Quietly in Their Sleep by Donna Leon Page A

of the crowds that would have been induced out onto the streets by the mellow weather kept him on the boat, and he didn’t get off until San Zaccaria. He cut back toward the Questura, arriving there a little after three and apparently in advance of most of the uniformed staff.
     
    In his office, he found that the papers on his desk had proliferated — perhaps they actually bred? — while he was at lunch. As promised, Signorina Elettra had given him a neatly typed list, providing the names of the principal heirs of the people Suor’Immacolata — he corrected himself: Maria Testa — had given him. She had also supplied addresses and phone numbers. Casting his eye down the list, Brunetti saw that three of them lived in Venice. The fourth lived in Torino, and the last will listed the names of six people, none of them resident in Venice. Underneath, a typed note from Signorina Elettra told him that she would have copies of the wills by the following afternoon.
     
    For a moment, he thought of calling ahead, but then he reflected that a certain advantage was always to be gained by arriving, at least for the first interview, unannounced and, if possible, unexpected, and so he did no more than arrange the addresses in the most convenient geographic order on his mental map of the city and then slip the list into his jacket pocket. The advantage given by surprise was in no way related to the guilt or innocence of the people he spoke to, but long experience had taught him that surprise often spurred people toward the truth.
     
    He bent his head over the remaining official papers and began to read. After the second, he sat back in his seat, pulled the stack toward him, and continued to read. It was after only a few minutes that the tedium of their contents, the warmth of the office, and the aftermath of his lunch lured Brunetti’s hands down onto his lap and his chin onto his chest. Sometime later, he was shocked awake by the sound of a door slamming out in the corridor. He shook his head, ran his hands across his face a few times, and wished he had a coffee. Instead, he looked up to see Vianello standing at the door, the door Brunetti realized had stood open during his entire nap.
     
    ‘Good afternoon, Sergeant,’ he said, giving Vianello the smile of a man who felt fully in control of everyone at the Questura. ‘What is it?’
     
    ‘I said I’d come and get you, sir. It’s quarter to four.’
     
    ‘That late?’ Brunetti said, glancing down at his watch.
     
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Vianello said. ‘I came up before, but you were busy.’ Vianello waited a minute for that to sink in and then added, ‘I’ve got the boat outside, sir.’
     
    As they walked down the steps of the Questura, Brunetti asked, ‘Did you speak to Miotti?’
     
    ‘Yes, sir. It’s what I expected.’
     
    ‘His brother’s gay?’ Brunetti asked, not even bothering to look at Vianello.
     
    Vianello stopped in the middle of the staircase. When Brunetti turned to him, the sergeant asked, ‘How did you know that, sir?’
     
    ‘He seemed nervous about his brother and his clerical friends, and I couldn’t think of anything else about a priest that would make Miotti nervous. It’s not as if he’s the most open-minded man we have.’ After a moment’s reflection, Brunetti added, ‘And it’s not as if it’s a surprise when a priest is gay.’
     
    ‘It’s the opposite that’s a surprise, I’d say,’ Vianello remarked and started back down the steps. He turned his attention back to Miotti, not needing to explain the leap to Brunetti. ‘But you’ve always said he’s a good policeman, sir.’
     
    ‘He doesn’t have to be open-minded to be a good policeman, Vianello.’
     
    ‘No, I suppose not,’ Vianello agreed.
     
    They emerged from the Questura a few minutes later and found Bonsuan, the pilot, waiting for them aboard a police launch. Everything glistened: the brass fittings on the boat, one of the metal tags on Bonsuan’s