Friends in High Places Read Online Free PDF Page B

burglaries in the cities, but now they started to be accused of pickpocketing and minor street crimes, as well. Because these crimes were a bother to tourists, the principal source of the city’s revenue, and not merely to residents, Brunetti was assigned to see if something could be done about them. The pickpockets were too young to be prosecuted; they were repeatedly apprehended and taken to the Questura, where they were asked to identify themselves. When the few who carried papers turned out to be under age, they were cautioned and released. Many were back the next day; most were back within a week. Since the only viable options Brunetti could see were to change the law regarding juvenile offenders or expel them from the country, he found it difficult to write his report.
     
    He was at his desk, devoting a great deal of thought to how best to avoid stating self-evident truths, when his phone rang. ‘Brunetti,’ he said and flipped over to the third page of the names of those arrested for petty theft in the last two months.
     
    ‘Commissario?’ a man’s voice asked.
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    ‘This is Franco Rossi.’
     
    The name was the most common one a Venetian could have, equivalent to ‘John Smith’, so it took Brunetti a moment to sort through the various places he could expect to find a Franco Rossi, and it was only then that he found himself in the Ufficio Catasto.
     
    ‘Ah, I’ve been hoping to hear from you, Signor Rossi,’ he lied easily. His real hope was that Signor Rossi had somehow disappeared, taking the Ufficio Catasto and its records along with him. ‘Is there some sort of news?’
     
    ‘About what?’
     
    ‘The apartment,’ Brunetti asked, wondering what other sort of news he might be expecting to hear from Signor Rossi.
     
    ‘No, nothing,’ Rossi answered. ‘The office has been given the report and will consider it.’
     
    ‘Have you any idea when that might be?’ Brunetti asked diffidently.
     
    ‘No. I’m sorry. There’s no way of telling when they’ll get around to it.’ Rossi’s voice was brisk, dismissive.
     
    Brunetti was momentarily struck by how apt a slogan these words would be for most of the city offices he had dealt with, both as a civilian and as a policeman. ‘Did you want more information?’ he asked, remaining polite, conscious that he might, some time in the future, have need of Signor Rossi’s good will, even perhaps his material aid.
     
    ‘It’s about something else,’ Rossi said. ‘I mentioned your name to someone, and they told me where you worked.’
     
    ‘Yes, how can I help you?’
     
    ‘It’s about something here at the office,’ he said, then stopped and corrected himself, ‘Well, not here because I’m not at the office. If you understand.’
     
    ‘Where are you, Signor Rossi?’
     
    ‘On the street. I’m using my telefonino. I didn’t want to call you from the office.’ The reception faded out and when Rossi’s voice came back, he was saying, ‘because of what I wanted to tell you.’
     
    If that was the case, Signor Rossi would have been well advised not to use his telefonino, a means of communication as open to the public as the newspaper.
     
    ‘Is what you have to tell me important, Signor Rossi?’
     
    ‘Yes, I think it is,’ Rossi said, his voice lower.
     
    ‘Then I think you’d better find a public phone and call me on that,’ Brunetti suggested.
     
    ‘What?’ Rossi asked uneasily.
     
    ‘Call me from a public phone, Signore. I’ll be right here and I’ll wait for your call.’
     
    ‘You mean this call isn’t safe?’ Rossi asked, and Brunetti heard the same tightness that had choked him off when he refused to move out on to the terrace of Brunetti’s apartment.
     
    ‘That’s an exaggeration,’ Brunetti said, trying to sound calm and reassuring. ‘But there will be no trouble if you make the call from a public phone, especially if you use my direct number.’ He gave the number to Rossi and