A Venetian Reckoning (20 page)

'Because of changing the records?' he
asked.

'Oh, no, either Giorgio or I could do
that in a minute,' she said in an entirely dismissive tone.

'But isn't there some sort of secret
password that prevents people from getting into our computer?'

She hesitated a moment before she
answered. 'There's a password, yes, but it's not very secret’

'Who knows it?'

'I've no idea, but it would be very
easy to find.'

'And use?'

'Probably.'

Brunetti chose not to follow that
thought. 'Then because of the letter?' he asked, assuming that she would know
about Rondini s request for one.

'Oh, no, dottore. I could just as
easily have written that for him. But I thought it would be good for him to meet
you, to show him that you're willing to help him with this.'

‘In case we need more information
from SIP?’ he asked, irony abandoned.

'Exactly,’ she said and smiled in
real delight, for the commissario had begun to understand how things worked.

19

All thoughts of Signor Rondini,
however, were wiped from Brunetti's mind by the news that pulled him,
half-shaved, from the bathroom the next morning. Ubaldo Lotto, the brother of
Carlo Trevisan's widow, had been found shot dead in his car, parked on a side
road that led off the state highway between Mestre and Mogliano Veneto. He
appeared to have been shot three times, at close range, apparently by someone
who was sitting beside him in the front seat of his car.

The body had been discovered at about
five that morning by a local resident who, his car slowed by the heavy mud
formed by the night's rain and by the large car parked at the side of the
narrow road, had not liked what he saw when he passed: the driver slumped over
the steering wheel, the motor of the car still running. He had stopped, walked
back to peer inside, and then, seeing the blood pooled on the front seat, had
called the police. When they arrived, the police cordoned off the area and
began to search for traces of the killer or killers. There were signs that
another car had been parked behind Lotto's, but the heavy autumn rain had
washed away all hope of taking an impression of the tyre tracks. The first
policeman to open the door gagged at

the smell of blood, faecal matter,
and some heavy scent he took to be the victims aftershave, all blended together
and exaggerated by the heater of the car, which had run at its highest setting
during the hours Lotto lay in his death's embrace across the steering wheel.
Carefully, the crime-scene crew examined the area around the car and then, when
it had been towed to the police garage in Mestre, pored over the vehicle to
extract and label fibres, hairs, and any other particles of matter that might
provide information about the person who had sat beside Lotto on the front seat
when he died.

The car had already been towed when
Brunetti and Vianello, driven in a car from the Mestre police, arrived at the
scene of the killing. From the back seat, all they saw was a narrow country
lane and trees that still dripped with water, even though the rain had stopped
at dawn. At the police garage, they saw a maroon Lancia sedan, its front seat
covered with stains which were slowly turning the same colour as the car. And
at the morgue they met the man who had been called to identify the body and who
turned out to be Salvatore Martucci, the surviving partner of Trevisan's law
firm. A flash from Vianello s eyes and a slight nod in Martucci's direction
told Brunetti that this was the same lawyer Vianello had spoken to, the one who
had displayed so little grief in the aftermath of Trevisan's murder.

Though thin and wiry, Martucci was
taller than most Southerners, and his hair, which he wore shorter than was the
current style, was reddish blond: this combination of qualities made him appear
a throwback to the hordes of invading Normans who had swept across the island
for generations and whose heritage could soil be found, centuries later, in the
piercing green eyes of many Sicilians as well as in the occasional French
phrases that lingered in their dialect.

When Vianello and Brunetti got there,
Martucci was just being led out of the room in which the bodies were kept. It
struck them both that it would take very little for Martucci to look like a
corpse himself: his eyes were ringed with flesh so dark it looked bruised and
emphasized the terrible pallor of his complexion.

'Avvocato Martucci?' Brunetti began,
stopping in front of him.

The lawyer looked at Brunetti,
apparently without seeing him, men at Vianello, whom he seemed to notice,
though he might have recognized no more than the familiar blue uniform.

'Yes?' he said.

'I'm Commissario Guido Brunetti. I'd
like to ask you a few questions about Signor Lotto.'

'I don't know anything,' Martucci
answered. Though he spoke in a monotone, his Sicilian accent was still marked.

‘I realize this must be a very
difficult time for you, Signor Martucci, but there are certain questions we
must ask you.'

'I don't know anything,' Martucci
repeated.

'Signor Martucci,' Brunetti said,
standing steady beside Vianello so as to block Martucci's passage down the
hallway, 'I'm afraid that if you don't speak to us, well have no choice but to
ask the same questions of Signora Trevisan.'

'What's she got to do with this?'
Martucci asked, head shooting up, eyes flashing back and forth between Brunetti
and Vianello.

The murdered man is her brother. Her
husband died, in the same way, less than a week ago.'

Martucci looked away from them while
he considered this. Brunetti was curious to see whether Martucci would
question that similarity, insist that it meant nothing. But he simply said,
'All right, what do you want to know?'

'Perhaps we could go into one of the
offices,' Brunetti said, having already asked the coroner if he could use his
deputy's room.

Brunetti turned away and walked down
the corridor, and Martucci fell into step behind him, followed by Vianello, who
still had neither spoken nor acknowledged having already spoken to Martucci
Brunetti opened the door to the office and held it for Martucci. When the three
men were seated, Brunetti said, 'Perhaps you could tell us where you were last
night, Signor Martucci.’

'I don't see why that's necessary,'
Martucci answered in a voice more confused than resistant.

'We will want to find out where
everyone who knew Signor Lotto was last night, Signor Martucci. Such
information is, as you must know, necessary in any murder investigation.'

‘I was at home,' Martucci answered.

‘Was anyone with you?'

'No:

'Are you married, Signor Martucci?'
'Yes. But I'm separated from my wife.' 'Do you live alone?' 'Yes.'

'Do you have children?' 'Yes.
Two.'    ,

'Do they live with you or with your
wife?'

‘I don't see what any of this has to
do with Lotto.'

'We are interested in you at the
moment, Signor Martucci, not in Signor Lotto,' Brunetti answered. 'Do your
children live with your wife?'

'Yes, they do.'

'Is yours a legal separation, leading
towards a divorce?'

‘We've never discussed it.'

'Could you explain that a bit further
for me, Signor Martucci?' Brunetti asked, though it was a common enough
situation.

When he spoke, Martucci's voice had
the dead calm of truth. 'Even though I'm a lawyer, the thought of going through
a divorce terrifies me. My wife would oppose any attempt I might make to get
one.'

'Yet you've never discussed it?'

'Never. I know my wife well enough to
know what her answer would be. She would not consent, and there are no grounds
on which I could divorce her. If I tried to do so against her will, she would
take everything I own.'

'Are there grounds on which she might
divorce you, Signor Martucci?' Brunetti asked. When Martucci gave no answer,
Brunetti rephrased the question, turning to euphemism, 'Are you seeing anyone,
Signor Martucci?'

Martucci's answer was immediate.
'No.'

‘I find that hard to believe,'
Brunetti said with a smile of camaraderie.

"What does that mean?' Martucci
said.

'You're a handsome man, in the prime
of life, a professional, clearly a successful man. Certainly there are many
women who would find you attractive and would welcome your attentions.’

Martucci said nothing.

'No one?’ Brunetti repeated.

‘No.’

'And so you were home alone last
night?' 'I've already told you that, commissario.' 'Ah, yes, so you have.’

Martucci stood abruptly. 'If you have
no further questions, I'd like to leave.’

'with a soft wave of his hand,
Brunetti said, 'Just a few more questions, Signor Martucci.'

Seeing the look in Brunetti's eyes,
Martucci sat back down.

'What was the nature of your
relationship with Signor Trevisan?' 'I worked for him.'

'For him or with him, Avvocato
Martucci?'

'Both, I suppose you could say.'
Brunetti prodded him with an inquisitive look and Martucci continued, 'First
one and then the other.' He looked at Brunetti, but seeing that this was not
enough, continued, 'I began working for him, but last year we agreed that, at
the end of the year, I would become a partner in the firm.' 'An equal partner?'

Martucci kept bom his voice and his
eyes level 'We hadn't discussed that.'

Brunetti found this an unusual lapse,
especially on the part of lawyers. A lapse or, given that the only other witness
to the agreement was dead, something else.

'And in the event of his death?'
Brunetti asked.

'We didn't discuss that.'

‘Why?'

Martucci's voice hardened. 1 think
that's self-evident. People don't plan to the.'

'But they do the,' Brunetti remarked.
Maxtucci ignored him.

'And now that Signor Trevisan has
died, will you assume the responsibility for the practice?'

'If Signora Trevisan asks me to, I
will.'

‘I see,' Brunetti remarked in a voice
he strove to make entirely level. 'So you've, in a sense, inherited Signor
Trevisan's clients?'

Martucci's attempt to keep his temper
was visible. 'If those clients wish to retain me as their lawyer, yes.'

'And do they?'

it is still too soon after Signor
Trevisan's death to be able to know that.'

'And Signor Lotto,' Brunetti said,
changing course. ‘What was his relationship to or involvement in the practice?’

'He was our accountant and business
manager’ Martucci answered.

'Of both you and Signor Trevisan,
when you worked together?'

'Yes.’

'And after Signor Trevisan s death,
did Signor Lotto remain as your accountant?'

'Certainly. He was intimately
familiar with the business. He'd worked for Carlo for more than fifteen
years.'

'And were you planning to retain him
as your accountant and business manager?'

'Of course.'

'Did Signor Lotto have any legal
claim to the practice or to part of it?'

‘I'm afraid I don't understand.'

This seemed strange to Brunetti, not
only because the question was straightforward enough but because Martucci was a
lawyer and certainly should have understood it. 'Was there any way in which
the legal practice was incorporated, and did Signor Lotto own any part of it?'
Brunetti asked.

Martucci thought about this for a
while before he answered. 'To the best of my knowledge, no, but they might have
had some sort of separate agreement between themselves.'

'What sort of agreement might that
have been?'