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dye of the paper
cover of the folder. He handed the sketch to Feltrinelli, who looked at it
carefully for a moment, then used his other hand to cover the hairline and
study it again. He handed it back to Brunetti and shook his head. ‘No, I’ve
never seen him before.’
     
    Brunetti believed him. He put the
photo back into the folder. ‘Can you think of anyone who might be able to help
us find out who this man is?’
     
    ‘I assume you’re checking through
a list of those of us with arrest records,’ Feltrinelli said, voice no longer
so confrontational.
     
    ‘Yes. We don’t have a way to get
anyone else to look at the picture.’
     
    ‘You mean the ones who haven’t
been arrested yet, I suppose,’ Feltrinelli said and then asked, ‘Do you have
another one of those drawings?’
     
    Brunetti pulled one from the
folder and handed it to him and then handed him one of his cards. ‘You’ll have
to call the Questura in Mestre, but you can ask for me. Or for Sergeant Gallo.’
     
    ‘How was he killed?’
     
    ‘It will be in this morning’s
papers.’
     
    ‘I don’t read the papers.’
     
    ‘He was beaten to death.’
     
    ‘In the field?’
     
    ‘I’m not at liberty to tell you
that, Signore.’
     
    Feltrinelli went and placed the
drawing face up on the draughting table and lit another cigarette.
     
    ‘All right,’ he said, turning
back to Brunetti. ‘I’ve got the drawing. I’ll show it to some people. If I find
out anything, I’ll let you know.’
     
    ‘Are you an architect, Signor
Feltrinelli?’
     
    ‘Yes. I mean I have the laurea
d’architettura. But I’m not working. I mean I have no job.’
     
    Nodding towards the tissue paper
on the drawing-board, Brunetti asked, ‘But are you working on a project?’
     
    ‘Just to amuse myself,
Commissario. I lost my job.’
     
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Signore.’
     
    Feltrinelli put both hands in his
pockets and looked up at Brunetti’s face. Keeping his voice absolutely neutral,
he said, ‘I was working in Egypt, for the government, designing public-housing
projects. But then they decided that all foreigners had to have an AIDS test
every year. I failed mine last year, so they fired me and sent me back.’
     
    Brunetti said nothing to this,
and Feltrinelli continued, ‘When I got back here, I tried to find a job, but,
as you surely know, architects are as easily found as grapes at harvest time.
And so ...’ He paused here, as if in search of a way to put it. ‘And so I
decided to change my profession.’
     
    ‘Are you referring to prostitution?’
Brunetti asked.
     
    ‘Yes, I am.’
     
    ‘You’re not concerned about the
hazard?’
     
    ‘Hazard?’ Feltrinelli asked, and
came close to repeating the smile he had given Brunetti when he opened the
door. Brunetti said nothing. ‘You mean AIDS?’ Feltrinelli asked, unnecessarily.
     
    ‘Yes.’
     
    ‘There’s no hazard for me,’
Feltrinelli said and turned away from Brunetti. He went back to the draughting
table and picked up his cigarette. ‘You can let yourself out, Commissario,’ he
said, taking his place at the table and bending down over his drawing.
     
    * * * *
     
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    Brunetti
emerged into the sun, the street, the noise and turned into a bar that stood to
the right of the apartment building. He asked for a glass of mineral water,
then for a second one. When he had almost finished that, he poured the water at
the bottom of the glass on to his handkerchief and wiped futilely at the blue
dye on his hand.
     
    Was it a criminal act for a
prostitute with AIDS to have sex? Unprotected sex? It was so long since
policemen had treated prostitution as a crime that Brunetti found it difficult
to consider it as such. But surely, for anyone with AIDS knowingly to have
unprotected sex, surely that was a crime, though it was entirely possible that
the law lagged behind the truth in this, and it was not illegal. Seeing the
moral quicksand that