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.’