An hour later the nurse came in with more coffee. Claudia was smoking, her feet propped up on the edge of the desk and folders in her lap, and for a second I thought the nurse, almost scowling with disapproval, would protest, but she merely raised her eyebrows at me, the new dottore, and sniffed. Claudia, unaware, just kept turning pages, absorbed in Gianni’s medical day. When she reached over for her coffee, she kept her eyes on the page.

“And?” I said, lighting a cigarette, signaling a break.

“So many ulcers. Gastrointestinal, a good specialty in the war. The bad food, the fear—think how busy.”

“So he was good?”

She nodded. “Yes, you would think—”

“What?” I said, leaning forward to get her attention.

“No Germans.”

“They had their own.”

“Well, in the army. But a specialist, that’s different.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t see them.”

“You didn’t refuse the Germans, if they asked. But they didn’t.”

“Would they see a local doctor?”

“The soldiers, no. But the officers? You have to remember what it was like. It’s not a camp, it’s Venice. They sit in San Marco, take a gondola—what everyone does in Venice. Parties. With Venetians, too. How do you think my father survived? Getting rid of their babies. At least it was safer for the girls, a real doctor. They were—here. Restaurants, everywhere. It’s their city. So if you get a stomachache, why not go to the doctor? But they don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. You asked me what do I see, and I see he’s the only man in Venice who never sees Germans. Clean hands. At least in public.”

“And in private he saves a partisan,” I said, another dead end.

“A partisan,” she said dismissively. “No. He saved a friend.”

I stared at her, the words clicking into place like cylinders in a lock.

“Paolo’s friend,” I said, another click. Tennis sweaters, arms slung over shoulders. “Because he was Paolo’s friend. Wait a minute,” I said, reaching for the phone.

“What?”

“But then he sends young Carlo to where Moretti had to be.”

I asked the hospital operator to put me through to the Bauer. Rosa had just come in and, given the slightly groggy tone in her voice, must have had some wine at dinner.

“Do you never stop?” she said.

“Just one more thing. The group who killed Paolo—there was someone else, besides whoever was in the house.”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead how? I mean, in the fighting?”

“No, the Germans captured him. They killed him.”

“Which means they probably tortured him.”

She was quiet for a second. “It’s possible. But it doesn’t matter. He didn’t know about the house—where it was, anything. He was never told. It was a protection for us. And him. It couldn’t have been him.”

“But he knew who killed Paolo.”

“Signor Miller, he’s dead.”

“When he was captured—any interrogation files?”

“No. Of course we looked for that.”

“How long was he kept?”

“We think two days. They hung his body in Verona. In Piazza Bra.”

“Remember who the commanding officer was? The German?”

There was a silence, so long that I thought I had lost her. “Yes, I remember,” she said finally. “Like here. Bauer.”

“What happened to him?”

“He went back to Germany. With the other butchers.”

“He’s alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Any files here on him?”

“No. Destroyed. Not that it mattered to us. He wasn’t an Italian case—he was already in Germany. Anyway, maybe it’s good. I don’t want to know what they did to Marco. What good would it do now? He’s dead. And he didn’t know about the house. So you’re wasting your time.”

“Marco. You have a last name?”

A pause. “Soriano.”

Now it was my turn to wait. “Your brother?”

“My husband. And he didn’t know where the house was. Try something else,” she said, hanging up before I could say anything more.

Claudia, who’d been watching, said nothing, waiting for me to explain. Instead I got the hospital operator again and asked her to put me through to Joe Sullivan in Verona.

The call took a few minutes, but the connection was clear.

“We’ve got a trial tomorrow and I’m down one investigator. Now you?”

“I need a favor.”

“From me? Send Rosa back and then we’ll talk. You weren’t supposed to fucking steal her.”

“She’s here on her own business. A small favor.”

“What?”

“Army still have a priority line to Frankfurt? I need to call Germany.”

“So pick up a phone.”

“Come on. The civilian lines’ll take days.”

“I can’t patch you through from here.”

“No, you make the call. Get Schneider in Frankfurt—remember him?”

“And?”

“And ask him to run a check on Bauer, SS out of Verona, probably Hauptsturmführer level.”

“You don’t have to call Schneider. I know Bauer. A real sweetheart.”

“But you don’t know his files. Rosa said they were destroyed.”

“Rosa said.”

“He captured her husband. So she took a personal interest.”

He was quiet for a minute. “She wasn’t supposed to do that. He’s out of our hands—Frankfurt’s problem.”

“Do they have him? Is he still alive?”

“No idea. What’s your interest, anyway?”

“The files here were destroyed, but the SS duped everything for Berlin, so maybe copies are still around.”

“Doubtful.”

“Or better yet, Bauer himself. If he’s facing trial, he’ll want to do anything to catch a break.”

“Like tell you all his secrets? Which one in particular?”

“He interrogated her husband. The husband told him who killed Paolo Maglione. So who did Bauer tell?”

“You want to explain this to me?”

“When you have more time. Just ask Schneider if he can lay his hands on the files—start with September 1944. I’m not sure when they captured him, Soriano interrogation.”

“Rosa know about this?”

“No. She doesn’t want to. He was tortured. Then they strung him up in the street.”

“Jesus.”

“I know. But before they did, I think he talked.”

“Which opens up another can of worms.”

“Right.”

“Is there going to be anything for us once you open it?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m asking.”

“Because you’re not official anymore, you know. You want the army to do all this for some private deal?”

“Think of all I’ve done for them.”

“Fuck.”

I waited. “It’s not a big favor, Joe. I’ll tell Rosa you miss her.”

“Fucking drowning here, and I’ve got to waste time on this.”

“It’s a good deed. I promise you.”

“Yeah, the last time you checked on somebody, the guy ended up dead.”

“Maybe we can do the same for Bauer. Tell Schneider where he can reach me, okay? If he comes up with anything.”

There was a growl for an answer and a click on the line. I glanced over the desk at Claudia, still immersed in a folder.

“What makes you think he told them anything?” she said without looking up.

“If he was tortured by SS? They all did—even things they didn’t know.”

“And Bauer told Dr. Maglione?”

“That’s the way it makes sense. Gianni saves an old friend of the family—how could he not?—and then finds out the friend killed his brother. It explains the about-face. It didn’t matter to him whether or not they were partisans—that just made it easier to get someone else to do it for him. Keep his hands clean.”

“His new friends at Villa Raspelli.”

“Including Bauer, I’m betting. It had to be that way. We’re close now.”

She said nothing, then closed the folder. “I didn’t know about Signor Howard. I’m sorry.”

“Bertie? What?”

“He didn’t tell you? He has cancer.”

I looked at the blue folder in her hands. Other people’s secrets.

“No, he never said anything.”

She tossed the folder back on the pile.

I stared at it for a minute. Something real, not part of a story for Cavallini. Living in his jewel box, not wanting to be disturbed.