Free By Its Cover by Donna Leon

him and three for Vianello, then turned to the open pages.
    There was the usual political chaos, but Brunetti had vowed not to read anything to do with politics until the end of the year or the arrival of the Philosopher King. Fifty acres of farmland filled with toxic waste in Campania, complete with photos of the poisoned sheep who had had their last meal there. Guardia di Finanza blitz on the offices of the political party that had ruled Lombardia for the last decade. Well, that was politics, wasn’t it? Award of the city’s highest civic honour to the man who wanted to build a tower of surpassing ugliness on the mainland that would be visible from everywhere in Venice. Brunetti sighed and flipped back to the front page, where he saw the photo of the former Director of the MOSE project – seven billion Euros already spent to block the waters of the laguna – now arrested and charged with corruption. Brunetti smiled, raised his glass in a sardonic toast, and took a long sip.
    ‘Alvise said you wanted me to come down,’ Vianello said, setting down the plate of tramezzini and a glass of white wine. Before Brunetti could say anything, the Inspector went back to the bar and returned carrying two glasses of mineral water. He set them on the table and slipped on to the bench opposite Brunetti.
    Brunetti nodded his thanks and picked up a sandwich. ‘You get any fingerprints from those books?’ he asked, not having had time to speak to Vianello before now.
    Vianello took a sip of his wine and said, ‘I’ve never seen those two lab guys so close to tears, both of them.’

    ‘Why?’ Brunetti asked, and took a bite of his egg and tuna.
    ‘You ever think of how many people touch a book in a library?’ Vianello set his glass down and picked up a sandwich.
    ‘ Oddio ,’ Brunetti said. ‘Of course: there’d be scores of them.’ He sipped at his wine, then asked, ‘They take prints of the people who work there?’
    ‘Yes,’ Vianello said. ‘They kept saying there’d be hundreds of prints in a book, but they were cooperative when we said we had to have them.’
    ‘Even the Direttrice?’ Brunetti asked.
    ‘She’s the one who told them just to do it. Even volunteered to give her own.’
    This surprised Brunetti, who had seldom found people in positions of authority cooperative with requests that the police made of them. ‘Good for her,’ he said and took another sandwich. ‘I’m going down to Castello to talk to someone, and I thought you might like to come along.’ Ham and artichokes, and he suspected Bambola must have scraped off some of the mayonnaise before putting it on the plate.
    ‘Sure,’ Vianello said and picked up a second sandwich. ‘You want me to be the good cop or the bad one?’
    Brunetti smiled in return and said, ‘No need for it today. We can both be good cops. I just want to talk to him.’
    ‘Who?’
    Brunetti explained the theft and vandalism at the library, mentioned the connection with the Morosini-Albanis, and then described Signorina Elettra’s strong response to the family name.
    ‘She knew the stepson?’ Vianello asked. ‘What’s his name? Giovanni? Gianni?’ He picked up another sandwich, then sipped at his wine.

    Brunetti’s curiosity was rekindled. Gianni Morosini-Albani was a poster boy for the eradication of the nobility: dishonest, a well-known consumer of illegal substances. He and Signorina Elettra? The very idea.
    He muted his desire to defend her and said only, ‘She didn’t seem pleased to hear his name.’
    ‘He has a reputation of being very charming,’ Vianello said with a complete lack of conviction.
    ‘Yes, many people seem to like him,’ Brunetti offered.
    Vianello dismissed that. ‘Years ago, I had to go along when he was arrested. Well, brought in for questioning. Must be fifteen years ago. He was very pleasant, invited the Commissario in, offered us all coffee. There were three of us, including the Commissario.’ Vianello did not smile at the