CB18 About Face (2009) by Donna Leon Read Free Book Online

dead man for some minor offence, he said, ‘He should have known.’
    Absently, Guarino rubbed at his forehead and continued. ‘He said that he was frightened at the beginning. Because he knew he was no good at accounting. But he was desperate, and . . .’ Guarino left that unfinished, then resumed. ‘A few weeks later – this is what he told me – a man came to see him at his office. He said he’d heard he might be interested in working privately, not bothering with receipts, and if so he had some work to offer him.’ Brunetti said nothing, so Guarino continued. ‘The man he talked to,’ he said, ‘lives here.’ He watched for Brunetti’s reaction, then said, ‘That’s why I’m here.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    Guarino raised a hand, as if to push the question away. ‘We don’t know. He said the man never used a name and he never asked. There were bills of lading in case the trucks were stopped, but everything written on them was fake. He told me that. The destination, what was in the trucks.’
    ‘And what was in the trucks?’
    ‘That doesn’t matter. I’m here because he was murdered.’
    ‘Am I supposed to believe the two things aren’t related?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘No. But I’m asking you to help me find his killer. The other case doesn’t concern you.’
    ‘And neither does his murder,’ Brunetti said mildly. ‘My superior saw to that when it happened: he decided it was a territorial matter, and the case belonged to Mestre, which has administrative control over Tessera.’ Brunetti filled his voice with deliberate punctiliousness.
    Guarino got to his feet, but all he did was walk over to the window, as Brunetti did in moments of difficulty. He stared at the church, and Brunetti stared at the wall.
    Guarino came back to his chair and sat down again. ‘The only thing he ever said about this man was that he was young – about thirty – good looking, and dressed like he had money. I think “flashy” was the word he used.’
    Brunetti stopped himself from saying that most Italian men of thirty were good looking and dressed like they had money. He asked, instead, ‘How did he know he lives here?’ He was finding it difficult to disguise his mounting displeasure at Guarino’s reluctance to provide specific information.
    ‘Trust me. He lives here.’
    ‘I’m not sure they’re the same thing,’ Brunetti said.
    ‘What aren’t?’
    ‘Trusting you and trusting the information you’ve got.’
    The Maggiore considered this. ‘One time when this man was out in Tessera, he got a call on his telefonino just as they were going into the office. He went back into the corridor to talk to whoever it was, but he didn’t close the door. He was giving directions to someone, and he told them to take the Number One to San Marcuola and to call him when he got off, and he’d meet him there.’
    ‘He was sure about San Marcuola?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    Guarino glanced at Brunetti and smiled again. ‘I think we should stop sparring with one another now,’ he said. He sat up straighter and asked, ‘Shall we begin all over again, Guido?’ At Brunetti’s nod, he said, ‘My name is Filippo.’ He offered the name as if it were a peace offering, and Brunetti decided to accept it as such.
    ‘And the dead man’s name?’ asked a relentless Brunetti.
    Guarino did not hesitate. ‘Ranzato. Stefano Ranzato.’
    It took Guarino some time to explain in greater detail Ranzato’s descent from entrepreneur to tax evader to police spy. And from there to corpse. When he had finished, Brunetti asked, quite as though the Maggiore had not already refused to answer the question, ‘And what was in the trucks?’
    This, Brunetti realized, was the moment of truth. Either Guarino would tell him or he would not, and Brunetti was by now very curious which choice the other man would make.
    ‘He never knew,’ Guarino said, then seeing Brunetti’s expression, he added, ‘At least that’s what he told me. He