Anonymous Venetian Read Free Page A

back.’
     
    ‘One of them is in Brazil, and no
one seems able to find the other one.’
     
    Brunetti started to say that a
commissario had to leave word where he could be reached, no matter where he
went on vacation, but then he looked at Patta’s face and decided, instead, to
ask, ‘What did they tell you about the murder, sir?’
     
    ‘It’s a whore. A transvestite.
Someone beat his head in and left his body in a field out in Marghera.’ Before
Brunetti could object, Patta said, ‘Don’t even ask. The field is in Marghera,
but the slaughterhouse that owns it is in Mestre, just by a few metres, so
Mestre gets it.’
     
    Brunetti had no desire to waste
time on the details of property rights or city boundaries, so he asked, ‘How do
they know it’s a prostitute, sir?’
     
    ‘I don’t know how they know it’s
a prostitute, Brunetti,’ Patta said, his voice going up a few notes. ‘I’m
telling you what they told me. A transvestite prostitute, in a dress, with his
head and face beaten in.’
     
    ‘When was he found, sir?’
     
    It was not Patta’s habit to take
notes, so he had not bothered to make any record of the call he had received.
The facts hadn’t interested him - one whore more, one whore less - but he was
bothered by the fact that it would be his staff doing Mestre’s work. That meant
any success they met with would go to Mestre. But then he thought of recent
events in his personal life and came to the decision that this might well be
the sort of case he should let Mestre take any and all credit for - and
publicity.
     
    ‘I had a call from their
Questore, asking if we could handle it. What are you three doing?’
     
    ‘Mariani is on vacation and Rossi’s
still going through the papers on the Bortolozzi case,’ Brunetti explained.
     
    ‘And you?’
     
    ‘I’m scheduled to begin my
vacation this weekend, Vice-Questore.’
     
    ‘That can wait,’ Patta said with
a certainty that soared above things like hotel reservations or plane tickets. ‘Besides,
this has got to be a simple thing. Find the pimp, get a list of customers. It’s
bound to be one of them.’
     
    ‘Do they have pimps, sir?’
     
    ‘Whores? Of course they have
pimps.’
     
    ‘Male whores, sir? Transvestite
whores? Assuming, of course, that he was a prostitute.’
     
    ‘Why would you expect me to know
a thing like that, Brunetti?’ asked Patta, suspicious with more than usual
irritation, again forcing Brunetti to remember that morning’s first news and
quickly to change the subject.
     
    ‘How long ago did the call come
in, sir?’ Brunetti asked.
     
    ‘A few hours ago. Why?’
     
    ‘I wondered if the body’s been
moved?’
     
    ‘In this heat?’ Patta asked.
     
    ‘Yes, there is that,’ Brunetti
agreed. ‘Where was it taken?’
     
    ‘I have no idea. One of the
hospitals. Umberto Primo, probably. I think that’s where they do the autopsies.
Why?’
     
    ‘I’d like to have a look,’
Brunetti said. ‘And at the place where it happened.’
     
    Patta wasn’t a man to be
interested in details. ‘Since this is Mestre’s case, make sure you use their
drivers, not ours.’ Some details.
     
    ‘Was there anything else, sir?’
     
    ‘No. I’m sure this will be a
simple thing. You’ll have it wrapped up by the weekend and be free to go on
vacation.’ It was like Patta that he asked nothing about where Brunetti planned
to go or what sort of reservations he might have to cancel. More details.
     
    Leaving Patta’s office, Brunetti
noticed that, while he was inside, furniture had suddenly appeared in the small
anteroom that stood directly outside Patta’s office. A large wooden desk stood
on one side, and a small table had been placed below the window. Ignoring this,
he went downstairs and into the office where the uniformed branch worked.
Sergeant Vianello looked up from some papers on his desk and smiled at
Brunetti. ‘Even before you ask, Commissario, yes, it’s true. Tito