25
Brunetti's mind turned to tactics. Patta was sure to reject the idea that a man like Fasano—already possessed of some political clout and on his way to acquiring more—could be involved in crime. Nor was he likely to authorize Brunetti to conduct a full investigation based on nothing more than bits and pieces of information and the patterns into which they might be made to fit. Evidence? Brunetti sniffed at the very word. He had nothing more than suspicions and events that could be interpreted in a particular way.
He dialled Bocchese's internal number. The technician answered with his name.
'You have time to look at that sample yet?' Brunetti asked.
'Sample?'
"That Foa brought you.'
'No. I forgot. Tomorrow?'
'Yes.'
Brunetti knew he should stop thinking about this until he had the results of Bocchese's analyses: before that, he could have no certain idea of what had gone on or what had gone into the field behind the two factories. De Cal grew wild at the thought that his son-in-law, the environmentalist, would some day be involved with his factory and would sooner sell it than let it pass to his daughter and thus to her husband. Sell it instead to Gianluca Fasano, rising star in the polluted firmament of local politics, his advance heralded by his deep concern for the environmental degradation of his native city. Some environmentalists were apparently more equal than others to De Cal.
None of this would have merited a second glance, were it not for Giorgio Tassini, a man whom the random forces of life had driven into an erratic orbit. Searching for proof that would free him of the guilt of having destroyed his daughter's life, what had he stumbled upon?
Brunetti tried to recall his conversation with Tassini, unsettled by the realization that it had taken place only a few days before. When Brunetti had asked him if De Cal knew about the pollution, Tassini had replied that both of them knew what was going on, leaving Brunetti to draw the obvious conclusion that he meant De Cal's daughter. But that was before Foa had given Brunetti a detailed map of Murano, one that provided latitude and longitude readings as well as the location of all buildings, and confirmed that the last coordinates on Tassini's paper indicated a point within Fasano's factory.
His phone rang as he sat at his desk, staring at the map and shifting and reshifting the pieces of information in his mind. Distracted, he answered with his name.
'Guido?' asked a voice he recognized.
'Yes.'
Something in his tone provoked a long pause. 'It's me, Guido. Paola. Your wife. Remember me?'
Brunetti grunted.
'Then food? You remember food, Guido, don't you? Something called lunch?'
He looked at his watch, amazed to see that it was after two. 'Oh, my God’ he said. I'm sorry. I forgot.'
'To come home or to eat?' she asked.
'Both.'
'Are you all right?' she asked with real concern.
'It's this thing with Tassini’ he said. 'I can't figure it out, or I can't find any proof of what I think is true.'
'You will’ she said’and then added, 'or else you won't. In either case, you will always remain the bright star of my life.'
He took this as it was meant. 'Thank you, my dear. I need to be told that once in a while.'
'Good.' There followed a long pause. 'Will...' she started to say.
Brunetti spoke at the same moment. 'I'll be home early.'
'Good’ she said and hung up.
Brunetti looked at the map again. Nothing had changed, but it all suddenly seemed less terrible, though he knew this should not be so.
When in doubt, provoke. It was a principle he had learned, over the years, from Paola. He checked Pelusso's office number in his address book.
'Pelusso’ the journalist answered on the third ring.
'It's me, Guido’ Brunetti said. 'I need you to place something.'
Perhaps responding to Brunetti's tone, Pelusso did not ask the sort of ironic question an opening like this would usually provoke him to. 'Where?' was all he asked.
'Preferably on the front page of the second section.'
'Local news, huh? What sort of thing?'
"That the authorities—I don't think you have to name them, but it would be nice if the article could suggest it's the Magistrate alle Acque— have learned of the presence of dangerous substances in a field in Murano and are about to begin an investigation of their source.'
Pelusso made a humming noise, as if to convey that he was writing this down, then asked, 'What else?'
"That the investigation is related to another one currently under way.'
'Tassini?' Pelusso asked.
After only minimal hesitation, Brunetti said, 'Yes’
'You want to tell me what this is about?'
'Only if it doesn't appear in the article,' Brunetti said.
It took Pelusso some time to answer, but he finally said, 'All right.'
'It looks like Tassini's employers were using some sort of illegal system to get rid of dangerous waste.'
'What were they doing?'
'Same thing they did until 1973: just dumping it all into the laguna.'
'What sort of waste?'
'From the molatura. Ground particles of glass and minerals’ Brunetti answered.
'Doesn't sound very toxic to me.'
'I'm not sure that it is’ Brunetti agreed. 'But it's illegal.'
'And che brutta figura if one of those employers is the same man whose name is now beginning to be linked to the environmental cause’ Pelusso observed.
'Yes’ Brunetti said, realizing as he said it that he was saying far too much, and to a journalist. 'This can't appear’ he added. 'What we're saying now.'
'Why do you want it printed, then?' Pelluso asked, voice stern with unexpressed displeasure.
Brunetti chose to answer the question and ignore the way in which it had been asked. 'It's like opening an ant hill. You do it, and then you wait to see what happens.'
'And who comes out’ Pelusso added.
'Exactly.'
Pelusso laughed, his irritation forgotten, then said, 'It's not even three. I'll have it in tomorrow morning. Nothing easier; don't worry.'
It was only then that Brunetti thought to ask, 'Will there be any trouble if the whole thing's false and there's no sign of pollution?'
Pelusso laughed again, harder this time. 'How long have you been reading the Gazzettino, Guido?'
'Of course,' came Brunetti's chastened response. 'How silly of me.'
'No need to worry, really,' Pelusso said.
'But you might be questioned about your source,' Brunetti said, in what he tried to make a joking tone. 'And then I'd be looking for a job.'
'Since the information came to me from a source inside the mayor's office,' Pelusso said indignantly, no doubt in the voice he would use were he to be questioned by his employers, 'I can hardly be expected to reveal it.' After a moment, Pelusso continued, 'It'll run right next to the story about the Questura.'
'What story?' Brunetti asked, knowing this was what his friend wanted him to say.
'About the women at the Ufficio Stranieri. You've heard about what's going on, haven't you?'
Relieved at his own ignorance, Brunetti could say, honestly, 'No. Nothing.' When Pelusso remained silent, Brunetti asked, 'What is it?'
'I've got a friend who's familiar with the office’ Pelusso said, leaving it to Brunetti to translate what 'friend' might mean to an investigative journalist.
'And?'
'And he told me that two women who have been there for decades asked for, and were given, early retirement this week.'
'I'm sorry, Elio,' said an impatient Brunetti, ‘But I don't know what you're talking about.'
Not at all unsettled by Brunetti's tone, Pelusso continued. 'My friend said they'd been accepting payments from people for years for filing their applications for residence and work permits, and keeping the money'