so I asked them to tell him to call me here.’
‘Sure, Commissario. No trouble. Any time,’ the barman said and stepped behind the bar to let Brunetti pass into the small back room.
The receiver lay on its side, next to one of the heavy old SIP phones, the outmoded grey model with the round dial. He picked up the receiver, resisting the urge to fit his finger into the small hole and turn the dial.
‘Guido?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry for the melodrama. What is it?’
‘Your mystery man, the well-dressed one, the one who said he’d meet someone at that place you mentioned.’
‘Yes?’
‘How come all you told me was that he was well-dressed?’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘How many months did you talk to the man who died?’
‘. . . A long time.’
‘And all he told you was that the other guy was well-dressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you never thought to ask for anything more?’
‘I didn’t think it . . .’
‘When you finish that sentence, I’m hanging up.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I thought I should warn you. You say that, and I’m hanging up.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t like being lied to.’
‘I’m not . . .’
‘You finish that sentence, I’m hanging up, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Start again. What else did he tell you about the man he talked to?’
‘Someone in your house got a private email address?’
‘My kids. Why?’
‘I want to send you a photo.’
‘Not my kids. You can’t do that.’
‘Your wife, then?’
‘All right. At the university.’
‘Paola, dot, Falier, at Ca’Foscari, one word, dot, it?’
‘Yes. How did you know that address?’
‘I’ll send it tomorrow morning.’
‘Does anyone else know about this photo?’
‘No.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’
‘I’d rather not go into it.’
‘Is this the only lead you have?’
‘No, it’s not the only one. But we haven’t been able to check it.’
‘And the others?’
‘Nothing worked out.’
‘If I find anything, how do I get in touch with you?’
‘That means you’ll do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gave you my number.’
‘They said you weren’t there.’
‘It’s not easy to get me.’
‘The email you’ll be using tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘I can always call you there.’
‘Yes, you can; but I can’t move my office here to wait for your call. How do I get in touch with you?’
‘Call that same number and leave a message, saying your name is Pollini and give a time when you’ll call back. That’s when I’ll call you at this number.’
‘Pollini?’
‘Yes. But call from a public phone, all right?’
‘The next time we talk, I want you to tell me what’s going on. What’s really going on.’
‘But I’ve told . . .’
‘Filippo, do I have to threaten to hang up again?’
‘No. You don’t. I have to think about it, though.’
‘Think about it now.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘I don’t like it that it’s this way, believe me. But it’s better for everyone involved.’
‘Me, too?’
‘Yes, you, too. I’ve got to go. Thanks.’
10
Brunetti studied his hand as he replaced the receiver to see if it trembled. Nope, steady as a rock. Besides, this cloak and dagger stuff from Guarino was more likely to cause him irritation than fear. What was next, leaving messages for one another in bottles and floating them down the Grand Canal? Guarino had seemed a sensible enough fellow, and he had accepted Brunetti’s scepticism with good grace, so why persist with all this James Bond nonsense?
He went to the doorway and asked Sergio, ‘You mind if I make a call?’
‘Commissario,’ he said with an open wave of his hands, ‘call whoever you want.’ Dark-complexioned, almost as wide as he was tall, Sergio always reminded Brunetti of the bear who was the hero of one of the first books he had ever read. Because the bear was in the habit of gorging himself on honey, Sergio’s
‘Sure, Commissario. No trouble. Any time,’ the barman said and stepped behind the bar to let Brunetti pass into the small back room.
The receiver lay on its side, next to one of the heavy old SIP phones, the outmoded grey model with the round dial. He picked up the receiver, resisting the urge to fit his finger into the small hole and turn the dial.
‘Guido?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry for the melodrama. What is it?’
‘Your mystery man, the well-dressed one, the one who said he’d meet someone at that place you mentioned.’
‘Yes?’
‘How come all you told me was that he was well-dressed?’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘How many months did you talk to the man who died?’
‘. . . A long time.’
‘And all he told you was that the other guy was well-dressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you never thought to ask for anything more?’
‘I didn’t think it . . .’
‘When you finish that sentence, I’m hanging up.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I thought I should warn you. You say that, and I’m hanging up.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t like being lied to.’
‘I’m not . . .’
‘You finish that sentence, I’m hanging up, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Start again. What else did he tell you about the man he talked to?’
‘Someone in your house got a private email address?’
‘My kids. Why?’
‘I want to send you a photo.’
‘Not my kids. You can’t do that.’
‘Your wife, then?’
‘All right. At the university.’
‘Paola, dot, Falier, at Ca’Foscari, one word, dot, it?’
‘Yes. How did you know that address?’
‘I’ll send it tomorrow morning.’
‘Does anyone else know about this photo?’
‘No.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’
‘I’d rather not go into it.’
‘Is this the only lead you have?’
‘No, it’s not the only one. But we haven’t been able to check it.’
‘And the others?’
‘Nothing worked out.’
‘If I find anything, how do I get in touch with you?’
‘That means you’ll do it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I gave you my number.’
‘They said you weren’t there.’
‘It’s not easy to get me.’
‘The email you’ll be using tomorrow?’
‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘I can always call you there.’
‘Yes, you can; but I can’t move my office here to wait for your call. How do I get in touch with you?’
‘Call that same number and leave a message, saying your name is Pollini and give a time when you’ll call back. That’s when I’ll call you at this number.’
‘Pollini?’
‘Yes. But call from a public phone, all right?’
‘The next time we talk, I want you to tell me what’s going on. What’s really going on.’
‘But I’ve told . . .’
‘Filippo, do I have to threaten to hang up again?’
‘No. You don’t. I have to think about it, though.’
‘Think about it now.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
‘I don’t like it that it’s this way, believe me. But it’s better for everyone involved.’
‘Me, too?’
‘Yes, you, too. I’ve got to go. Thanks.’
10
Brunetti studied his hand as he replaced the receiver to see if it trembled. Nope, steady as a rock. Besides, this cloak and dagger stuff from Guarino was more likely to cause him irritation than fear. What was next, leaving messages for one another in bottles and floating them down the Grand Canal? Guarino had seemed a sensible enough fellow, and he had accepted Brunetti’s scepticism with good grace, so why persist with all this James Bond nonsense?
He went to the doorway and asked Sergio, ‘You mind if I make a call?’
‘Commissario,’ he said with an open wave of his hands, ‘call whoever you want.’ Dark-complexioned, almost as wide as he was tall, Sergio always reminded Brunetti of the bear who was the hero of one of the first books he had ever read. Because the bear was in the habit of gorging himself on honey, Sergio’s
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