Brunetti immediately called down to Vianello's office and asked him to come up and get the dental X-rays. When the sergeant came in, Brunetti told him where Doctor Urbani's office was and asked Vianello to call from there with the results.

What would it be like to have a child kidnapped? What if the victim had been Raffi, his own son? The very thought of it made Brunetti's stomach tighten with fear and disgust. He remembered the rash of kidnappings that had taken place in the Veneto during the 1980s and the burst of business it had provided for private security firms. That gang had been broken up a few years ago, and the leaders sentenced to fife imprisonment. With a twinge of guilt, Brunetti found himself thinking that this was not severe enough to punish them for what they had done, though the topic of capital punishment was such a red flag in his own family that he didn't pursue the logical consequences of this judgement.

He'd need to see the wall, to see how easy it would be to climb over it, or to see how else the stone might have been put behind the gates. He'd have to contact the Belluno police to ask about kidnappings in the area: he'd always thought it the most crime-free province in the country, but perhaps that was the Italy of memory. Enough time had pa.s.sed, so the Lorenzonis, if they had managed to borrow enough money to pay the ransom, might be willing to say so now. And if they had, how had they paid it, and when?

Years of experience warned him that he was a.s.suming the boy's death without final proof; the same years told him that final proof was unnecessary here. Intuition would suffice.

His thoughts shifted to his conversation with Count Orazio and his reluctance to accept the other man's intuition. In the past, Paola had sometimes said that she felt old, that the best of life was past, but Brunetti had always been able to lure her away from such ideas. He didn't know anything about menopause: the very word embarra.s.sed him. But could this be a sign that something like that was happening? Weren't there hot flashes? Strange cravings for food? - He realized that he wished it would be something like that, something physical and, therefore, something for which he was in no way responsible and about which he could do nothing. As a schoolboy, he had been told by the priest who gave religious instruction that it was necessary, before confession, to examine his conscience. There were, the priest had explained, sins of omission and sins of commission, but even then Brunettihad found it difficult to distinguish between the two. Now that he was a man, the distinction was even more difficult to grasp.

He found himself thinking that he should take Paola flowers, take her out to dinner, ask her about her work. But even as he considered such gestures, he realized how transparently false they were, even to him. If he knew the source of her unhappiness, he might have some idea of what to do.

It wasn't anything at home, where she was as consistently explosive as she'd always been. Work, then, and from what Paola had been saying for years, he could not imagine an intelligent person who would not be driven to despair by the Byzantine politics of the university. But usually the situation there enraged her, and no one embraced battle as joyously as did Paola. The Count had said she was unhappy.

Brunetti's thoughts went from Paola's happiness to his own, and he surprised himself by realizing that it had never before occurred to him to wonder whether he was happy or not. In love with his wife, proud of his children, capable of doing his job well, why would he worry about happiness, and what more than these things could happiness be comprised of? He dealt every day with people who believed they weren't happy and who further believed that by committing some crime - theft, murder, deceit, blackmail, even kidnapping - they would find the magic elixir that would transform the perceived misery of their lives into that most desired of states: happiness. Brunetti found himself too often forced to examine the consequences of those crimes, and what he saw was often the destruction of all happiness.

Paola frequently complained that no one at the university listened to her, indeed that few people ever bothered to listen to what anyone else said, but Brunetti had never included himself in that denunciation. But did he listen to her? When she railed on about the plummeting quality of her students and the grasping self-interest of her colleagues, was he attentive enough? No sooner had he asked himself this, than the thought snaked into his mind: did she listen to him when he complained about Patta or about the various incompetencies that were part of his daily life? And surely the consequences Of what he observed were far more serious than those of some student who didn't remember who wrote I Promessi Sposi I Promessi Sposi or didn't know who Aristotle was. or didn't know who Aristotle was.

Suddenly disgusted with the futility of all of this, he got up and went over to the window. Bonsuan's boat was back at its moorings, but the pilot was nowhere in sight. Brunetti knew that his refusal to recommend Lieutenant Scarpa for promotion had cost Bonsuan his promotion, but Brunetti's near certainty that the Lieutenant had betrayed a witness and caused her death made it difficult to be in the same room with him, impossible for him to go on record as approving of his behaviour. He regretted that the price of his contempt for Scarpa would have to be paid by Bonsuan, but Brunetti could see no way clear of it.

The thought of Paola returned, but he pushed it away and turned from the window. He went downstairs and into Signorina Elettra's office. 'Signorina,' he said as he went in, 'I think if s time to begin taking another look at the Lorenzoni case.'

'Then it was the boy?' she asked, looking up from her keyboard.

'I think so, but I'm waiting for Vianello to call me. He's checking the dental records.'

'The poor mother,' Elettra said and then added, 'I wonder if she's religious.'

my?'

'It helps people when terrible things happen, when people die'

'Are you?' Brunetti asked.

'Per carita' carita' she said, pushing the idea back towards him with raised hands. "The last time I was in church was for my confirmation. It would have upset my parents if I hadn't done it, which was pretty much the same for all my friends. But since then I've had nothing to do with it.' she said, pushing the idea back towards him with raised hands. "The last time I was in church was for my confirmation. It would have upset my parents if I hadn't done it, which was pretty much the same for all my friends. But since then I've had nothing to do with it.'

'Then why did you say that it helps people?'

'Because it's true' she said simply. 'The fact that I don't believe in it doesn't prevent it from helping other people. I'd be a fool to deny that.'

And Signorina Elettra was no fool, well he knew that. 'What about the Lorenzonis?' Brunetti asked, and before she could ask, he clarified the question. 'No, I'm not interested in their religious ideas. I'd like to know anything I can about them: their marriage, their businesses, where they have homes, who their friends are the name of their lawyer'

1 think a lot of this would be in Il Gazzettino' Il Gazzettino' she said. 'I can see what's in the files.' she said. 'I can see what's in the files.'

'Can you do this without leaving fingerprints, as it were?' he asked, though he wasn't sure why he didn't want to make it evident that he was looking into the family.

'Like the whiskers of a cat' she said with what sounded like real pleasure, or pride. She nodded down at the keyboard of her computer.

'With that?' Brunetti asked.

She smiled. 'Everything's in here'

'Like what?'

'Whether any of them has ever had any trouble with us' she answered, and he wondered if she was aware of how entirely unconscious her use of that p.r.o.noun had been.

'I suppose you could' Brunetti said. 1 hadn't thought of that'

'Because of his t.i.tle?' she asked, one eyebrow raised, the opposite side of her mouth curved up in a smile.

Brunetti, recognizing the truth of this, shook his head in silent negation. 'I don't remember ever hearing their name mixed up with anything. Aside from the kidnapping, that is. Do you know anything about them?'

'I know that Maurizio has a temper that sometimes works to other people's cost.'

'What does that mean?'

'That he doesn't like not to get his way, and when he doesn't, his behaviour is unpleasant.' 'How do you know?'

'I know it the way I know many things about the physical health of people in the city' 'Barbara?'

'Yes. Not because she was the doctor involved - I don't think she'd tell me then. But we were at dinner with another doctor, the one who subst.i.tutes for her when she's on vacation, and he said that he had a female patient whose hand had been broken by Maurizio Lorenzoni.'

'He broke her hand? How?'

'He slammed his car door on it'

Brunetti raised his eyebrows. 'I see what you mean by "unpleasant".'

She shook her head. 'No, it wasn't as bad as it sounds, not really. Even the girl said he didn't intend to do it. They'd had an argument. Apparently they'd been to dinner out on the mainland somewhere, and he'd invited her to the villa, the one where the other boy was kidnapped. She refused and asked him to drive her back to Venice. He was very angry, but he did finally drive her back. When they got to the garage at Piazzale Roma, someone was in his parking s.p.a.ce, so he had to park right up against the wall. That meant she had to get out on the driver's side. But he didn't realize that and slammed his door just as she was reaching up to grab onto the frame to help pull herself out.'

'She was sure he didn't see her?'

'Yes. In fact, when he heard her scream and saw what he had done, he was terrified, almost to tears, or so she told Barbara's friend. He got her downstairs and called a water taxi and took her to the p.r.o.nto soccorso p.r.o.nto soccorso at the civil hospital, and the next day he drove her up to a specialist in Udine who set her hand.' at the civil hospital, and the next day he drove her up to a specialist in Udine who set her hand.'

'Why was she seeing this other doctor?'

'She had some sort of skin infection under the cast. He was treating her for that. So of course he asked her how she had broken her hand.'

'And that's the story she gave?'

"That's what he said. He apparently thought she was telling the truth.'

'Did she bring a civil suit against him for damages?7 'No, not that I know of'

'Do you know her name?'

'No, but I can get it from Barbara's friend'

'Please do' Brunetti' asked. 'And see what else you can find out about any of them.'

'Only criminal things, Commissario?'

Brunetti's impulse was to agree to this, but then he thought of the apparent contradiction in Maurizio, said to have flown into a rage when a woman refused his invitation, yet to have been moved almost to tears when he saw her broken hand. He began to grow curious about what other contradictions might be lurking amidst the Lorenzoni family. 'No, lef s see what we can find out about them, anything.'

'All right, Dottore,' she said, turning her chair to bring her hands over the keys of her computer. 'I'll start with Interpol, then see what Il Gazzettino Il Gazzettino might have' might have'

Brunetti nodded towards her computer. 'You really can do it with that, instead of the telephone?'

She looked at him with infinite patience, just the sort of look his high school chemistry teacher used to give him after each unsuccessful experiment. "The only people who ring me today are the ones who make obscene calls.'

'And everyone else uses that?' he said, indicating the little box on her desk.

'It's called a modem, sir'

'Ah, yes, I remember. Well, see what it can tell you about the Lorenzonis'

Before Signorina Elettra, newly appalled at his ignorance, could begin to explain to him just what a modem was and how it worked, Brunetti turned and left her office. Neither viewed his precipitate departure as a lost opportunity for the advancement of human understanding.

11.

His phone was ringing when he got to his office; he half ran across the room to pick it up. Even before Brunetti could give his name, Vianello said, It's Lorenzoni.'

"The X-rays match?'

'Yes, perfectly.'

Though Brunetti had expected this, he found himself adjusting his mind to the certainty. It was one thing to tell someone that there was every possibility the body of his cousin had been found; how vastly different to tell parents that their only child was dead. Their only son. 'Gesu, pieta' 'Gesu, pieta' he whispered and then in a louder voice asked Vianello, 'Did the dentist have anything to say about the boy?' he whispered and then in a louder voice asked Vianello, 'Did the dentist have anything to say about the boy?'

'Nothing directly, but he seemed sad to learn that he was dead. I'd say he liked him.'

'What makes you say that?'

'From the way he spoke of him. After all, the boy was a patient for years, from when he was fourteen. In a sense, the dentist watched him grow up.' When Brunetti said nothing, Vianello asked, 'I'm still in his office. Do you want me to ask anything else?'

'No, no, don't bother, Vianello. I think you'd better come back here. I want you to go up to Belluno tomorrow morning, and I want you to read through the whole file before that.'

'Yes, sir,' Vianello said and, with no further questions, hung up.

Twenty-one years old and dead with a bullet in his brain. At twenty-one, life hasn't been lived, hasn't even been properly begun; the person who will emerge from the coc.o.o.n of youth is still almost entirely dormant. And this boy was dead. Brunetti thought of his own father-in-law's tremendous wealth and again thought that it might just as easily have been his only grandson, Raffi, who had been kidnapped and murdered. Or it might have been his granddaughter. That possibility drove Brunetti from his office, from the Questura, and towards his home, filled with an irrational concern for his family's safety: like St Thomas, he could believe only what his hands could touch.

Though he was not aware of climbing the stairs more quickly than he usually did, he was so winded when he got to the bottom of the last flight that he had to lean against the wall for a minute until his breath came back to him. He pushed himself away and up the last steps, taking his keys from his pocket as he did.

He let himself in and stood just inside the door, listening to see if he could locate all three of them and know them to be safe within the walls he had given them. From die kitchen, he heard the dang of metal as something fell to the floor and then Paola's voice, 'It doesn't matter, Chiara. Just wash it off and put it back on the pan.'

He turned his attention to the back of the apartment, towards Raffi's room, and coming from it he heard the heavy ba.s.s of some dreadful noise, known to younger people as music. And never had melody, though he could discern none here, had a sweeter sound.

He hung his coat in the cupboard in the hall and went down the long corridor towards the kitchen. Chiara turned towards him as he came in.

'Ciao, Papa. Mamma's teaching me how to make ravioli. We're going to have them tonight.' She held her flour-covered hands behind her back and came a few steps towards him. He leaned down and she kissed him on both cheeks; he wiped a long smear of flour from her left cheek. 'Filled with teaching me how to make ravioli. We're going to have them tonight.' She held her flour-covered hands behind her back and came a few steps towards him. He leaned down and she kissed him on both cheeks; he wiped a long smear of flour from her left cheek. 'Filled with funghi, funghi, right right Mamma?' Mamma?' she asked, turning to Paola, who stood at the stove, stirring the mushrooms in a large frying pan. She nodded and kept stirring. she asked, turning to Paola, who stood at the stove, stirring the mushrooms in a large frying pan. She nodded and kept stirring.

Behind them on the table lay a few crooked piles of oddly shaped pale rectangles. 'Are those the ravioli?' he asked, remembering the neat geometry of the squares his mother used to cut and fill.

'They will be, Papa, Papa, as soon as we get them filled.' She turned to Paola for confirmation. 'Won't they, as soon as we get them filled.' She turned to Paola for confirmation. 'Won't they, Mamma?' Mamma?'

Paola stirred and nodded, turned to Brunetti and accepted his kisses without comment.

'Won't they, MammaT MammaT Chiara repeated, voice a tone higher. Chiara repeated, voice a tone higher.

'Yes. Just a few more minutes for the mushrooms and we can start to fill them.'

'You said I could do it myself. Mamma,' Mamma,' Chiara insisted. Chiara insisted.

Before Chiara could turn to Brunetti to witness this injustice, Paola conceded the point. 'If your father will pour me a gla.s.s of wine while the mushrooms finish, all right?'

'Would you like me to help you to fill them?' Brunetti asked, half joking.

'Oh, Papa, Papa, don't be silly. You know you'd make a mess.' don't be silly. You know you'd make a mess.'

'Don't talk to your father that way,' Paola said.

'What way?'

'That way.'

'I don't understand.'

'You do so understand.'

'White or red, Paola?' Brunetti interrupted. He walked past Chiara, and seeing that Paola had turned back to the stove, he narrowed his eyes at Chiara and gave a small shake of his head while motioning towards Paola with his chin.

Chiara pursed her lips, shrugged, but then nodded. 'All right, Papa, Papa, if you want to, you can.' Then, after a grudgingly long pause, 'So can if you want to, you can.' Then, after a grudgingly long pause, 'So can Mamma Mamma if she wants to.' if she wants to.'

'Red,' Paola said and stirred the mushrooms around the pan.

Brunetti walked past her and stooped to open the cabinet under the sink. 'Cabernet?' he asked.

'Uh, huh,'Paola agreed.

He opened thewine and poured out two gla.s.ses.

When she reached out a hand to take the gla.s.s, he took her hand, pressed her palm to his lips, and kissed it. Surprised, she looked up at him. 'What's that for?' she asked.