His intercom rang shortly after four and he picked it up, knowing it would be Patta, interested that things could have happened so quickly, curious to learn what the Vice-Questore wanted.
‘Could you come down to my office, Commissario?’ his superior asked and Brunetti replied politely that he was already on his way.
Signorina Elettra’s jacket hung on the back of her chair, and a list of names and what appeared to be numbers stood in neat lines on her computer screen, but there was no sign of her. He knocked on Patta’s door and entered at the sound of his voice.
And found Signorina Elettra seated in front of Patta’s desk, legs primly pressed together, a notebook resting on her lap, pencil raised as Patta’s last word hung in the air. Because it was only the shouted ‘Avanti’ telling Brunetti to enter, she did not take note of it.
Patta barely acknowledged Brunetti’s arrival, giving him the slightest of nods, and returned his attention to his dictation. ‘And tell them that I do not want… No, make that read, “I will not tolerate…” I think that has a more forceful sound, don’t you, Signorina?’
‘Absolutely, Vice-Questore,’ she said, eyes on what she was writing.
‘I will not tolerate’, Patta went on, ‘the continued use of police boats and vehicles in unauthorized trips. If a member of the staff…’ Here he broke off to add in a more casual style, ‘Would you look and see what ranks are entitled to use the boats and cars and add it, Signorina?’
‘Of course, Vice-Questore.’
‘Requires the use of police transportation, he is to… excuse me, Signorina?’ Patta broke off in response to the confusion on her face as she glanced up at those last words.
‘Perhaps it would be better to say “that person”, sir,’ she suggested, ‘to avoid the sound of sexual prejudice, as if only men had the authority to requisition boats.’ She lowered her head and turned a page of her notebook.
‘Of course, of course, if you think it wisest,’ Patta agreed and continued, ’… that person is to fill out the required forms and see that they are approved by the appropriate authority.’ His whole manner changed and his face became less imperious, as though he’d told his chin to stop looking like Mussolini’s. ‘If you’d be so kind, check and see who it is that’s supposed to authorize it and add their name to the memo, would you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ she said and wrote a few more words. She looked up and smiled. ‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Patta said. As Brunetti watched, he actually leaned forward in his chair as she rose, as if the sympathetic force of his motion could help her to her feet.
At the door, she turned and smiled at them both. ‘I’ll have that first thing tomorrow morning, sir,’ she said.
‘Not before?’ Patta asked.
‘I’m afraid not, sir. I’ve got the budget for our office’s expenses for next month to calculate.’ Her smile blended regret with sternness.
‘Of course.’
Without another word, she left, closing the door behind her.
‘Brunetti,’ Patta said with no preamble, ‘what’s been happening with the Mitri case?’
‘I spoke to his brother-in-law today,’ Brunetti began, curious to see if Patta had heard about that yet. The blankness in his face suggested that he had not, so Brunetti continued, ‘I’ve also learned that there have been three other murders in the last few years using what might have been a plastic-coated wire of some sort, perhaps electrical. And all the victims seem to have been taken from behind, the way Mitri was.’
‘What sort of crimes were they?’ Patta asked. ‘Like this?’
‘No, sir. It would seem that they were executions, probably Mafia.’
‘Then’, Patta said, dismissing the possibility out of hand, ‘they can have nothing to do with this. This is the work of a lunatic, some sort of fanatic driven to murder by…’ Here Patta either lost the thread of his argument or recalled to whom he was speaking, for he suddenly stopped.
‘I’d like to pursue the possibility that there is some connection between the murders, sir,’ Brunetti said, just as if Patta had not spoken.
‘Where did they happen?’
‘One in Palermo, one in Reggio Calabria and the most recent in Padova.’
‘Ah.’ Patta sighed audibly. After a moment he explained, ‘If they are related, that would make it likely it’s not ours, wouldn’t it? That it’s really the police in those other cities who should be looking at our crime as part of the series?’
‘That’s entirely possible, sir.’ Brunetti did not bother to mention that the same would hold true for the Venetian police: that they also should look into the series.
‘Well, then alert them, all of them, to what’s happened and let me know when you get an answer from them.’
Brunetti had to admit the genius of the solution. The investigation of the crime had been farmed out, tossed back to the police of those other cities, so Patta had done the officially correct, the bureaucratically efficient, thing: he had passed it on to the next desk and in so doing had fulfilled his own duty or, more important, would be perceived to have done, should his decision ever be questioned. Brunetti got to his feet. ‘Of course, sir. I’ll contact them immediately.’
Patta bowed his head in polite dismissal. It was seldom that Brunetti, a headstrong, difficult man, would prove so amenable to reason.
21
When Brunetti emerged from Patta’s office, he found Signorina Elettra just slipping into her jacket. Her purse and a shopping bag stood side by side on the top of her desk, and her coat lay beside them. ‘And the budget?’ Brunetti asked when he saw her.
‘That,’ she said with what sounded like a snort of amusement. ‘It’s the same every month. Takes me five minutes to print it out. All I do is change the name of the month.’
‘Doesn’t anyone ever question it?’ Brunetti asked, thinking of what the fresh flowers alone must cost them.
‘The Vice-Questore did, a while ago,’ she said, reaching for her coat.
Brunetti picked it up and held it for her as she slipped it on. Neither of them saw fit to remark that the office in which she worked would be open for another three hours. ‘What did he say?’
‘He wanted to know why we were spending more money every month on flowers than on office supplies.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I apologized and told him I must have exchanged the amounts in each column and that it wouldn’t happen again.’
She reached down and picked up her handbag, slipping the long leather strap over her shoulder.
‘And?’ Brunetti couldn’t stop himself from asking.
‘It hasn’t happened again. That’s the first thing I do when I make out the report every month. I switch the amounts spent on flowers and office supplies. He’s much happier now.’ She picked up the shopping bag – Bottega Veneta, he observed – and started towards the door of her office.
‘Signorina,’ he began, awkward about asking. ‘Those names?’
‘In the morning, Commissario. It’s being taken care of.’ So saying, she pointed to her computer with her chin, one hand occupied with the shopping bag and the other busy pushing back a lock of hair.
‘But it’s off,’ Brunetti said.
She closed her eyes for the barest fraction of a second, but he saw her do it. ‘Believe me, Commissario. In the morning.’ His acquiescence was not immediate, so she added, ‘Remember: I’m your eyes and nose, Commissario. Anything that can be found will be here tomorrow first thing.’
Though the door to the office was open, Brunetti went to stand by it, as if to see her safely through. ’Arrivederci, Signorina. E grazie.’