Death and Judgement (14 page)

'Is that your friend at the bar?' Brunetti asked, nodding his chin towards the place where the man still stood, though the other woman was gone now.

'Yes,' Mara answered.

'You live near here?' Brunetti asked, a man no long
er interested in wasting time. ‘
Yes.'

'Can we go there?'

'Yes.' She smiled again, and he watched her force warmth and interest into her eyes.

He allowed all the good humour to flow out of him. 'How much?'

'A hundred thousand,' she answered with the alacrity of a woman who had heard this question too many times.

Brunetti laughed, took another sip of his drink, and got to his feet, careful to push his chair back so quickly that it fell over behind him. 'You're crazy,
little
Mara. I've got a wife at home. She'll give it to me for nothing.
’

She shrugged and glanced at her watch. It was eleven, and no one had come into the bar in the last twenty minutes. He could see her calculating time and opportunity.

'Fifty
’
she said, apparently willing to save time and energy.

Brunetti put his drink, still unfinished, down on the table and reached for her arm. 'All right, little Mara, let me show you what a real man can do for you.'

She offered no resistance and got to her feet. Brunetti, pulling at her arm, went over to
the
bar. 'How much do I owe you?
’
he asked
the
bartender.

With no hesitation,
the
bartender answered, 'Sixty-three thousand lire.
’

'Are you crazy?' Brunetti asked angrily. 'For three drinks, and lousy whisky, too?
’

'And two for your friend, and champagne for the ladies,' the bartender said.

'Ladies,
’
Brunetti repeated sarcastically, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took a fifty, a ten, and three 1000-lire notes and tossed them on to the counter. Before he could put his wallet back, Mara reached up and grabbed at his arm.

'You can give the money to my friend,
’
she said, gesturing with her chin to the dun man at the bar, who looked at Brunetti without smiling. Brunetti looked around him, face flushed with confusion, a man seeking someone to help him understand this. No one did. He took a 50,000-lire note from his wallet and tossed it on to the counter, not looking at
the
man, who didn't bother to glance at the money. Then, in an attempt to restore his damaged pride, Brunetti grabbed the woman's arm and pulled her towards the door. She paused only long enough to take a fake leopard-skin jacket from a hook by the door, and then she went out into the street with Brunetti, who slammed the door violently behind them.

Outside, Mara turned to the left and started to walk away from Brunetti. She took quick steps, but they were shortened by the tightness of her skirt and the height of her heels, so Brunetti had no trouble in keeping up with her. At the first corner, she turned to the left and then, three doors down, stopped in front of a doorway. Her key was ready in her hand. She opened the door and stepped inside, not bothering to look back for Brunetti, who paused for a moment at the door, just long enough to see a car turn into the narrow street. It blinked its lights twice, and he followed the woman inside the building.

At the top of a single flight of stain, she opened the door on the right, again leaving it open behind her for Brunetti. When he walked in, he saw that the room contained a low divan, covered with a brightly striped bedspread, a desk and two chairs, and one window, closed and shuttered. She switched on a light, a naked, low-watt bulb that hung from the ceiling at the end of a short piece of wire.

Without turning to him, Mara took off her jacket and hung it carefully over the back of one of the chairs. She sat on the edge of the bed, bent down and unstrapped her shoes. Brunetti heard her sigh with relief as she kicked them off. Still not looking at him, she stood, unbuttoned her skirt, removed it, and folded it carefully over the jacket. Beneath it, she wore nothing. She sat, then lay, on the divan, still not bothering to look at him.

'It's extra if you want to touch my breasts,' she said, then turned to one side to straighten out the cover, which was bunched up under her shoulder.

Brunetti walked across the room and sat on the other chair, not the one holding her clothing. 'Where are you from, Mara?' he asked in his normal voice, speaking Italian, not dialect.

She looked up at him, surprised either by the question or by the completely normal conversational tone in which it was asked. 'Look, Mr Plumber,' she said, voice tired rather than sharp, 'you didn't come here to talk, and neither did I, so let's do this and I can get back to work, all right?' She turned fully on to her back and opened her legs wide.

Brunetti looked away. 'Where do you come from, Mara?' he asked again.

She pulled her legs together and put them over the side of the bed, sitting up to face him. 'Look, you, if you want to fuck, then let's do it, all right? I haven't got all night to sit here and talk. And it's none of your god-damned business where I come from.'

'Brazil?' he asked, taking a stab at the accent.

She made an angry, disgusted noise, pushed herself to her feet, and reached for her skirt. She held it low and stepped into it, pulled it up, and yanked angrily at the zip. With one foot, she began to feel under the bed for her shoes, which she had shoved under there after she took them off. She sat back down on the edge of the bed and began to strap her shoes back on.

'He can be arrested, you know
’
Brunetti said in
the
same calm tone. 'He let me give him the money. That's good for at least a couple of months inside.'

The bands that held her shoes to her ankles were both securely buckled, but she didn't look up at Brunetti, nor did she make any move to get up from the bed. She sat with her head lowered, listening.

'I don't think you'd want that to happen to him, would you?' Brunetti asked.

She gave a disgusted, unbelieving snort

'Then think about what he'd be likely to do when he got out, Mara. You didn't spot me. He's bound to blame you for that'

She looked up at him and put out her hand. 'Let me see some identification.'

Brunetti gave it to her.

‘
What do you want?' she said when she handed
the
warrant card back to him.

'I'd like you to tell me where you come from.'

'Why, so you can send me back?' she asked, meeting his eyes.

'I'm not from
the
immigration police, Mara; I don't care whether you're here legally or illegally.'

Then what do you want?' she asked, voice sparked with anger.

‘I
told you. I want to know where you're from.'

She hesitated only a moment, examining
the
question for peril and
, seeing none, answered him. 'Sa
o Paula' He was right; the faint accent was Brazilian.

'How long have you been here?'

Two years,'she said.

'Working as a prostitute?' he asked, trying to pronounce the word as definition, not condemnation.
‘
Yes.'

'Have you always worked for that man?' She looked up at him.
‘I
won't tell you his name,' she said.

'I don't want to know his name, Mara. I want to know if you've always worked for him.'

She said something, but her voice was so low he couldn't hear her.

'Excuse me?' he said.

'No.'

'Always in that bar?' 'No.'

'Where did you work before?' 'Somewhere else,' she said evasively. 'How long have you worked in the bar?' 'Since September.' 'Why?' 'Why what?'

'Why did you move to
the
bar?'

'The cold weather. I'm not used to it, and I got sick last winter, working outside. So he told me I could work in the bar this winter.'

'I see,' Brunetti said. 'How many other girls are there?'

‘I
n the bar?'

'Yes.'

'Three.'

'And on the street?'

'I don't know how many there are. Four? Six? I don't know.'

'Are any of the others Brazilian?'

'Two of them are.' - 'And the rest, where are they from?'

'I don't know.'

'What about the telephone?'

'What?' she asked, looking up at him, eyes narrowed in what might be honest confusion.

'The telephone. In the bar. Who gets calls there? Does he?'

The question clearly puzzled her.
‘I
don't know,' she said. 'Everybody uses the phone.'

'But who gets calls on it?'

She thought for a moment. 'I don't know'

'Does he?' Brunetti insisted.

She shrugged, tried to glance away, but Brune
tti snapped his fingers in her f
ace, and she looked back at him.

'Does he get calls?'

'Sometimes,' she said, then glanced down at her watch and up at him. 'You should be finished by now.'

He glanced at his own watch; fifteen minutes had passed.

'How much time does he let you take?'

'Usually a quarter of an hour. He lets the old ones take longer if they're regulars. But if I'm not back soon, he
’
ll ask questions, make me tell him why it took so long.'

From the way she spoke, it was evident to Brunetti that any question the man asked, the woman would answer. For a moment, he debated whether it would be better to let
the
man realize the police were asking questions about him. He studied the woman's lowered face, trying to determine how old she was. Twenty-five? Twenty?

'All right,
^’
he said, getting to his feet.

At his sudden motion, she flinched away and looked up at him. 'That's all?' she asked.

'Yes, that's all.
’

'No quickie?'

'What?' he asked, lost.

'A quickie. Usually, when the cops pull us in for questioning, that's what we have to do.' Her voice was neutral, non
-
judgemental, tired.

'No, nothing like that,' he said, moving towards the door.

Behind him, she got to her feet and stuffed one arm, then the other, into the sleeves of her jacket. He held the door open while she left the room and then followed her out into the hall. She turned and locked the door, started down the single flight of steps. She shoved open the front door of the building, turned to the right, and was gone, back in the direction of the bar. Brunetti turned the opposite way and walked to the end of
the
street, crossed it, and stood under a street tight unt
il, a moment later, della Corte’
s black car pulled up beside him.

17

'Well?' della Corte asked as Brunetti slid into the front seat of the car. Brunetti liked the fact that there was no suggestion of a leer in the question.

'She's Brazilian, works for the man who was with her in the bar. She says he's received calls on
the
phone.'

'And?' della Corte asked, slipping the car into gear and heading slowly back towards
the
railway station.

'And that's all,' Brunetti answered. '
That's all she told me, but I thi
nk we can infer a lot more from that,'

'Such as?'

'Such as she's illegal, has no residence permit, and so doesn't have much of
a say in what she does for a li
ving.'

'She might do it because she likes it,' della Corte suggested.

'You ever know a whore who did?' Brunetti asked.

Ignoring the question, della Corte turned a corner and slowed to a stop in front of the train station. He set the brake but left
the
motor nmning. 'Now what?'

'I think we've got to get the man with her arrested. At least that way we can find out who he is. And maybe talk to the woman again while we've got him.'

'You
think
shell talk?'

Brunetti shrugged. 'Maybe, if she's not afraid that she'll be sent back to Brazil if she does.' 'How likely is that?
’
'Depends on who talks to her.' 'A woman?
’
della Corte asked. 'Probably be better.' 'You got one?
’

'We've got a psychiatrist who does consulting for us every once in a while. I could try to get Mara to talk to her.'

'Mara?' della Corte asked.

'That's what she told me. I'd like to think she was allowed to keep at least that much, her own name.'

'When will you move on the man?'

'As soon as possible.'

'Any idea of how you'll do it?
’

'Easiest way is to pick him up the next time he has one of Mara's clients put the money on the bar for him.
’

'How long can you keep him on that?'

'Depends on what we f
ind out about him, if he has a record or if there are any warrants out against him.
’
Brunetti thought for a moment. 'If you're right about the heroin, a couple of hours ought to be enough.'

Della Corte's smile was not pretty.
‘I
’
m right about the heroin.' When Brunetti said nothing, della Corte asked, 'Until then?'

'I'm working on a few things. I want to learn more about Trevisan's family and whatever I can about his practice.'

'Anything in particular?'

'No, not really. Just a couple of things that make me uncomfortable, little things that don't add up.' That was all Brunetti was prepared to say, and so he asked, 'And you?
’

'We'll do the same with Favero, but there's an awful lot to check, at least as far as his business is concerned.' Delia Corte paused a moment and men added,
‘
I had no idea these guys earned so much.'

'Accountants?'

'Yes. Hundreds of millions a year, it seems. And that's just his declared income, so you can imagine how much more he's making under the table.' Brunetti had but to recall some of the names on the list of Favero's clients, and he too could imagine the extent of his earnings, both declared and undeclared.

He opened
the
door and got out of the car, then came around to della Corte's side. 'I'll send some of our men out here tomorrow night. If he and Mara are working the bar, it ought to be easy to bring them in.
’

'Both?' della Corte asked.

'Yes. She might be more willing to talk after she spends a night in a cell
’

'I thought you wanted her to talk to a psychiatrist,' della Corte said.

'I do. But I want her to have had a taste of gaol before she does. Fear tends to make people more talkative, particularly women.'

'Cold-hearted bastard, aren't you?' della Corte asked, not without respect.

Brunetti shrugged. 'She might have information about a murder. The more scared and confused she is, the more likely she is to tell us what she knows.'

Della Corte smiled and released the brake. 'For a minute, I thought you were going to start telling me about the whore with the heart of gold.'

Brunetti pushed himself back from the car and started towards the station. He took a few steps and then turned back towards della Corte, who was rolling up the window as the car pulled slowly away. 'No one has a heart of gold,' he said, but della Corte drove away without giving any sign that he had heard.

Next morning, Signorina Elettra greeted Brunetti by telling him that she'd managed to find the story about Trevisan in the
Gazzetti
no
but that it was an entirely innocuous account of a joint venture in tourism which he had organized between the chambers of commerce of Venice and Prague. Signora Trevisan s life, at least according to the society columnist of that newspaper, was equally bland.

Though Brunetti had expected something like this, the news disappointed him. He asked Signorina Elettra to see if Giorgio - Brunetti surprised himself by speaking of Giorgio as though he were an old friend - could get a list of the calls made from and to the phone in Pinetta's bar. When he had done that, he contented himself with reading through his mail and then made a few phone calls in response to one of the letters.

He called Vianello and arranged to have three men go to Pinetta's that night and arrest Mara and her pimp.

Then he had no choice but to address himself to the papers on his desk, though he found it difficult to pay attention to what he read: statistics from the Ministry of
the
Interior gave staffing projections for the next five yean, discussed the cost of a computer link with Interpol, and gave the
specifications and performance records on a new type of pistol. Brunetti tossed
the
papers down on his desk in disgust. The Questore had recently received a memorandum from the Minister of
the
Interior, informing him that the national police budget for the next year was going to be cut by at least 15 per cent, perhaps 20, and that no increase in funding was foreseeable in the near future. Yet these fools in Rome kept sending him projects and plans, as if there were money to spend, just as if it hadn't all been stolen or sent to secret accounts in Switzerland.

He pulled out the paper on which were written
the
specifications for
the
pistols that would never be bought, flipped it over, and began to list the people he wanted to speak to: Trevisan's widow and her brother, her daughter Francesca, and someone who could give him accurate information about both Trevisan's legal practice and his personal life.

In a second column, he listed those things that grated at his mind: Francesca's story — or was it boast? - that someone might try to kidnap her; Lotto's reluctance to provide a list of Trevisan's clients; Lotto's surprise at
the
mention of Favero's name.

And overriding all of this, he realized, were the phone numbers and the phone calls to so many places, still without pattern, still without explainable cause.

As he reached into his bottom drawer for the phone book, he thought how helpful it would be to emulate' Favero a
nd keep a notebook with frequentl
y called numbers. But this was a number he had never called, never before wanting to call in the favour he was owed.

Three years ago, his friend Danilo,
the
pharmacist, had called him early in the evening and asked him to come to his apartment, where he found the young man with one eye swollen almost shut, looking as though he'd been in a brawl. There had, indeed, been violence, but it had been entirely one-sided, for Danilo had made no attempt to resist the young man who pushed his way into the pharmacy just as he was closing up for the night. Nor had he offered any opposition when the young man pried open the cabinet where the narcotic drugs were kept and pulled out seven ampoules of morphine. But Danilo did recognize him and, as the young man was leaving, said only, 'Roberto, you shouldn't be doing this,' which was enough to provoke the man into giving Danilo an angry shove, sending the pharmacist crashing sideways against the angle of a display cabinet.

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 off
ered 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 b
e in the bottom of a closet and be forgotten about until they are kicked aside or stepped on accidentally, only then to be
r
e
m
embered 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.'

'I 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 handcuff
s and shackles being led into and out of the various entrances
to the court, and not infrequently machin
e-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.'