Fatal Remedies Part 19

'I found him absolutely convincing when I spoke to him. I even sent a team to protect them, to keep an eye on the house, the day after she died.'

'They see anything?'

'Nothing.'

'Let me know if something turns up,' Brunetti said.

'Not likely, is it?'

'No.'

Usually Brunetti's instinct warned him when someone was lying or trying to hide something, but with Iacovantuono he had had no idea, no sense of warning or suspicion. Brunetti found himself wondering which he wanted to be true: did he want to be right, or did he want the little pizza cook to be a murderer?

His phone rang while his hand was still on it and pulled him away from speculation he knew to be idle.

'Guido, it's della Corte.'

Brunetti's mind flashed to Padova, to Mitri and to Palmieri. 'What is it?' he asked, too excited to dredge up polite formulas and all thought of Iacovantuono driven from his mind.

'We might have found him.'

'Palmieri?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'North of here. It looks like he's driving a truck.'

'A truck?' Brunetti repeated stupidly. It seemed too ba.n.a.l for a man who might have killed four people.

'He's using a different name. Michele de Luca.'

'How did you find him?'

'One of our blokes on the drug squad asked around and one of his little people told him. He wasn't sure, so we sent someone up there and he came back with a fairly positive identification.'

'Is there any chance that Palmieri might have seen him?'

'No, this guy's good.' Neither spoke for a while, then della Corte asked, 'Do you want us to bring him in?'

I'm not sure that's going to be very easy.'

'We know where he's living. We could go in at night.'

'Where is he?'

'Castelfranco Veneto. He's driving a truck for a pharmaceutical factory called Interfar.'

'I'll come out there. I want to get him. Tonight.'

In order to join the Padova police in the raid on Palmieri's apartment, he had to lie to Paola. During lunch he told her that the police in Castelfranco had a suspect in custody and wanted him to go up there to speak to him. When she asked why he had to stay away all night, he explained that the man wouldn't be brought in until quite late and there were no trains back after ten. In fact, there were to be none at all in the Veneto that afternoon. The air-traffic controllers at the airport having declared a wildcat strike at noon, closing the airport and forcing incoming planes to reroute and land at Bologna or Trieste, the railway engineers' union decided to strike in sympathy with their demands, so all train traffic in the Veneto came to a halt.

'Take a car, then.'

'I am, as far as Padova. That's all Patta will authorize.'

'That means he doesn't want you to go up there, doesn't it?' she said, looking at him across the plates and leavings of the meal. The children had already disappeared into their rooms, so they could talk openly. 'Or doesn't know you're going.'

'That's partly it,' he said. He took an apple from the fruit basket and began to peel it. 'Good apples,' he remarked as he tasted the first piece.

'Don't be evasive, Guido. What's the other reason?'

'I might have to talk to him for a long time, so I don't know when I'd get back.'

'And they've got this man and all they're doing is bringing him in so you can grill him?' she asked sceptically.

'I've got to ask him about Mitri,' Brunetti said - an evasion, rather than an outright lie.

'Is this the man who did it?' she enquired.

'It could be. He's wanted for questioning in at least three other murders.'

'Questioning? What does that mean?'

Brunetti had read the files, so he knew there was a witness who had seen him with the second victim on the night of his death. And there was the fight with Narduzzi. And now a job driving a truck for a pharmaceutical factory. In Castelfranco. Bonaventura's company. 'He's implicated.'

'I see,' she said, hearing in his tone his reluctance to be more explicit. 'Then you'll be home tomorrow morning?'

'Yes.'

'What time are you leaving?' she asked in sudden concession.

'Eight.'

'Are you going back to the Questura?'

'Yes.' He was going to add something about needing to hear if the man had been formally charged, but he stopped himself. He didn't like lying, but it seemed better than having her worry about his deliberately putting himself in danger. If she knew, she'd tell him that both his age and his rank ought to spare him that.

He had no idea if he'd get any sleep that night, or where, but he went back into the bedroom and put a few things into a small bag. He opened the left door of the large walnut armadio, armadio, the one Count Orazio had given them as a wedding present, and pulled out his keys. He used one of them to unlock a drawer, then another for a rectangular metal box. He pulled out his pistol and holster, and slipped them into his pocket, then carefully relocked both the box and the drawer. the one Count Orazio had given them as a wedding present, and pulled out his keys. He used one of them to unlock a drawer, then another for a rectangular metal box. He pulled out his pistol and holster, and slipped them into his pocket, then carefully relocked both the box and the drawer.

He thought of the Iliad, Iliad, then, and of Achilles donning his armour before going into battle with Hector: mighty s.h.i.+eld, greaves, spear, sword and helmet. How paltry a thing and how ign.o.ble seemed this little metal object resting against his hip, the gun Paola always referred to as a portable p.e.n.i.s. And yet how quickly had gunpowder put an end to chivalry and all those ideas of glory descended from Achilles. He stopped at the door and told himself to pay attention: he was going to Castelfranco on business and he had to say goodbye to his wife. then, and of Achilles donning his armour before going into battle with Hector: mighty s.h.i.+eld, greaves, spear, sword and helmet. How paltry a thing and how ign.o.ble seemed this little metal object resting against his hip, the gun Paola always referred to as a portable p.e.n.i.s. And yet how quickly had gunpowder put an end to chivalry and all those ideas of glory descended from Achilles. He stopped at the door and told himself to pay attention: he was going to Castelfranco on business and he had to say goodbye to his wife.

Though he hadn't seen della Corte for some years, he recognized him the instant he walked into the Padova Questura: same dark eyes and unruly moustache.

Brunetti called to him and the policeman turned towards the sound of his name. 'Guido,' he said and walked over quickly. 'How good to see you again.'

Talking of what they'd done during the last few years, they walked down to della Corte's office. There, the talk of old cases continued over coffee and, when it was finished, they started to discuss the plans for that night. Delia Corte suggested they wait until after ten to leave Padova, which would get them to Castelfranco by eleven, when they were supposed to meet the local police, who had been told about Palmieri and had insisted they come along.

When they got to the Castelfranco Questura a few minutes before eleven, they were met by Commissario Bonino and two officers wearing jeans and leather jackets. They had prepared a map of the area surrounding the apartment where Palmieri lived, complete down to every detail: s.p.a.ces in the parking lot beside the house, location of all of the doors in the building, even a floor plan of his apartment.

'How did you get this?' Brunetti asked, letting his admiration speak in his voice.

Bonino nodded to the younger of the policemen. 'The building is only a few years old,' he explained, 'and I knew the plans would have to be down at the ufficio catasto, ufficio catasto, so I went there this afternoon and asked for a blueprint of the second floor. He's on the third, but the layout is the same.' He stopped talking and looked down at the blueprint, calling their attention back to it. so I went there this afternoon and asked for a blueprint of the second floor. He's on the third, but the layout is the same.' He stopped talking and looked down at the blueprint, calling their attention back to it.

It appeared simple enough: a single staircase led up to a corridor. Palmieri's apartment was at the end of the hall. All they had to do was place two men below his windows, one at the bottom of the stairs, and that left two to go in and two to work as back-up in the hallway. Brunetti was about to observe that seven seemed excessive, but then he remembered that Palmieri might have killed four men and said nothing.

Two cars parked a few hundred metres beyond the building and they all got out. The two young men in jeans had been chosen to go up to the apartment with Brunetti and della Corte, who would make the actual arrest. Bonino said he'd cover the stairs and the two from Padova moved off to take their places under the three fat pines that stood between the apartment building and the street, one man with a view of the front entrance, the other of the rear.

Brunetti, della Corte, and the two officers took the stairs. At the top they split up. The men in jeans stayed inside the stairwell, one propping open the door with his foot.

Brunetti and della Corte walked to Palmieri's door. Silently, Brunetti tried the handle, but the door was locked. Delia Corte knocked twice, not loudly. Silence. He knocked again, louder this time. Then he called, 'Ruggiero, it's me. They sent me to get you. You've got to get out. The police are on the way.'

Inside, something fell over and smashed, probably a light. But none came from under the door. Delia Corte banged on it again. 'Ruggiero, per l'amor di Dio, per l'amor di Dio, would you get out here. Move.' would you get out here. Move.'

Inside, there were more noises; something else fell, but this was heavy, a chair or a table. They heard shouts coming from below, probably the other policemen. At the sound of their voices both Brunetti and della Corte moved away from the doorway and stood with their backs against the wall.

And not a moment too soon. One, two more, then two further bullets tore through the thick wood of the door. Brunetti felt something sting his face and when he looked down he saw two drops of blood on the front of his coat. Suddenly the two young officers were kneeling on either side of the door, their pistols in their hands. Like an eel, one of them flipped over on to his back, pulled his legs up to his chest and, with piston-like force, slammed his feet into the door, just where it joined the jamb. The wood gave and his second kick sent it slamming open. Even before the door hit the inside wall, the man on the floor had spun himself like a top into the room.

Brunetti had barely raised his pistol when he heard two shots, then a third, ring out. After that, nothing. Seconds pa.s.sed, then a man's voice called, 'All right, you can come in.'

Brunetti slipped through the doorway, della Corte following close behind. The policeman knelt behind an overturned sofa, his pistol still in his hand. On the floor, his head visible in a wedge of light that spilled in from the hallway, lay a man Brunetti recognized as Ruggiero Palmieri. One arm was flung ahead of him, fingers aimed at the door and the freedom that once lay behind it; the other was crumpled invisibly under him. Where his left ear should have been was only a red hole, the exit wound from the second of the policeman's bullets.

23.

Brunetti had been a policeman too long and had seen too many things go wrong to want to waste time in trying to figure out what had happened or attempting to devise an alternate plan that might have worked. But the others were younger and hadn't learned yet that failure taught very little, so he listened to them for a while, not really paying attention but agreeing with whatever they said while he waited for the lab crew to arrive.

At one point, when the officer who had shot Palmieri lay on the floor to study the angle at which he had entered the apartment, Brunetti went into the bathroom, moistened his handkerchief with cold water, and wiped at the small cut on his cheek where a sliver of wood from the shattering door had sliced off a piece of flesh about the size of one of the b.u.t.tons on his s.h.i.+rt. Still holding his handkerchief, he opened the small medicine chest, looking for a piece of gauze or something to stop the bleeding, and found that it was full, but not with plasters.

Guests were said to explore the medicine cabinets in the bathrooms they used; Brunetti had never done it. He was amazed at what he saw: three rows of all manner of medicines, at least fifty boxes and bottles, vastly different in packaging and size, but all carrying the distinctive adhesive label with the nine-digit number from the Ministry of Health. But no bandages. He pushed the door closed and went back into the room where Palmieri lay.

During the time Brunetti had been in the bathroom, the other policemen had arrived and now the young ones were gathered at the door, where they replayed the shooting, with, it seemed to a disgusted Brunetti, the same enthusiasm they'd give to rewatching an action video. The older men stood separately and silently in various parts of the room. Brunetti went over to della Corte. 'Can we begin to search the place?'

'Not until their crime crew gets here, I think.'

Brunetti nodded. It didn't make any difference, really. Only in time, and now they had all night to do it. He just wished they would hurry, so that the body would be taken away. He avoided looking at it, but as time pa.s.sed and the young men ceased their retelling of the tale, that grew harder. Brunetti had just moved over towards the window when he heard footsteps on the stairs and turned to see the familiar uniforms come into the apartment: technicians, photographers, the minions of violent death.

He went back to the window and studied the cars in the parking lot and those few that still drove by at this hour. He wanted to call Paola, but she believed him safely in bed in some small hotel, so he did not. He didn't turn round when the photographer's flash went off repeatedly, nor at the arrival of what must be the medico legale. medico legale. No secrets here. No secrets here.

It wasn't until after he heard the grunts of the two white-jacketed men from the morgue and the thunking noise as one of the handles of their litter hit the door jamb that he turned. He went over to Bonino, who was talking to della Corte, and asked, 'Can we begin?'

He nodded. 'Of course. The only thing on the body was a wallet. With more than twelve million lire in it, in the new five-hundred-thousand-lire notes.' And before Brunetti could inquire, he added, 'It's on the way to the lab to be fingerprinted.'

'Good,' Brunetti said, then, turning to della Corte, he asked, 'Shall we take the bedroom?'

Delia Corte nodded and together they walked into the other room, leaving the local men to take care of the rest of the apartment.

They had never searched a room together before, but by unspoken consent della Corte went to the cupboard and began going through the pockets of the slacks and jackets hanging there.

Brunetti started on the dresser, not bothering with plastic gloves, not after he saw the fingerprint powder dusted over its every surface. He opened the first drawer and was surprised to find Palmieri's things lying in neat piles, then wondered why he had a.s.sumed that a killer had to be untidy. Underwear was folded into two piles, socks balled and, Brunetti thought, arranged by colour.

The next held sweaters and what looked like gym clothes. The bottom one was empty. He pushed it closed with his foot and turned to look at della Corte. Only a few things hung in the wardrobe: he could see a down parka, some jackets, and what looked like trousers inside the clear plastic wrap of a dry-cleaner's.

A carved wooden box sat on the dresser, its lid left closed by the technician, whose dust fluttered up in a small grey cloud as Brunetti lifted it open. Inside he found a stack of papers, which he took out and placed on the top of the dresser.

Carefully, he began to read through them, laying each one aside as he finished it. He found electric and gas bills, both made out in the name of Michele de Luca. There was no phone bill, but that was explained by the telefonino telefonino that lay beside the wooden box. that lay beside the wooden box.

Below that he discovered an envelope addressed to R. P.: the top, where it had been carefully slit open, was grey with much handling. Inside, dated more than five years before, he found a piece of light-blue paper with a message written in a careful hand. 'I'll see you at the restaurant at eight tomorrow. Until then, the beating of my heart will tell me how slowly the minutes are pa.s.sing.' It was signed with the letter M. Maria? Brunetti wondered. Mariella? Monica?

He folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, then placed it on top of the bills. There was nothing else in the box.

He looked round at della Corte. 'You find anything?'

He turned from the cupboard and held up a large set of keys. 'Only these,' della Corte said, holding them up. 'Two of them are for a car.'

'Or a truck?' suggested Brunetti.

Delia Corte nodded. 'Let's go and see what's parked outside,' he suggested.

The living-room was empty, but Brunetti noticed two men in the small kitchen angle, where the refrigerator and all the cabinets stood open. Light and noise spilled from the bathroom, but Brunetti doubted that they would find anything.

He and della Corte went downstairs and out into the parking lot. Glancing back, they saw that many of the lights in the building were turned on. At his movement, someone in the apartment above Palmieri's opened the window and shouted down, 'What's going on?'

'Police,' della Corte called back. 'Everything's all right.'

For a moment Brunetti wondered if the man at the window would ask more, demand an explanation for the shots, but the Italian fear of authority manifested itself, and he pulled his head back in and closed the window.

There were seven vehicles parked behind the building, five cars and two trucks. Delia Corte began with the first of these, a grey panel truck with the name of a toy store printed on the side. Below it, a teddy bear rode a hobby-horse off to the left. Neither key fitted. Two s.p.a.ces along sat a grey Iveco panel truck with no name on it. The key didn't fit, nor did either key fit any of the cars.

As they were turning to go back to the apartment they both noticed a line of garage doors at the far end of the parking lot. It took them a while, testing all the keys on the locks of the first three doors, but finally one of them slid into that of the fourth door.

As he swung it open and saw the white panel truck parked there, della Corte said, 'I guess we'd better call the lab boys back.'

Brunetti glanced down at his watch and saw that it was well after two. Delia Corte understood. He took the first car key and tried it on the lock of the driver's door. It turned easily and he pulled it open. He took a pen from the front pocket of his jacket and used it to switch on the light above the seat. Brunetti took the keys from him and went round to the other door. He opened it, selected a smaller key, and opened the glove compartment. From the look of it the clear plastic envelope inside contained nothing but insurance and owners.h.i.+p papers. Brunetti took his own pen and pulled the envelope towards the light, turning it so that he could read the papers. The truck was registered to 'Interfar'.

With the top of the pen he pushed the papers back and closed the glove compartment, then he shut the door. He locked it and went round to the rear doors. The first key opened them. The back compartment of the truck was filled, almost to the roof, with large cardboard boxes bearing what Brunetti recognized as the Interfar logo, the letters I and F, in black, on either side of a red caduceus. Paper labels were pasted to the centre of the boxes and above them, in red, was printed 'Air Freight'.