Part 14 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sed: 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 pa.s.sage 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 relations.h.i.+p 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?'