Brunetti turned his head from the contemplation of the progress of spring and asked, 'What boat?'
'The 42’ Foa said, 'going out to his factory.'
'At night?'
'Yes. That's what Nando said.'
'Did he say what time it was?' Brunetti asked.
'Huh?' Foa asked, coming up behind a transport boat and slipping past it.
'Did he say what time it happened?'
'Not that I remember. But they usually knock off at midnight, guys on that shift’ Foa said, with a long toot on his horn at the boat they were passing.
'Exactly when was this?' Brunetti asked.
'Last week some time, I'd say,' Foa answered. 'At least that's what Nando said. Why?'
'Could you check?'
'I suppose so. If he'd remember’ Foa said, puzzled by his superior's sudden curiosity.
'Could you call him?'
'When?'
'Now.'
If he found this request strange, Foa gave no sign of it. He pulled out his telefonino and punched some numbers, studied the screen, then punched in some more.
'Ciao, Nando’ he said. 'Yeah, it's me, Paolo.' There was a long pause, after which Foa continued, 'I'm at work, but I've got to ask you something. Remember you said you had Fasano on a boat last week, when he got a fine for not having a ticket? Yes. Do you remember what night it was?' There followed a silence, after which Foa pressed the receiver to his chest and said, 'He's checking his schedule.'
'When he comes back, ask him what time it was, please’ Brunetti said.
The pilot nodded and wedged the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and Brunetti looked at the facade of Ca' Farsetti, the city hall. How lovely it was, white and permanent, with flags snapping in the wind in front of it. To govern Venice was no longer to govern the Adriatic and the East, but it was still something.
'Yes, I'm still here,' Foa said into the phone. Tuesday? You sure?' he asked. 'And what time? You remember that?' There was a short pause and then Foa said, 'No, that's all. Thanks, Nando. Give me a call, all right?' There were a few more words of affectionate friendship, and then Foa slipped the phone back into his pocket.
'You hear that, sir? Tuesday.'
'Yes, I heard, Foa.' The night Tassini died, the night Fasano, during his interrogation— videotaped and the transcript signed by Fasano—said he had been away from the city. 'And what time?'
'He says it was some time close to midnight, but the exact time would be on the receipt for the fine he paid.'
'His receipt?' Brunetti asked, breathing a silent prayer that this would not be the only copy.
'Sure, on his. Cheap bastard will probably try to take it off his taxes somehow—say it was a business trip or something. But the time'll be on the copy in the ACTV office, too.'
'With his name on it?'
'No, Nando said he didn't give his name: just paid the fine. But one of the ticket collectors recognized him, too. He and Nando laughed about it after he got off.'
Their boat passed under the Rialto Bridge, entered the sweep that would take them past the market and then up to the third bridge. After a few moments, Brunetti looked at his watch and saw that it was a little after one.
'If you don't mind turning around, Foa, I'd like you to take me to Harry's Bar.'
'You going to join the Vice-Questore for lunch?' Foa asked, slowing the motor and looking behind him to see when he could make the turn.
Brunetti waited, unwilling to distract the pilot during this manoeuvre. Finally the turn was made and Brunetti was going in the right direction. 'No, as a matter of fact,' Brunetti said with the beginnings of a smile, 'I think I'm going to ruin the Vice-Questore's lunch.'