knew I had once planned to write a report, and perhaps he threatened
them with it."
Though his office was cool, Brunetti saw that sweat stood on Moro's
brow and was slowly sliding down his chin. Moro wiped at it with the
back of his hand. Then he said, "I'll never know."
The two men sat for a long time, the only motion Moro's occasional
attempt to wipe the sweat from his face. When, finally, his face was
dry again, Brunetti asked, "What do you want me to do, Dottore?"
Moro raised his head and looked at Brunetti with eyes that had grown
even sadder in the last half-hour. "You want me to make the decision
for you?"
"No. Not really. Or not only. To make it for yourself. And for your
family."
"You'll do whatever I say?" Moro asked.
"Yes."
"Regardless of the law or justice?" Moro's emphasis, a very unkind
emphasis, was on the last word.
"Why? Don't you care about justice?" Moro's anger was undisguised
now.
Brunetti had no taste for this, not any longer. "There's no justice
here, Dottore," he said, frightened to realize that he meant not only
for this man and his family, but for this city, and this country, and
their lives.
Then let it be," Moro said, exhausted. "Let him be."
Everything that was decent in Brunetti urged him to say something that
would comfort this man, but the words, though summoned, failed to come.
He thought of Moro's daughter and then of his own. He thought of his
own son, of Filippi's son, and of Moro's, and then the words came:
"Poor boy."