'Because I took them away with me when I went to speak to his widow.'
'Have you made a formal report of this?'
'Yes’ Brunetti lied, knowing that Signorina Elettra could easily backdate his report, when he got around to writing it.
Patta did not question this. Instead he asked, 'And what are these papers?'
'Lists of numbers.'
'What sort of numbers?'
'There are references to specific laws and to specific geographic locations. And there are repeated references to Inferno. There was a copy of the poem in his room at the factory.'
'And is this book another item in your possession?' Patta asked.
'Yes.'
'Is that all there was, Brunetti? Or was there something other than—' Patta began, using the long-drawn-out enunciation one employs with a wilful or disobedient child—'references to laws and geographic locations and to Inferno?' Patta was unable or unwilling to resist the temptation to repeat Brunetti's words.
As though this had been a request for information rather than an insult, Brunetti said, "There has to be a reason he was keeping those numbers, sir.'
Patta made a business of shaking his head in feigned confusion. 'Specific laws and specific locations, is it, Brunetti? And what comes next, the winning lottery number for Venice? Or the geographic coordinates of where the extraterrestrials are going to land?' He got up from his chair and took two steps, muttering, 'Dante', as if to calm his troubled spirit. He persuaded himself to return and sit down again. 'Though it might come as a surprise to you, Brunetti, this is a Questura,' he said, leaning across his desk and pointing a finger at the Commissario, 'and we are police officers. It is not a tent in the middle of the desert where people come to you so that you can hold seances and read tarot cards.'
Brunetti glanced at Patta, then shifted his eyes to a spot on the desk between them. 'Do you understand me, Brunetti?' When the Commissario made no attempt to respond, Patta demanded, 'Do you understand me, Brunetti?'
'Yes, sir. I do,' Brunetti said, surprised at just how true this was. He got to his feet.
'And what are you going to do about those numbers, Brunetti?' Patta asked, voice acid with sarcasm and menace.
'I'll keep the references to Dante, sir. It's always good to know where to locate the hypocrites and the opportunists.'
Patta's face went rigid, but he couldn't prevent himself from asking for more. 'And your laws and your coordinates?'
'Oh, I don't know, sir,' Brunetti said, turning and making for the door. 'But it's useful to know what the laws are and exactly where you stand.' He opened the door, said 'Buon giorno' very quietly, and closed the door behind him.
21
When he emerged from Patta's office, Brunetti paused at Signorina Elettra's desk long enough to take the folder she handed him. He thanked her, checked that he had the paper on which he had written Tassini's coordinates, and went outside the Questura to the dock in front. There was no sign of Foa, whom he finally found down at the bar by the bridge, having a coffee and reading La Gazzetta dello Sport.
He smiled when he saw Brunetti come in. 'Would you like a coffee, Commissario?'
'Gladly’ Brunetti said, wishing he knew enough about some sport, any sport, to be able to make some appropriate conversation, but, instead, he could do nothing more than remark on how warm it was.
When the coffee was in front of him, Brunetti asked, 'Have you got one of those location-finding things, Foa?'
'A GPS, sir?'
'Yes.'
'In the boat, sir,' the pilot said. 'You need it?'
'Yes’ Brunetti said, stirring his coffee. 'You doing anything now?'
'Other than reading about these hopeless clowns’ Foa said, slapping the paper with the backs of his fingers, 'nothing. Why, you need to go somewhere?'
'Out to Murano’ Brunetti said. 'Yes.'
As they walked back to the launch, Brunetti explained about the numbers Tassini had written and did nothing to deflect Foa's compliments at having figured out what they were. After they climbed on board, Foa unlocked a panel on the dashboard and took out a glass-faced instrument. He showed Brunetti the GPS, which was little larger than a telefonino and served the double function of pointing to true North and giving the exact coordinates of the point where the instrument was. He set it on the ledge in front of him and switched on the engine. He pulled away from the dock and, after a moment, turned into Rio di Santa Giustina and took them quickly out into the laguna.
'How does it work?' Brunetti asked, picking it up. Because he had grown up without proximity to cars, he always blamed Venice for his mechanical and technological ineptitude, when he knew the real explanation was simply his lack of interest in the way things, especially gadgets, functioned.
'Satellites’ the pilot said, suddenly deciding to cut across the wake of a 42 on its way to the cemetery. The heavy bouncing of the launch forced Brunetti to grab the railing beside him, but Foa seemed to float and bob with the waves. The pilot took his right hand from the wheel and waved towards the heavens. 'It's full of them, circling around, registering, recording, keeping an eye on matters.' Foa waited a moment, and then added, 'Probably taking photos of what we eat for breakfast, too.'
Brunetti opted to ignore this opening, and Foa returned to more prosaic things. "The satellite sends down a message that tells you exactly where you are. Look at it,' he said, pointing to the face of the GPS, where two illuminated rectangles provided ever-changing digital readings. 'On the side there,' the pilot said, turning his attention from the waters in front of them and pointing to the face of the instrument, 'that's the latitude reading. And that's the longitude. It'll keep changing as long as we keep moving.' As if to show just how this worked, Foa swung the boat hard to the right, and then just as quickly to the left. If the latitude and longitude readings changed, Brunetti took no notice, for he was busy grabbing the railing again to keep from toppling out of the launch.
Brunetti handed the object back to Foa and devoted his attention to Murano, which they were approaching at considerable speed. 'You want to go back to where we went the last time?' Foa asked.
'Yes. And I'd like you to come with me.'
Foa made no attempt to hide the pleasure this gave him. He slowed the engine and slipped the boat up to the dock, then shifted into reverse until they were motionless in the water. A side current brushed them against the embankment; Foa leaped out and made the boat fast to a ring in the paving, then secured it at the bow with another rope.
Brunetti slipped the GPS into the pocket of his jacket and climbed up beside Foa. Together they started back towards De Cal's factory. 'You want to talk to the old man again?' Foa asked.
'No,' Brunetti answered. 'I want to find where these points are.' He took out his wallet and extracted the piece of paper on which he had written the coordinates.
Foa took the paper and read the sets of numbers. 'The latitude and longitude are right for the laguna,' he said, then added, "They've all got to be right around here.' Brunetti, who had a vague idea from having checked the nautical charts, nodded.
Together they skirted the factory building and went around to the left, towards the barren field behind it. The side of the building that they walked along, Brunetti was glad to notice, had no windows.
They stopped just where the dry grass began, and Brunetti took out the GPS. He started to hand the piece of paper to Foa, but he realized that the pilot would be more familiar with the instrument so gave him that, instead. Foa took one final look at the paper and set off in the direction of the water.