perhaps have connections
to the Mafia?'

'No’ Maurizio interrupted
before his uncle could answer.

Brunetti had been
watching the Count when he asked the question, and he saw his surprise at the
young man's response.

Calmly, he repeated
the question directly to the Count. 'Were you aware of an employee who had criminal
connections?'

He shook his head.
'No. No.'

Before Brunetti could
ask another question, the Countess spoke. 'He was my baby. I loved him so much’
By the time he glanced down at her, she had stopped talking and was again
pulling the smooth beads between her fingers.

The Count leaned down
and caressed her thin cheek, but she gave no indication that she was aware of
his touch, or of his presence. ‘I think this has gone on long enough’ he said,
straightening up.

There was still one
thing Brunetti wanted. ‘Do you have his passport?'

When the Count failed
to answer, Maurizio asked, 'Roberto's?' At Brunetti's nod, he said, 'Of
course.'

Is it here?'

'Yes, it's in his
room. I saw it there when we were
...
When we cleaned it’

'Would you get it for
me?'

Maurizio gave a
puzzled glance at the Count, who remained motionless and silent.

Maurizio excused
himself and for a full three minutes the two men listened to the whispered Ave
Marias of the Countess, words repeated and repeated as the beads clicked
together.

Maurizio returned and
handed the passport to Brunetti.

'Would you like me to
sign a receipt for this?' he asked.

The Count dismissed
the suggestion with a wave, and Brunetti slipped the passport into the pocket
of his jacket without bothering to examine it.

Suddenly the
whispered voice of the Countess grew in volume. 'We gave him everything. He was
everything to me’ she said, but this again was followed by a return to the
words of the Ave Maria.

‘I think this is more
than enough for my wife’ the Count said, glancing towards her with eyes that
tightened with grief, the first emotion Brunetti had seen the man display.

'Yes’ Brunetti agreed
and turned to leave.

‘I’ll see you out’
the Count volunteered. Out of the corner of his eye, Brunetti saw Maurizio
glance across at him sharply, but the Count seemed not to notice and turned
towards the door, which he held open for Brunetti.

'Thank you’ Brunetti
said, intending the remark for all of the people in the room, though he doubted
that one of them had even known he was there.

The Count led him
down the hall and opened the front door of the apartment.

'Is there anything
else you can think of, Signor Conte? Anything that might help us?' Brunetti
asked.

'No, nothing can help
any more’ he answered, almost as if he were talking to himself.

'Should you think of
anything or remember anything, I'd like you to call me.'

'There's nothing to
remember’ he answered, pushing the door closed before Brunetti could say
anything further.

Brunetti waited until
after dinner to examine Roberto's passport The first thing he noted was its
thickness: an expandable accordion page was glued to the back and folded inside
the cover. Brunetti pulled it open, pulled it out to his arm's length, and
looked at the various visas, their many languages and designs. He turned it
over and found more stamps on the back. He folded the paper back in place, then
opened the passport to the front page.