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    Dressed for Death
    Dressed for Death
    Dressed for Death
    Ebook391 pages5 hours

    Dressed for Death

    By Donna Leon

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    The New York Times–bestselling series and its Italian detective explore the seedy underworld of Venice: “Procedural writing at its best” (The Washington Post).
     
    Commissario Guido Brunetti’s hopes for a refreshing family holiday in the mountains are once again dashed when a gruesome discovery is made in Marghera—a body so badly beaten the face is completely unrecognizable. Brunetti searches Venice for someone who can identify the corpse but is met with a wall of silence. He then receives a telephone call from a contact who promises some tantalizing information. And before the night is out, Brunetti is confronting yet another appalling, and apparently senseless, death.
     
    “[One of] the real charms of this series [is] the endearing character of Brunetti and his compassionate insights into the heart of Venice and the soul of its people. . . . Truly, a refreshing hero.” —The New York Times Book Review
     
    “Despite the gruesome way in which this murder, and subsequent ones, take place, it’s really a cheery, breezy mystery, filled with good humor and adventure. The ending can only leave the reader waiting avidly for the next time we meet Brunetti and his lively friends and cohorts.” —Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
     
    “Leon delivers her plot in an unassuming, graceful and beautifully paced prose that hides its measured elegance.” —The Washington Post
     
    “One of the most appealing of recent detectives, Brunetti stars in a case that brings out his canniness and his compassion—and shows his creator spreading her wings more powerfully than ever.” —Kirkus Reviews
     
    “Richly evocative. . . . Venice takes on a deep noir tint in Leon’s latest well-crafted work.” —Publishers Weekly
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateDec 30, 2008
    ISBN9781555849009
    Dressed for Death

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    Reviews for Dressed for Death

    3.5/5

    446 ratings25 reviews

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    • 4/5
      The Commissario is called out to investigate the death of a possible transvestite prostitute. His methodical approach soon finds a deeper motive for the murder. Unfortunately, the are several other deaths that occur as part of a coverup for a serious embezzlement scheme. Thwarted by the political connections of the primary suspect, all seems lost. But, then? Narrated well.
    • 5/5
      A murder victim is initially identified as a transvestite whore. As Brunetti investigates he begins to wonder if things aren't what they seem. The investigation focuses on possible misuse of a charitable organization and calls on Brunetti to act the tough cop more then in past stories. Leon kept this reader guessing maintaining a good level of suspense while still sharing a visit to Venice with the reader.
    • 5/5
      Venice, law-enforcement, murder-investigation*****This is my first foray into the world of Commissario Brunetti but it certainly won't be the last! The only difference in the police work from other law enforcement areas id that it is all by water and not by roadways. Otherwise, policework is much the same everywhere and this book is a fine example of due diligence in a murky social sphere. Well written and I loved it!
    • 4/5
      Working my way through the Commissario Brunetti mysteries and enjoying the series tremendously. Guitto Brunetti does not have the dark, brooding nature of so many fictional detectives. Instead he has a loving marriage and a happy home life.This one dealt with transvestites and a money laundering scheme through what is supposed to be a housing program for widows and orphans. Body count hit 4 by the end of the story if I was counting correctly. There wasn't quite as much scenery of Venice in this one as in the last one, [Death in a Strange Country].
    • 4/5
      Apartments, bodies - great plot.
    • 4/5
      Commissario Guido Brunetti's mysteries third installment exposes several imperfections in Brunetti's nature -- some charming, some perplexing, all fascinating.A man's body wearing a dress and new high-heeled shoes, beaten beyond recognition, is found in an area frequented by prostitutes. What initially is thought to be a transvestite's violent death, slowly evolves into a tale of intrigue involving lawyers, fraud, money laundering and transvestitism.Guido notices that the shaving of the body doesn't appear to be expertly done which leads him to question if the victim was truly a transvestite. His own sensitivities make the Commisario question his prejudices as his investigation treads through the world of the demimonde. At the same time as Guido is struggling with his own bigotries he has to deal with his private satisfaction as his superior, Vice-Questore Patta, copes with the departure of his wife in the arms of a well-known pornographer.Paola and the kids go off to vacation without Guido which necessitates the need for additional characters to interact with Guido so we are introduced to Signorina Elettra Zorzi, a new secretary/assistant. Supposedly the secretary to Patta, her abilities for computer hacking as well as contacts in the "outside" world bode a great future for this character.The social observations at the end where the victim's widow states that no matter that it was proven that her husband was not a transvestite, he will always be remembered for being found dead in dress, makes the reader stop to think of what else Brunetti's future will comment on in society.Again, a winner with Commisario Guido Brunetti.
    • 4/5
      The 3rd book in the excellent Commissario Guido Brunetti series set in Venice, Italy, this book opens with the discovery of the body of a prominent local banker dressed in a red dress and red high-heeled women's shoes and dumped in a field in an area frequented by prostitutes. Brunetti's investigation forces him to look closely into the normally hidden world of homosexual prostitution, transvestites, and men who like boys. A world that seems to populated by several prominent, and married, men. Add to this a possible scandal involving a well-known but little understood charity, and stifling summer heat that has Brunetti's family taking refuge in the cool mountains while he is forced to cancel his vacation and stay behind in the city. The result is a fast-paced and intense investigation where the bodies seem to be piling up faster than the clues.
    • 4/5
      In Dressed for Death, third in Donna Leon's Brunetti series, Commissario Guido Brunetti investigates the murder of a man, found in a field, dressed in a red dress with red stiletto heels. The man had been beaten, his face crushed beyond recognition. At first, everyone - including Brunetti - assumes that the man was probably a transvestite prostitute, and the killing because something has gone wrong in an fairly commonplace - but distasteful - transaction. However, as Brunetti digs deeper, he discovers connections with some well-placed people in Venice society, people trying to cover up both their potentially scandalous activities and the ever-present corruption that seems to thread its way through Italian society.Once again, Leon has woven a tale that combines a good mystery with a bit of social commentary. Here the commentary is about prejudices against transvestites and homosexuals. Brunetti finds himself confronting his own biases toward both groups. In a subplot, Vice-Questore Patta (Brunetti's self-absorbed and politically inclined boss), finds that his wife has run away with Italy's master of porn. Throughout the book, Leon is gently prodding her readers to think about various issues of sex, scandal and gossip.Another good installment in the Brunetti series.
    • 4/5
      Another pleasant adventure with Commissario Guido Brunetti. A nearby town calls Brunetti in to investigate the corpse of what is apparently a transvestite found lying near the industrial district, a common hangout for the sex trade. I enjoyed this one even more than the last (Death in a Strange Country). The story felt more like a mystery, whereas the last one felt a bit more like a political treatise. This is not to say that Leon doesn't provide some commentary on social issues in this episode. In this one, she turns her attention to the condition of prostitutes, particularly male prostitutes, and transvestites in Italy. As usual, there is a fair degree of cynicism about Italian authorities and social conventions as Brunetti works to resolve the case in spite of them.Three books in and this series is still one I recommend—they are getting better as they go.
    • 4/5
      3rd in the Commisario Brunetti series set in Venice.In a field in Mestre, a small city just to the west of Venice on the mainland, in a field used by the most desperate type of prostitutes, a worker in an abbatoir discovers the body of a middle-aged man dressed in a cheap red dress and red shoes. His face has been smashed in, making him virtually unidentifiable.Because it’s August, and Mestre’s Questura is understaffed due to holidays and other misfortunes, Patta decides to “lend” Brunetti to the Mestre force to investigate the crime. Not that there’s much doubt in anyone’s mind what happened--something “gone wrong” in a transaction by the most despised of prostitutes, transvestites. Brunetti, who was supposed to go on the family’s annual vacation in the mountains, instead sees Paola, Chiara, and Raffi off at the train station, and returns to a hot, humid Venice--and Mestre--for this distasteful investigation. Before too long, Brunetti is less than convinced of the apparent motive for the murder; the investigation takes him further into the world of transvestite prostitution and those of the moneyed class in Venice who use their services.In most of her books, Leon uses some social issue as a background for her plots, illuminating the less than pleasant aspects of Italian life--in this case, transvestites and the attitudes felt by most Italians towards them, attitudes that in many cases are utterly hypocritical. She does a good job of this without ever becoming preachy, letting the characters speak for themselves and showcase the situation. While I don’t think that Leon does as good a job on the same subject as Magdalen Nabb in her Marshal Guarnaccia series (The Marshall’s Own Case), it’s still a glimpse into that world.Because Paola and the teenagers are off on vacation, this book does not have their strong contributions to the series, but that is more than made up for by the introduction of one of Leon’s great characters, the ineffable Signorina Elettra Zorzi. Nominally secretary to Patta, the pompous Vice Questore, Elettra in her debut appearance gives ample notice of the serene, sophisticated, highly talented computer hijacker role which she will expand in future books. The book is worth reading if just for the relish of her appearance. Patta plays an unusually large role in this book in a surprising way. We’re getting used to some of the more minor ones now, such as Sgt. Vianelli and his always off-stage wife Nadia who has found a second career as amateur investigator; all the minor characters lend strength to the series.All in all, an excellent story, with the usual good plotting, fine writing, and strong characters. Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      The mystery in this was interesting, but none of the characters stand out. Brunetti's family was out of town for the story, and gone with them some of the charm of this series. However the Venetian setting was wonderfully described.
    • 3/5
      Audio book performed by David Colacci

      Commissario Guido Brunetti’s plans for a family getaway to the mountains are waylaid when a body is found, the face so badly beaten as to be unrecognizable. What is clear, however, is that the man was a transvestite, and probably a prostitute. Or was he?

      I love Guido and this series of mysteries set in and around Venice. Brunetti is methodical and unflappable; he understands the Italian bureaucracy, and how to get around it. Not a man who suffers fools gladly, he prefers to use his brains to outwit the bad guys, but isn’t above using some brawn when called for. Colacci’s performance on the audio is great, bringing this quiet hero to life.
    • 3/5
      Engaging detective and romantic setting. The mystery angle was a bit on the easy side to figure, but intelligently written and, at times, witty. My only real qulam was that Inspector Brunetti struck me as a bit too naive for a man in his line of work.
    • 4/5
      The murder of an apparent transvestite launches an investigation that leads in unexpected directions. As Venice's Commissario Brunetti begins to uncover the corruption in high places that resulted in the murder, he resigns himself to missing his much anticipated mountain vacation with his wife and children. While Brunetti always finds a way to get to the truth, but truth doesn't always lead to justice in a society where appearance is everything.
    • 4/5
      Commissario Brunetti investigates the murder of an apparent transvestite found in a nearby jurisdiction. Prostitutes congregated in the area where the victim's body turned up. As he investigates, he uncovers a rental scheme involving influential persons. As with many of Leon's novels involving corruption, much of the police work involves building a case that will hold up. Although lacking the finesse of some of her later novels, the novel still appeals to persons seeking solid police procedurals in a country other than the United States or United Kingdom.
    • 3/5
      The anonymous Venetian starts off with another unidentified corpse - a man found beaten to death, dressed in women's clothes in an area of Mestre notoriously used by prostitutes. On that most traditional of all occasions for crime, the eve of the detective's planned holiday. But is it all that it seems? Well, no, obviously. But surely Brunetti's investigation isn't going to open up another tangled web of corruption in high places so soon after the last one? And surely even Brunetti wouldn't be so daft as to accept an invitation to a late-night rendezvous with an informant after the ones in the last two books ended so disastrously...?Leon's intelligent and lively style and the many unexpected touches of local detail she finds room for allow this book to be entertaining despite a rather predictable and pedestrian plot, but I'd rather hoped and expected that the series would be developing a bit more strongly by the time it got to the third book. If it carries on like this, I'm not sure that I shall.
    • 3/5
      Actually 2.5 Stars

      This mystery is set in Venice, Marghera, & Mestre, Italy.....

      What seems to be the body of a transvestite whore is found in under the bushes in the field behind the slaughterhouse with his face bashed in beyond recognition. Commissario Guido Brunetti is loaned out to work on the case as the local polizia are short staffed. Unfortunately, the investigation interferes with Brunetti's family vacation.

      While trying to identify the murdered man, Brunetti comes across a shady philanthropic church group, a questionable apartment rental group, a small odd bank, and he runs afoul of the Local (powerfully corrupt) Avvocato.

      Meanwhile Brunetti's boss is having marital troubles (his wife has run off w/ the local pornographer) and asks Brunetti for help.... in exchange for Brunetti's help his boss will request a warrant for the financial records of the Avvocato, the bank, & the philanthropic group.

      This is a riveting and well written story. There are parts at the beginning that contain too much description that could have been left out and the underlying violence is also not to my taste. I enjoy Brunetti's relationship w/ his family, especially his dialogs with his wife & her insights to things he misses. I'm not sure I will read another in this series.... it is a bit to disturbing for my taste.
    • 5/5
      Another fun/interesting mystery with Commissario Brunetti in Venice.
    • 4/5
      I'm really enjoying this series. Love the Venetian setting. Love all things Italian!
    • 4/5
      This is the third in Donna Leon's Commissario Brunetti series, although the second I have read. I enjoy the way she follows Brunetti throughout the investigation in detail, giving us insights into his professional actions as well as his human reactions. Venice, Italy becomes a character in the book, which for me was quite interesting as it gives the native Italian's view rather than the guidebook picture perfect view. All of her characters are drawn with looks and gestures, speech and sighs such that they become almost three dimensional. Brunetti's family is brought in to add another dimension to his life and it was interesting to see him as family man, going to market, loving his family and then facing the gruesome details of his profession. Quite a juxtaposition.
      This is more of a procedural crime novel, we find out pretty early who is involved and follow Bunetti's efforts to pull in the net around the purpotrators.
      The crime in this book is quite brutal, the motivations involving corruption and greed in the upper echelons of society.
    • 5/5
      Great audio. Characters overshadow the mystery which is fine with me
    • 4/5
      Always well written and always the best family-relationship-dynamic scenes. Brunetti is my new favorite detective.
    • 3/5
      An earlier one in the Commissario Brunetti series, we are introduced to smart and beautiful Elettra in this one. A body is found in a field behind a slaughterhouse, the person so violently beaten that there is no face to identify the person who later is found to be a transvestite. Without an identity and with just an artist's rendition of what the person might look like based on part of his facial structure and hair, Brunetti and team visit the red light districts of Venice to try their luck interviewing the prostitutes. The biggest challenge he has is finding a motive for the victim's murder and he takes us along with him on this puzzling journey as he interrogates, annoys and generally makes a few important people in the city nervous.
    • 4/5
      Another great episode of Commissario Guido Brunetti and his crew as they solve the murder of an alleged transvestite prostitute, and the criminal activities of a large non-profit involved in the murders. This is the 2nd of the series, and in this one we meet the Senorina Electra, Brunetti's secretary and admin assistant extraorinaire. More great scenes of Venice, and the surrounding area. More wonderful tempting descriptions of Italian eating , and a well developed plot with great characters.
    • 4/5
      This is the third in the Commissario Guido Brunetti mystery series. The series just keeps getting better. In this book, the mystery is very well plotted, with plenty of twists and turns. Brunetti continues to be one of my favorite characters in mystery fiction - an incredibly smart detective with a gentle way of interacting with others. I am especially fascinated by his relationship with his wife Paola. Leon spoils her readers with beautifully written prose and weaves Venice into the novel like another character. Plot, character, writing, setting - Leon's books could serve as a how to guide for excellent mystery writing.

    Book preview

    Dressed for Death - Donna Leon

    To the memory of Arleen Auger a perished sun

    Ah forse adesso

    Sul morir mio delusa

    Priva d’ogni speranza, e di consiglio

    Lagrime di dolor versa dal ciglio.

    Ah, perhaps already

    Deceived by my death

    Deprived of every hope and counsel

    Tears of pain flow from her eyes.

    Mozart, Lucio Silla

    1

    The shoe was red, the red of London phone booths, New York fire engines, although these were not images that came to the man who first saw the shoe. He thought of the red of the Ferrari Testarossa on the calendar in the room where the butchers changed their clothes, the one with the naked blonde draped across it, seeming to make fevered love to the left head-light. He saw the shoe lying drunkenly on its side, its toe barely touching the edge of one of the pools of oil that lay like a spotted curse upon the land beyond the abattoir. He saw it there and, of course, he also thought of blood.

    Somehow, years before, permission had been given to put the slaughterhouse there, long before Marghera had blossomed (although that is perhaps an inopportune choice of verb) into one of the leading industrial centers of Italy, before the petroleum refineries and the chemical plants had spread themselves across the acres of swampy land that lay on the other side of the laguna from Venice, pearl of the Adriatic. The cement building lay, low and feral, within the enclosure of a high mesh fence. Had the fence been built in the early days, when sheep and cattle could still be herded down dusty roads toward the building? Was its original purpose to keep them from escaping before they were led, pushed, beaten up the ramp toward their fate? The animals arrived in trucks now, trucks which backed directly up to the high-sided ramps, and so there was no chance that the animals could escape. And surely no one would want to come near that building; hence the fence was hardly necessary to keep anyone away. Perhaps because of this, the long gaps in it went unmended, and stray dogs, drawn by the stench of what went on inside, sometimes came through the fence at night and howled with longing for what they knew was there.

    The fields around the slaughterhouse stood empty; as if obeying a taboo as deep as blood itself, the factories stood far off from the low cement building. The buildings maintained their distance, but their ooze and their runoff and those deadly fluids that were piped into the ground knew nothing of taboo and seeped each year closer to the slaughterhouse. Black slime bubbled up around the stems of marsh grass, and a peacock-bright sheen of oil floated on the surface of the puddles that never disappeared, no matter how dry the season. Nature had been poisoned here, outside, yet it was the work that went on inside that filled people with horror.

    The shoe, the red shoe, lay on its side about a hundred meters to the rear of the slaughterhouse, just outside the fence, just to the left of a large clump of tall sea grass that seemed to thrive on the poisons percolating around its roots. At eleven-thirty on a hot Monday morning in August, a thickset man in a blood-soaked leather apron flung back the metal door at the rear of the slaughterhouse and emerged into the pounding sun. From behind him swept waves of heat, stench, and howls. The sun made it difficult to feel that it was cooler here, but at least the stench of offal was less foul, and the sounds came not from the shrieks and squeals that filled the air behind him but from the hum of traffic, a kilometer away, as the tourists poured into Venice for the Ferragosto holiday.

    He wiped a bloody hand on his apron, stooping to find a dry spot down by the hem, then reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a package of Nazionale. With a plastic lighter, he lit a cigarette and pulled at it greedily, glad of the smell and acrid taste of the cheap tobacco. A deep-throated howl came from the door behind him, pushing him away from the building, over toward the fence and the shade that was to be found under the stunted leaves of an acacia that had struggled to a height of four meters.

    Standing there, he turned his back on the building and looked out across the forest of smokestacks and industrial chimneys that swept off toward Mestre. Flames spurted up from some of them; grey, greenish clouds spilled out of others. A light breeze, too weak to be felt on his skin, brought the clouds back toward him. He pulled at his cigarette and looked down at his feet, always careful, here in the fields, where he stepped. He looked down and saw the shoe, lying on its side beyond the fence.

    It was made out of some sort of cloth, that shoe, not out of leather. Silk? Satin? Bettino Cola didn’t know that sort of thing, but he did know that his wife had a pair made out of the same sort of stuff, and she had spent more than a hundred thousand lire on them. He’d have to kill fifty sheep or twenty calves to earn that much money, yet she’d spend it on a pair of shoes, wear them once, then stuff them in the back of the closet and never look at them again.

    Nothing else in the blasted landscape deserved his attention, so he studied the shoe, pulling at his cigarette. He moved to the left and looked at it from another angle. Although it lay close to a large pool of oil, it appeared to rest on a patch of dry land. Cola took another step to the left, one that drew him out into the full violence of the sun, and studied the area around the shoe, looking for its mate. There, under the clump of grass, he saw an oblong shape that seemed to be the sole of the other one, it too lying on one side.

    He dropped his cigarette and crushed it into the soft earth with his toe, walked a few meters along the fence, then bent low and crept through a large hole, careful of the jagged, rusty barbs of metal that encircled him. Straightening up, he walked back toward the shoe, now a pair of them and perhaps salvageable because of that.

    "Roba di puttana," he muttered under his breath, seeing the heel on the first shoe, taller than the pack of cigarettes in his pocket: only a whore would wear such things. He reached down and picked up the first shoe, careful to keep from touching the outside. As he had hoped, it was clean, had not fallen into the oily puddle. He took a few steps to the right, reached down and wrapped two fingers around the heel of its mate, but it appeared to be caught on a tuft of grass. He lowered himself to one knee, careful to see where he knelt, and gave the shoe a sharp tug. It came loose, but when Bettino Cola saw that what he had pulled it loose from was a human foot, he leaped back from the bush and dropped the first shoe into the black puddle from which it had managed to survive the night.

    2

    The police arrived on the scene twenty minutes later, two blue and white sedans from the Squadra Mobile of Mestre. By then, the field in back of the slaughterhouse was filled with men from inside the building, brought out into the sun by curiosity about this different kind of slaughter. Cola had run drunkenly back inside as soon as he saw the foot and the leg to which it was attached and had gone into the foreman’s office to tell him there was a dead woman in the field beyond the fence.

    Cola was a good worker, a serious man, and so the foreman believed him and called the police immediately without going outside to check and see whether Cola was telling the truth. But others had seen Cola come into the building and came to ask what it was, what he had seen. The foreman snarled at them to get back to work; the refrigerated trucks were waiting at the loading docks, and they didn’t have time to stand around all day and gabble about some whore who got her throat cut.

    He didn’t mean this literally, of course, for Cola had told him only about the shoe and the foot, but the fields between the factories were well-known territory to the men who worked in the factories—and to the women who worked in those fields. If she’d gotten herself killed there, she was probably one of those painted wrecks who spent the late afternoon standing at the side of the road that led from the industrial zone back into Mestre. Quitting time, time to go home, but why not a quick stop at the side of the road and a short walk back to a blanket spread beside a clump of grass? It was quick, they expected nothing of you except ten thousand lire, and they were, more and more often now, blondes come in from Eastern Europe, so poor that they couldn’t make you use anything, not like the Italian girls on Via Cappuccina, and since when did a whore tell a man what to do or where to put it? She probably did that, got pushy, and the man had pushed back. Plenty more of them and plenty more coming across the border every month.

    The police cars pulled up and a uniformed officer got out of each. They walked toward the front of the building, but the foreman reached them before they got to the door. Behind him stood Cola, feeling important to be the center of all this attention, but still faintly sick from the sight of that foot.

    Is it you who called? the first policeman asked. His face was round, glistening with sweat, and he stared at the foreman from behind dark glasses.

    Yes, the foreman answered. There’s a dead woman in the field behind the building.

    Did you see her?

    No, the foreman answered, stepping aside and motioning Cola to step forward. He did.

    After a nod from the first one, the policeman from the second car pulled a blue notebook out of his jacket pocket, flipped it open, uncapped his pen, and stood with the pen poised over the page.

    Your name? asked the first policeman, the dark focus of his glance now directed at the butcher.

    Cola, Bettino.

    Address?

    What’s the use of asking his address? interrupted the foreman. There’s a dead woman out there.

    The first officer turned away from Cola and tilted his head down a little, just enough to allow him to peer at the foreman over the tops of his sunglasses. She’s not going anywhere. Then, turning back to Cola, he repeated, Address?

    Castello 3453.

    How long have you worked here? he asked, nodding at the building that stood behind Cola.

    Fifteen years.

    What time did you get here this morning?

    Seven-thirty. Same as always.

    What were you doing in the field? Somehow, the way he asked the questions and the way the other one wrote down the answers made Cola feel they suspected him of something.

    I went out to have a cigarette.

    The middle of August, and you went out into the sun to have a cigarette? the first officer asked, making it sound like lunacy. Or a lie.

    It was my break time, Cola said with mounting resentment. I always go outside. I like to get away from the smell. The word made it real to the policemen, and they looked toward the building, the one with the notebook incapable of disguising the contraction of his nostrils at what they met.

    Where is she?

    Just beyond the fence. She’s under a clump of bushes, so I didn’t see her at first.

    Why did you go near her?

    I saw a shoe.

    You what?

    I saw a shoe. Out in the field, and then I saw the second one. I thought they might be good, so I went through the fence to get them. I thought maybe my wife would want them. That was a lie; he had thought he could sell them, but he didn’t want to tell this to the police. It was a small lie, and entirely innocent, but it was only the first of many lies that the police were going to be told about the shoe and the person who wore it.

    Then what? the first policeman prompted when Cola added nothing to this.

    Then I came back here.

    No, before that, the first policeman said with an irritated shake of his head. When you saw the shoe. When you saw her. What happened?

    Cola spoke quickly, hoping that would get him through and rid of it. I picked up one shoe, and then I saw the other one. I was under the bush. So I pulled on it. I thought it was stuck. So I pulled again, and it came off. He swallowed once, twice. It was on her foot. That’s why it wouldn’t come off.

    Did you stay there long?

    This time it was Cola who suspected lunacy. No, no. No, I came back into the building’and told Banditelli, and he called you.

    The foreman nodded to confirm this.

    Did you walk around back there? the first policeman asked Cola.

    Walk around?

    Stand around? Smoke? Drop anything near her?

    Cola shook his head in a strong negative.

    The second one flipped the pages of his notebook and the first said, I asked you a question.

    No. Nothing. I saw her and I dropped the shoe, and I went into the building.

    Did you touch her? the first one asked.

    Cola looked at him with eyes wide with amazement. She’s dead. Of course I didn’t touch her.

    You touched her foot, the second policeman said, looking down at his notes.

    I didn’t touch her foot, Cola said, although he couldn’t remember now if he had or not. I touched the shoe, and it came off her foot. He couldn’t keep himself from asking, Why would I want to touch her?

    Neither policeman answered this. The first one turned and nodded to the second, who flipped his notebook closed. All right, show us where she is.

    Cola stood rooted to the spot and shook his head from side to side. The sun had dried the blood that spattered down the front of his apron, and flies buzzed around him. He didn’t look at the policemen. She’s in back, out beyond the big hole in the fence.

    I want you to show us where she is, the first policeman said.

    I just told you where she is, Cola snapped, his voice rising sharply.

    The two policemen exchanged a glance that somehow managed to suggest that Cola’s reluctance was significant, worth remembering. But, saying nothing, they turned away from him and from the foreman and walked around the side of the building.

    It was noon and the sun beat down on the flat tops of the officers’ uniform caps. Beneath them, their hair was sopping, their necks running with sweat. In back of the building, they saw the large hole in the fence and made toward it. Behind them, filtering through the death squeals that still came from the building, they heard human sounds and turned toward them. Clustered around the back entrance of the building, their aprons as red with gore as Cola’s, five or six men huddled in a tight ball. Used to this curiosity, the policemen turned back toward the fence and headed toward the hole. Stooping low, they went through it single file and then off to the left, toward a large, spiky clump of bush that stood beyond the fence.

    The officers stopped a few meters from it. Knowing to look for the foot, they easily found it, saw its sole peering out from beneath the low branches. Both shoes lay just in front of it.

    The two of them approached the foot, walking slowly and looking at the ground where they walked, as careful to avoid the malevolent puddles as to keep from stepping in anything that might be another footprint. Just beside the shoes, the first one knelt down and pushed the waist-high grass aside with his hand.

    The body lay on its back, the outer side of the ankles pressed into the earth. The policeman reached forward and pushed at the grass, exposing a length of hairless calf. He removed his sun-glasses and peered into the shadows, following with his eye the legs, long and muscular, following across the bony knee, up to the lacy red underpants that showed under the bright red dress pulled up over the face. He stared a moment longer.

    Cazzo he exclaimed and let the grass spring back into place.

    What’s the matter? the other one asked.

    It’s a man.

    3

    Ordinarily, the news that a transvestite prostitute had been found in Marghera with his head and face beaten in would have created a sensation, even among the jaded staff at the Venice Questura, especially during the long Ferragosto holiday, when crime tended to drop off or take on the boring predictability of burglaries and break-ins. But today it would have taken something far more lurid to displace the spectacular news that ran like a flame through the corridors of the Questura: Maria Lucrezia Patta, wife of Vice-Questore Giuseppe Patta, had that weekend left her husband of twenty-seven years to take up residence in the Milano apartment of—and here each teller of the tale paused to "prepare each new listener for the bombshell— Tito Burrasca, the founding light and prime mover of Italy’s pornographic film industry.

    The news had dropped from heaven upon the place beneath just that morning, carried into the building by a secretary in the Ufficio Stranieri, whose uncle lived in a small apartment on the floor above the Pattas and who claimed to have been passing the Pattas’ door just at the moment when terminal hostilities between the Pattas had erupted. Patta, the uncle reported, had shouted Burrasca’s name a number of times, threatening to have him arrested if he ever dared come to Venice; Signora Patta had returned fire by threatening, not only to go and live with Burrasca, but to star in his next film. The uncle had retreated up the steps and had spent the next half hour trying to open his own front door, during which time the Pattas continued to exchange threats and recriminations. Hostilities ceased only with the arrival of a water taxi at the end of the calle and the departure of Signora Patta, who was followed down the steps of the building by six suitcases, carried by the taxi driver, and by the curses of Patta, carried up to the uncle by the funnel-like acoustics of the staircase.

    The news arrived at eight on Monday morning; Patta followed it into the Questura at eleven. At one-thirty, the call came in about the transvestite, but by then most of the staff had already left for lunch, during which meal some employees of the Questura engaged in quite wild speculation about Signora Patta’s future film career. An indication of the Vice-Questore’s popularity was the bet that was made at one table, offering a hundred thousand lire to the first person who dared to inquire of the Vice-Questore as to his wife’s health.

    Guido Brunetti first heard about the murdered transvestite from Vice-Questore Patta himself, who called Brunetti into his office at two-thirty.

    I’ve just had a call from Mestre, Patta said after telling Brunetti to take a seat.

    Mestre, sir? Brunetti asked.

    Yes, that city at the end of the Ponte della Libertà, Patta snapped. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.

    Brunetti thought of what he had learned about Patta that morning and decided to ignore his remark. Why did they call you, sir?

    They’ve got a murder over there and no one to investigate.

    But they’ve got more staff than we have, sir, Brunetti said, never quite certain just how much Patta knew about the workings of the police force in either city.

    I know that, Brunetti. But two of their commissarios are on vacation. Another broke his leg in an automobile accident this weekend, so that leaves only one, and she—Patta managed to give a snort of disgust at such a possibility—leaves for maternity leave on Saturday and won’t be back until the end of February.

    What about the two on vacation? Surely they can be called back?

    One of them is in Brazil, and no one seems able to find the other one.

    Brunetti started to say that a commissario had to leave word where he could be reached, no matter where he went on vacation, but then he looked at Patta’s face and decided, instead, to ask, What did they tell you about the murder, sir?

    It’s a whore. A transvestite. Someone beat his head in and left his body in a field out in Marghera. Before Brunetti could object, Patta said, Don’t even ask. The field is in Marghera, but the slaughterhouse that owns it is in Mestre, just by a few meters, so Mestre gets it.

    Brunetti had no desire to waste time on the details of property rights or city boundaries, so he asked, How do they know it’s a prostitute, sir?

    I don’t know how they know it’s a prostitute, Brunetti, Patta said, his voice going up a few notes. I’m telling you what they told me. A transvestite prostitute, in a dress, with his head and face beaten in.

    When was he found, sir?

    It was not Patta’s habit to take notes, so he had not bothered to make any record of the call he had received. The facts hadn’t interested him—one whore more, one whore less—but he was bothered by the fact that it would be his staff doing Mestre’s work. That meant any success they met with would go to Mestre. But then he thought of recent events in his personal life and came to the decision that this might well be the sort of case he should let Mestre take any and all credit for—and publicity.

    I had a call from their questore this morning, asking if we could handle it. What are you three doing?

    Mariani is on vacation and Rossi’s still going through the papers on the Bortolozzi case, Brunetti explained.

    And you?

    I’m scheduled to begin my vacation this weekend, Vice-Questore.

    That can wait, Patta said with a certainty that soared above things like hotel reservations or plane tickets. Besides, this has got to be a simple thing. Find the pimp, get a list of customers. It’s bound to be one of them.

    Do they have pimps, sir?

    Whores? Of course they have pimps.

    Male whores, sir? Transvestite whores? Assuming, of course, that he was a prostitute.

    Why would you expect me to know a thing like that, Brunetti? asked Patta, suspicious and with more than his usual irritation, again forcing Brunetti to remember that morning’s first news and quickly change the subject.

    How long ago did the call come in, sir? Brunetti asked.

    A few hours ago. Why?

    I wondered if the body’s been moved.

    In this heat? Patta asked.

    Yes, there is that, Brunetti agreed. Where was it taken?

    I have no idea. One of the hospitals. Umberto Primo, probably. I think that’s where they do the autopsies. Why?

    I’d like to have a look, Brunetti said. And at the place where it happened.

    Patta wasn’t a man to be interested in details. Since this is Mestre’s case, make sure you use their drivers, not ours.

    Was there anything else, sir?

    No. I’m sure this will be a simple thing. You’ll have it wrapped up by the weekend and be free to go on vacation. It was like Patta that he asked nothing about where Brunetti planned to go or what sort of reservations he might have to cancel. More details.

    Leaving Patta’s office, Brunetti noticed that while he had been inside, furniture had suddenly appeared in the small anteroom directly outside Patta’s office. A large wooden desk stood on one side, and a small table had been placed beneath the window. Ignoring this, he went downstairs and into the office where the uniformed branch worked. Sergeant Vianello looked up from some papers on his desk and smiled at Brunetti. Even before you ask, Commissario, yes, it’s true. Tito Burrasca.

    Hearing the confirmation, Brunetti was no less astonished than he had been, hours before, when he first heard the story. Burrasca was, if legend was the proper word to use, a legend in Italy. He had begun making films during the sixties, blood and guts horror movies so patently artificial that they became unconscious parodies of the genre. Burrasca, not at all foolish, no matter how inept he might have been at making horror films, answered the popular response to his films by making the films even more false: vampires with wristwatches that the actors seemed to have forgotten to remove; telephones that brought the news of Dracula’s escape; actors of the semaphore school of dramatic presentation. After a very short time, he had become a cult figure, and people flocked to his films, eager to detect the artifice, to spot the howlers.

    In the seventies, he gathered up all those masters of semaphoric expression and directed them in the making of pornographic films, at which they turned out to be no more adept. Costuming no problem, he soon realized that plot, similarly, presented no obstacle to the creative mind: he merely dusted off the plots of his old horror films and turned the ghouls, vampires, and werewolves into rapists and sex maniacs, and he filled the theaters, although smaller theaters this time, with a different audience, one that seemed not at all interested in the spotting of anachronism.

    The eighties presented Italy with scores of new private television stations, and Burrasca presented those stations with his latest films, somewhat toned down in deference to the supposed sensibilities of the television audience. And then he discovered the videocassette. His name quickly became part of the small change of Italian daily life; he was the butt of jokes on TV game shows, a figure in newspaper cartoons. But close consideration of his success had caused him to move to Monaco and become a citizen of that sensibly-taxed principality. The twelve-room apartment he maintained in Milano, he told the Italian tax authorities, was used only for entertaining business guests. And now, it would appear, Maria Lucrezia Patta.

    Tito Burrasca, in fact, Sergeant Vianello repeated, keeping himself, Brunetti knew not with what force, from smiling. Perhaps you’re lucky to be spending the next few days in Mestre.

    Brunetti couldn’t keep himself from asking, Didn’t anyone know about it before?

    Vianello shook his head. No. No one. Not a whisper.

    Not even Anita’s uncle? Brunetti asked, revealing that even the higher orders knew the source of this information.

    Vianello began to answer but was interrupted by the buzzer on his desk. He picked up the phone, pressed a button, and asked, Yes, Vice-Questore?

    He listened for a moment, said, Certainly, Vice-Questore, and hung up.

    Brunetti gave him an inquisitive glance. The immigration people. He wants to know how long Burrasca can stay in the country now that he’s changed his citizenship.

    Brunetti shook his head. "I suppose you have

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