Chapter Fourteen

Entirely unconscious of how hot his office had become, Brunetti sat at his desk and considered what Carrara had told him. Take a museum director, add guards, labour unions, stir in a bit of the Mafia, and the result was a cocktail strong enough to give the art theft branch a bad hangover. He drew a piece of paper from his drawer and began to make a list of the information he needed to get from Brett. He wanted complete descriptions of the pieces she had discovered to be false. He needed more information about how the switch could have been done and where and how the false pieces could have been made. And he needed a complete account of her every conversation or exchange with Semenzato.

He stopped writing and allowed his thoughts to veer towards the personal: would she go back? As he thought of her, called up a picture of her as he had last seen her, slamming her hand down on the table and walking angrily from the room, he was struck by a discrepancy he had previously overlooked. Why had she received only a beating while Semenzato had been killed? He had no doubt that the men sent to her had been ordered only to deliver their violent warning that she not keep the meeting. But why would they have bothered with that if Semenzato was going to be killed anyway? Had Flavia’s interference upset the balance of things, or had Semenzato somehow precipitated the violence that led to his death?

Practical things first. He called down and asked Vianello to come up, and he told him to stop outside Patta’s office to request Signorina Elettra to come up with him. The Interpol report had not arrived, so he thought it was time to begin ferreting about on his own. He went and opened the window while he waited for them to arrive.

They came in together a few minutes later, Vianello holding the door open to allow her to pass in before him. As soon as they were inside, Brunetti closed the window, and the sergeant, ever gruff and bear-like Vianello, pulled a chair up to Brunetti’s desk and held it while Signorina Elettra took her place on it. Vianello?

As she sat down, Signorina Elettra slipped a single sheet of paper on to Brunetti’s desk. ‘This came in from Rome, sir.’ In response to his unspoken question, she added, ‘They’ve traced the fingerprints.’

Under the letterhead of the Carabinieri, the letter, bearing an indecipherable signature, stated that fingerprints taken from Semenzato s telephone corresponded to those of Salvatore La Capra, age twenty-three, resident in Palermo. Despite his youth, La Capra had amassed a significant number of arrests and charges: extortion, rape, assault, attempted murder, and association with known members of the Mafia. All of these charges, at various times during the long legal processes that led from arrest to trial, had been dropped. Three witnesses in the extortion case had disappeared; the woman who brought the charge of rape had retracted her denuncia. The only conviction that stood against La Capra s name was for speeding, for which infraction he had paid a four-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-lire fine. The report went on to state that La Capra, who was not employed, lived with his father.

When he finished reading the report, Brunetti looked up at Vianello. ‘Have you seen this?’

Vianello nodded.

‘Why does the name sound familiar?’ Brunetti asked, addressing them both with the question.

Signorina Elettra and Vianello started to speak at the same time, but Vianello, when he heard her, stopped and waved at her to proceed.

When she did not, Brunetti prodded, ‘Well?’ impatient for an answer in the midst of all of this chivalry.

‘The architect?’ Signorina Elettra asked, and Vianello nodded in agreement.

It was enough to remind Brunetti. Five months ago, the architect in charge of extensive restorations to a palazzo on the Grand Canal had sworn out a complaint against the son of the owner of the palazzo, claiming that the son had threatened him with violence if there were any more delays to the restoration project, already in its eighth month. The architects attempt to explain about the difficulty in obtaining building permits was brushed aside by the son, who warned him that his father was not a man who was accustomed to being kept waiting and that bad things often happened to people who displeased him or his father. The following day, and before there had been a chance for the police to act on the complaint, the architect was back in the Questura, claiming that the whole thing bad been a misunderstanding and no actual threats had been made. The charges had been withdrawn, but the report of the original denuncia had been made out and read by all three of them, and all of them now remembered that it had been made against Salvatore La Capra.

‘I think we should see if Signorino La Capra or his father is at home,’ Brunetti suggested. ‘And, signorina,’ he added, turning to her, ‘perhaps you could see what you can find out about his father, if you’re not busy with anything.’

‘Of course, Dottore,’ she said. ‘I’ve already made the Vice-Questore’s dinner reservation, so I’ll begin on this immediately.’ Smiling, she stood, and Vianello, shadow-like, drifted to the door in front of her. He held it for her while she left the office, then came back to his seat.

‘I’ve seen the wife, sir. The widow, that is.’

‘Yes. I read your report. It seemed very brief.’

‘It was brief, sir,’ Vianello said, voice level. ‘There wasn’t much to say. She was sick with grief for him, could barely talk. I asked her a few questions, but she cried through all of it, so I had to stop. I’m not sure she understood why I was there or why I was asking her the questions.’

‘Was it real grief?’ Brunetti asked. Both policemen for many years, they had seen more than enough of both kinds, real and feigned, to last many lifetimes.

‘I think so, sir.’

‘What was she like?’

‘She’s about forty, ten years younger than he was. There weren’t any children, so he was all she had. I don’t think she fitted in here very well.’

‘Why not?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Semenzato was Venetian, but she’s from the South. Sicily. And she’s never liked it here. She said she wanted to go home after all of this was over.’

How many threads in this were going to pull towards the South, Brunetti wondered. Surely, the place of the woman’s birth shouldn’t cause him to suspect her of criminal involvement. Telling himself this, he said, ‘I want to get a tap on her phone.’

‘On Signora Semenzato’s?’ Vianello’s surprise was audible.

‘Who else have we been talking about, Vianello?’

‘But I just talked to her, and she’s hardly capable of standing up by herself. She’s not faking that grief, sir. I’m sure of it.’

‘Her grief isn’t in question, Vianello. It’s her husband.’ Brunetti was also curious about what the widow might have known of her husband’s behaviour, but with Vianello in an uncharacteristically gallant mood, this was best left unsaid.

Vianello’s assent was grudging. ‘Even if that’s the reason—’

Brunetti cut him off. ‘What about the staff at the museum?’

Vianello allowed himself to be herded back into line. ‘They seemed to like Semenzato. He was efficient, dealt well with the unions, and he was apparently very good at delegating authority, at least to the extent that the Ministry would let him.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He let the curators decide which paintings needed to go to restoration, let them decide what techniques to use, when to call in outside experts. From what I gathered from the people I talked to, the man who had the job before he did insisted on keeping everything under his control, and that meant things got slowed down, since he wanted to know all the details. Most of them preferred Semenzato.’

‘Anything eke?’

‘I went back up to the hallway where Semenzato’s office is and took another look around in the daylight. There’s a door that leads into that corridor from the left wing, but it’s nailed shut. And there’s no way anyone could have come across the roof. So they went up the stairs.’

‘Right past the guards’ office,’ Brunetti finished for him.

‘And past it again on the way down,’ Vianello added, not kindly.

‘What was on television that night?’

Vianello answered, ‘Reruns of Colpo Grosso,’ with an immediacy that forced Brunetti to wonder if the sergeant had been at home that night, with half of Italy, watching demi-celebrities remove their clothing piece by piece to the excited shrieks of a studio audience. If the breasts had been big enough, thieves could probably have gone into the Piazza and removed the Basilica, and no one would have noticed until the following morning.

This seemed a wise point to change the subject. ‘All right, Vianello, see what you can do about getting her phone taken care of.’ His tone couldn’t be described as dismissive, not quite.

By mutual assent, the conversation was over. Vianello stood, still not pleased with this further invasion of the grief of the widow Semenzato, but agreed to see that it was done. ‘Anything else, sir?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Ordinarily, Brunetti would ask to be informed when the tap was in place, but he left it to Vianello. The sergeant moved his chair a few centimetres forward and placed it squarely in front of Brunetti’s desk, waved a vague salute, and left the office without another word. Brunetti thought it was enough that he had one prima donna to deal with over in Cannaregio. He didn’t need another one here at the Questura.

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