‘It seems the Dottoressa,’ he began, pronouncing the word in a tone that called into question the quality of instruction of both Harvard and Yale, the schools from which Dottoressa Lynch had taken her degrees, ‘is a friend of his, and,’ he added, after a pregnant pause, ‘a benefactor of the city. So the mayor wants this looked into and settled as quickly as possible.’
Brunetti remained silent, knowing how dangerous it would be for him to make any sort of suggestion at this point. He glanced down at the paper on Patta’s desk then up at his superior’s face.
‘What are you working on now?’ Patta asked, which, Brunetti realized, meant that he was to be given the investigation.
‘Nothing that can’t wait.’
‘Then I want you to look into this.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, hoping that Patta wouldn’t suggest any specific steps.
Too late. ‘Go over to her apartment. See what you can find out. Talk to her neighbours.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brunetti said and stood, hoping to cut him off.
‘Keep me up to date on this, Brunetti.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want this settled quickly, Brunetti. She’s a friend of the mayor’s.’ And, Brunetti knew, any friend of the mayor’s was a friend of Patta’s.
* * * *
Chapter Five
Back in his office, he called down and asked Vianello to come up. After a few minutes, the sergeant came in and lowered himself heavily into the chair in front of Brunetti’s desk. He took a small notebook from his uniform pocket and gave Brunetti an inquisitive glance.
‘What do you know about gorillas, Vianello?’
Vianello considered the question for a moment and then asked, unnecessarily, ‘The kind in the zoo or the kind that get paid to hurt people?’
‘The kind that get paid.’
Vianello paused for a moment, running through lists he appeared to keep filed in his mind. ‘I don’t think there are any here in the city, sir. But in Mestre there are four or five of them, mostly Southerners.’ He paused for a moment, nipping through more lists. ‘I’ve heard that there are a few in Padua and some who work in Treviso and Pordenone, but they’re provincials. The real ones are the boys in Mestre. Trouble with them here?’
Because the uniformed branch had done the initial investigation and conducted the interviews with Flavia, Brunetti knew Vianello had to be aware of the attack. ‘I spoke to Dottoressa Lynch this morning. The men who attacked her told her not to attend a meeting with Dottor Semenzato.’
‘At the museum?’ Vianello asked.
‘Yes.’
Vianello considered this for a moment. ‘Then it wasn’t a robbery?’
‘No, it would seem not. Someone stopped them.’
‘Signora Petrelli?’ Vianello asked.
The Swiss bank secret wouldn’t last a day in Venice. ‘Yes. She drove them off. But it didn’t seem they were interested in taking anything.’
‘Short-sighted on their part. It would be a good place to rob.’
At this, Brunetti broke down. ‘How do you know that, Vianello?’
‘My sister-in-law’s next-door neighbour is her maid. Goes in three times a week to clean, keeps an eye on the place for her when she’s in China. She’s talked about what’s in there, says it must be worth a fortune.’
‘Not the best thing to be saying about a place that’s left empty so much, is it?’ Brunetti asked, voice stern.
‘That’s just what I told her, sir.’
‘I hope she listened.’
‘I do, too.’
His indirect reprimand having failed to work, Brunetti returned to the gorillas. ‘Check the hospitals again to see if the one she wounded has been in. It sounds like she cut him badly. What about the prints on that envelope?’
Vianello looked up from his notebook. ‘I’ve sent copies to Rome and asked them to let us know what they have.’ Both of them knew how long that could take.
‘Try Interpol, as well.’
Vianello nodded and added the suggestion to his notes. ‘What about Semenzato?’ Vianello asked. ‘What was the meeting about?’
‘I don’t know. Ceramics, I think, but she was too drugged to explain anything clearly. Do you know anything about him?’
‘No more than anyone in the city does, sir. He’s been at the museum for about seven years. Married, wife from Messina, I think. Somewhere in Sicily. No children. Good family, and his reputation at the museum is good.’
Brunetti didn’t bother to ask Vianello how he came by this information, no longer surprised by the archive of personal information the sergeant had accumulated during his years with the police. Instead, he said, ‘See what you can find out about him. Where he worked before he came here and why he left, where he studied.’
‘You going to talk to him, sir?’
Brunetti considered this for a moment. ‘No. If whoever sent them wanted to scare her away from him, then I want them to believe they succeeded. But I want to see what there is to find out about him. And see what you can learn about those men in Mestre.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello answered, making note of this. ‘You ask her about their accent?’
Brunetti had already thought of this, but there had been too little time with Brett. Her Italian was perfect, so their accents would have given her an idea of what part of the country they came from. ‘I’ll ask her tomorrow.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll look into gorillas in Mestre,’ Vianello said. With a grunt, he got out of the chair and left the office.
Brunetti pushed back his chair, pulled the bottom drawer of his desk open with his toe, and rested his crossed feet on it. He slouched down in his chair and latched his fingers behind his head, then turned and looked out of the window. From this angle, the fa ç ade of San Lorenzo wasn’t visible, but he could see a patch of cloudy, late-winter sky, a monotony that might induce thought.
She had said something about the ceramics in the show, and that could only mean the show she had helped arrange four or five years ago, the first time in recent years that museum-goers in the West had been allowed to see the marvels currently being excavated in China. And he had thought her to be in China still.
He had been surprised to see her name on the crime report that morning, shocked to see her bruised face in the hospital. How long had she been back? How long was she intending to stay? And what had brought her back to Venice? Flavia Petrelli would be able to answer some of those questions; Flavia Petrelli might herself be the answer to one of them. But those questions could wait; for the moment, he was more interested in Dottor Semenzato.
He let his chair drop forward with a bang, reached for the phone, and dialled a number from memory.
‘Pronto,’ said the familiar deep voice.
‘Ciao, Lele,’ Brunetti responded. ‘Why aren’t you out painting?’