Dressed for Death by Donna Leon

‘Tell
him the real thing’s better than dirty pictures, Paolina.’ ‘Cops don’t even
know the difference.’ ‘A cop? Make him pay double.’
     
    Brunetti waited until they had
run out of things to say and asked, ‘Will you look at the picture?’
     
    ‘What’s in it for me if I do?’
Paolina asked, and his companion laughed to see his friend being so tough with
a policeman.
     
    ‘It’s a picture of the man we
found out in the field on Monday.’ Before Paolina could pretend ignorance,
Brunetti added, ‘I’m sure you all know about him and what happened to him. We’d
like to identify him so we can find the person who killed him. I think you men
can understand why that’s important.’
     
    He noticed that Paolina and his
friend were dressed almost identically, each in tight tube tops and short
skirts that showed sleek, muscular legs. Both wore high-heeled shoes with
needle toes; neither could ever hope to outrun an assailant.
     
    Paolina’s friend, whose
daffodil-yellow wig cascaded to his shoulders, said, ‘All right, let’s see it,’
and held out his hand. Though the man’s feet were disguised in those shoes,
nothing could disguise the breadth and thickness of his hand.
     
    Brunetti pulled the drawing from
his pocket and handed it to him. ‘Thank you, Signore,’ Brunetti said. The man
gave him an uncomprehending look, as though Brunetti had begun to speak in
tongues. The two men bent over the drawing, talking together in what Brunetti
thought might be Sardinian dialect.
     
    The blonde held the drawing out
towards Brunetti. ‘No, I don’t recognize him. This the only picture you’ve got
of him?’
     
    ‘Yes,’ Brunetti answered, then
asked, ‘Would you mind asking your friends if they recognize him?’ He nodded
towards the group that still hung back against the wall, tossing occasional
remarks at passing cars but keeping their eyes on Brunetti and the two men.
     
    ‘Sure. Why not?’ Paolina’s friend
turned back towards the group. Paolina followed him, perhaps nervous at the
risk of spending time alone in the company of a policeman.
     
    The group peeled itself away from
the wall to walk towards them. The one with the drawing stumbled and caught
himself from falling only by clutching on to Paolina’s shoulder. He swore
viciously. The group of bright-coloured men crowded round them, and Brunetti
watched as they handed the drawing round. One of them, a tall, gangly boy in a
red wig, let the picture go, then suddenly grabbed it back and looked at it
again. He pulled at another man, pointed down towards the picture, and said
something to him. The second one shook his head, and the redhead jabbed at the
picture again. The other one still did not agree, and the redhead dismissed him
with an angry flip of his hand. The picture was passed around to a few more of
them, and then Paolina’s friend came back to Brunetti with the redhead walking
at his side.
     
    ‘Buona sera ,’ Brunetti said as the redhead
came up. He held out his hand and said, ‘Guido Brunetti.’
     
    The two men stood as if rooted to
the spot by their high heels. Paolina’s friend glanced down at his skirt and
wiped his hand nervously across its front. The redhead put his hand to his
mouth for a moment and then extended it to Brunetti. ‘Roberto Canale,’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you.’ His grip was firm, his hand warm.
     
    Brunetti held out his hand to the
other, who glanced nervously back to the group and, hearing nothing, took
Brunetti’s hand and shook it. ‘Paolo Mazza.’
     
    Brunetti turned back to the
redhead. ‘Do you recognize the man in the photo, Signor Canale?’ Brunetti
asked.
     
    The redhead looked off to the
side until Mazza said, ‘He’s talking to you, Roberta, don’t you even remember
your name?’
     
    ‘Of course I remember my name,’
the redhead said, turning angrily to Mazza. Then, to Brunetti, ‘Yes, I
recognize the man, but I can’t tell you who he is. I can’t even tell