He asked of life nothing more than to lie on his back reading Xenophon while he waited for his wife to come home with soft-shelled crabs.

“Yes?” he said into the answerphone, making his voice sound so unwelcoming as to discourage aimless youth and frighten off zeal of any age.

“Guido Brunetti?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes. What is it?”

“I’m from the Ufficio Catasto. About your apartment.” When Brunetti said nothing, the man asked, “Did you get our letter?”

At the question, Brunetti recalled having received some sort of official document a month or so ago, a paper filled with the catch phrases of bureaucracy, something about the deeds to the apartment or the building permits that were attached to the deeds: he couldn’t remember. He had done no more than glance at it and blanch at the formulaic language, before slipping it back into its envelope and dropping it into the large majolica platter that stood on the table to the right of the door.

“Did you get our letter?” the man repeated.

“Ah, yes,” Brunetti answered.

“I’ve come to talk about it.”

“About what?” Brunetti asked, propping the phone under his left ear and bending to reach toward the pile of papers and envelopes that lay on the platter.

“Your apartment,” the man answered. “About what we wrote in the letter.”

“Of course, of course,” Brunetti said, leafing through papers and envelopes.

“I’d like to talk to you about it if I might.”

Caught off guard by the request, Brunetti conceded. “All right,” he said, pushing the buzzer that would open the portone four floors below. “Top floor.”

“I know,” the man answered.

Brunetti replaced the speaker and pulled a few envelopes from the bottom of the pile. There was a bill from ENEL, a postcard from the Maldives he hadn’t seen before and which he paused to read. And there was the envelope, the name of the issuing office in blue letters at the top left corner. He removed the paper, unfolded it and held it at arm’s length to bring the letters into focus, and read through it quickly.

The same impenetrable phrases caught his eye: “Pursuant to Statute Number 1684–B of the Commission of Fine Arts’; “With reference to Section 2784 of Article 127 of the Civil Code of 24 June 1948, subsection 3, paragraph 5”; “Failure to provide this issuing office with adequate documentation”; “Value calculated according to sub-paragraph 34–V–28 of the Decree of 21 March 1947.” He ran his eye quickly down the first page and then turned to the second, but still he found only officialese and numbers. Schooled by long experience working in the Venetian bureaucracy, he knew something might be hidden in the last paragraph, and so he turned to that, which did indeed inform him that he could expect further communication from the Ufficio Catasto. He turned back to the first page but whatever meaning might lurk behind the words continued to elude him.

Close as he was to the front door, he could hear the footsteps on the last flight of steps and so opened the door even before the doorbell rang. The man in front of him was still moving up the steps and had already raised a hand to knock, and so the first thing Brunetti saw was the sharp contrast between the raised fist and the perfectly unassuming man who stood behind it. The young man, startled by the sudden opening of the door, had surprise splashed across his face. The face was long, his nose the thin beak so common to Venetians. He had dark brown eyes and brown hair that looked as if it had recently been cut. He wore a suit which might have been blue but might just as easily have been grey. His tie was dark and had a small, indistinguishable pattern. In his right hand he carried a worn brown leather briefcase; it completed the picture of every colorless bureaucrat Brunetti had ever had to deal with, as though part of their job training was the mastery of the art of rendering themselves invisible.

“Franco Rossi,” he said, shifting his briefcase to his other hand and extending the right.

Brunetti took it, shook hands briefly, and stepped back to allow him to enter.

Politely, Rossi asked permission and then stepped into the apartment. Inside, he stopped and waited for Brunetti to tell him where to go.

“In here, please,” Brunetti said, leading him back toward the room where he had been reading. Brunetti went over to the sofa, slipped the old vaporetto ticket he used as a marker inside his book, and placed it on the table. He gestured to Rossi to take a seat opposite him and himself sat on the sofa.

Rossi sat on the edge of the chair and pulled the briefcase up on to his knees. “I realize it’s Saturday, Signor Brunetti, so I’ll try not to take too much of your time.” He looked across at Brunetti and smiled. “You received our letter, didn’t you? I hope you’ve had time to consider it, Signore,” he said with another small smile, then lowered his head and opened his briefcase. He pulled a thick blue folder from it. He centred it carefully on top of the briefcase and tapped at an errant paper that tried to slip from the bottom until it was safely back inside.

“As a matter of fact,” Brunetti said, taking the letter from his pocket, where he’d stuffed it when he answered the door, “I was just rereading it, and I must say I find the language a bit impenetrable.”

Rossi looked up, and Brunetti saw a flash of genuine surprise pass across his face. “Really? I thought it was very clear.”

With an easy smile, Brunetti said, “I’m sure it is to those of you who deal with these matters every day. But to those of us who aren’t familiar with your office’s particular language or terminology, well, it’s a bit difficult to understand.” When Rossi said nothing, Brunetti added, “I’m sure all of us know the language of our own bureaucracy; perhaps it’s only when we pass into that of another that we find it difficult.” He smiled again.

“What bureaucracy are you familiar with, Signor Brunetti?” Rossi asked.

Because he was not in the habit of broadcasting the fact that he was a policeman, Brunetti answered only, “I studied law.”

“I see,” replied Rossi. “I shouldn’t think our terminology would be very different from yours.”

“Perhaps it’s no more than my unfamiliarity with the civil codes referred to in your letter,” Brunetti said smoothly.

Rossi considered this for a moment and then answered, “Yes, that’s entirely possible. What is it, though, that you don’t understand?”

“What it means,” Brunetti answered directly, no longer willing to pretend that he understood.

Again that puzzled look, so frank that it made Rossi look almost boyish. “I beg your pardon?”

“What it means. I read it, but because I have no idea, as I told you, of the nature of the regulations to which it refers, I don’t know what it means, what it all applies to.”

“Your apartment, of course,” Rossi answered quickly.

“Yes, I understood that much,” Brunetti said in a voice he had to force to sound patient. ‘since it came from your office, I gathered at least that. What I don’t understand is what interest your office could take in my apartment.” Nor, for that fact, did he understand why an employee of that office should choose to visit him on a Saturday.

Rossi looked down at the folder on his lap and then up at Brunetti, who was surprised suddenly to notice how long and dark his lashes were, much like a woman’s. “I see, I see,” Rossi said, nodded, and looked back down at the folder. He opened it and pulled out a smaller one, studied the label on its cover for an instant, and handed it across to Brunetti, saying, “Perhaps this will help to make it clear.” Before he closed the folder that was still on his lap, he carefully aligned the papers that lay inside.

Brunetti opened the folder and removed the papers from it. Seeing how close-set the type was, he leaned to the left and picked up his glasses. At the top of the first page was the address of the building; below it appeared plans of the apartments beneath his own. On the next page was a list of past owners of each of those spaces, beginning with the storerooms on the ground floor. The next two pages contained what appeared to be capsule histories of the restorations done to all of the apartments in the building since 1947, listing the dates when certain permissions were requested and given, the date work actually began, and the date when final approval was given of the completed work. No mention was made of his own apartment, which suggested to Brunetti that this information must be contained in the papers Rossi still held.

From what he could make out, Brunetti realized that the apartment directly below them had last been restored in 1977, when the current owners moved in. Last restored officially, that is. They’d had dinner with the Calistas more than a few times and had been pleased with the almost unimpeded view that spread out from the windows of their living room, yet the windows indicated on the plans looked quite small, and there seemed to be only four, not six. He saw that the small guest bathroom to the left of the Calistas’ entrance hall was nowhere indicated. He wondered how that could be, but Rossi was certainly not the man to ask. The less the Ufficio Catasto knew about what got added to or shifted around inside the building, the better it would be for everyone living there.

Glancing across at Rossi, he asked, “These records go back a long time. Have you any idea how old the building is?”

Rossi shook his head. “Not precisely. But from the location and the windows on the ground floor, I’d say the original structure dates from the late fifteenth century, not earlier.” He paused and considered this for a moment, then added, “And I’d say the top floor was added in the early nineteenth century.”

Brunetti looked up from the plans, surprised. “No, it’s much later than that. From after the war.” When Rossi didn’t respond, he added, “The Second World War.”

When Rossi still didn’t comment, Brunetti asked, “Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Rossi said, “I was talking about the top floor.”

“So am I,” Brunetti said sharply, annoyed that this functionary of an office that dealt with building permits didn’t understand something as simple as that. He softened his voice and continued, “When I bought it, it was my understanding that it was added after the last war, not in the nineteenth century.”

Instead of answering him, Rossi nodded toward the papers that were still in Brunetti’s hand. “Perhaps you could take a closer look at the last page, Signor Brunetti.”

Puzzled, Brunetti read again through the last paragraphs, but as far as he could make out, they still concerned only the two apartments below him. “I’m not sure what you want me to see, Signor Rossi,” he said, looking up and removing his glasses. “This concerns the apartments below us, not this apartment. No mention is made of this floor.” He turned the paper over to see if something was written on the other side, but it was blank.

“That’s why I’ve come,” Rossi said, sitting up straighter in his chair as he spoke. He bent down and set his briefcase on the floor to the left of his feet, keeping the folder on his lap.

“Yes?” Brunetti said, leaning forward to hand the other one back to him.

Rossi took it from him and opened the larger folder. He carefully slipped the smaller one back in place and closed the file. “I’m afraid there is some doubt as to the official status of your apartment.”

“Official status’?” Brunetti repeated, looking off to the left of Rossi, to the solid wall and then up to the equally solid ceiling. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“There’s some doubt about the apartment,” Rossi said with a smile that Brunetti thought looked a bit nervous. Before Brunetti could again ask for clarification, Rossi went on, “That is, there are no papers in the Ufficio Catasto to show that building permits were ever granted for this entire floor, or that they were approved when it was built or,” and here he smiled again, “that, in fact, it was ever built.” He cleared his throat and added, “Our records show the floor below this one as the top floor.”

At first Brunetti thought he was joking, but then he saw the smile disappear and realized that Rossi was serious. “But all of the plans are in the papers we got when we bought it,” Brunetti said.

“Could you show them to me?”

“Of course,” Brunetti answered and got to his feet. Without excusing himself, he went down to Paola’s office and stood for a moment, studying the spines of the books that lined three walls of the room. Finally he reached to the top shelf and pulled down a large manila envelope filled with papers and took it back to the other room. Pausing inside the door to open the envelope, he pulled out the grey folder they’d received, almost twenty years ago, from the notary who had handled the purchase of the apartment for them. He came back to Rossi and handed this folder to him.

Rossi opened it and began to read, his finger tracing slowly down each line. He turned the page, read the next and thus until the end. A muffled “Hmm” escaped his lips, but he said nothing. He finished the file, closed it, and left it lying on his knees.

“Are these the only papers?” Rossi asked.

“Yes, only what’s in there.”

“No plans? No building permissions?”

Brunetti shook his head. “No, I don’t remember anything like that. Those are the only papers we were given at the time of the purchase. I don’t think I’ve looked at them since then.”

“You said you studied law, Signor Brunetti?” Rossi finally asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you practicing as a lawyer?”

“No, I’m not,” Brunetti answered and left it at that.

“If you were or if you had been at the time you signed these papers, I’d be surprised you didn’t notice, on page three of the deed, the paragraph which states that you are buying the apartment in the state, both legal and physical, in which you found it on the day on which ownership passed to you.”

“I believe that’s pretty standard language in any deed of transfer,” Brunetti said, summoning up a vague memory from one of his classes in civil law and hoping it was.

“The part about physical state is, certainly, though that about legal is not. Nor is this following sentence,” Rossi said, opening the folder again and searching until he found the passage. “”In the absence of the condono edilizio, the buyer accepts full responsibility to obtain the same in a timely manner and hereby absolves the sellers of any responsibilities or consequences which might occur in regard to the legal state of the apartment and/or from the failure to obtain this condono.” Rossi looked up, and Brunetti thought he saw a deep sadness in his eyes at the thought that someone might have signed such a thing.

Brunetti had no memory of that particular sentence. Indeed, at the time, they had both been so intent on buying the apartment that he had done what the notary told him to do, signed what he told him to sign.

Rossi turned back to the cover, where the name of the notary was listed. “Did you select this notary?” he asked.

Brunetti didn’t even remember the name and had to look at the cover. “No, the seller suggested we use him, and so we did. Why?”

“No reason,” Rossi said, too quickly.

“Why? Do you know something about him?”

“I believe he’s no longer practicing as a notary,” Rossi said in a soft voice.

Finally out of patience at Rossi’s questions, Brunetti demanded, “I’d like to know what all this means, Signor Rossi. Is there some dispute about our ownership of this apartment?”

Rossi gave his nervous smile again. “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that, Signor Brunetti.”

Brunetti had no idea what could be more serious than that. “What is it, then?”

“I’m afraid this apartment doesn’t exist.”

4. Even Brunetti seems to acknowledge that his father-in-law, Count Orazio Falier, can “easily work a miracle with no more than a phone call or a remark made over dinner” (p. 28). Why is Brunetti so unwilling to seek his help? Is he opposed to circumventing official channels, or is there another reason for his resistance?

5. “Bitter experience” has taught Brunetti that doctors won’t hesitate to hide behind the shield of bureaucracy (p. 64). Why is Dr. Carraro unhelpful when Brunetti questions him about Franco Rossi’s death? What does he fear? Are there comparable examples in the American medical establishment, and if so, what are the implications for both doctors and patients?

6. Brunetti has little evidence that Rossi’s death was anything but an accident, so why does he persist in suspecting foul play? Is his skepticism a professional instinct? Or is it a sense of duty to the victim stemming from a personal connection?

7. As much as Brunetti dislikes and distrusts his superior, he can’t help feeling some sympathy when Vice-Questore Patta tells him about his youngest son’s arrest. What favor does Patta ask of Brunetti? What does Patta seem to think about the evidence against his son, and how does Brunetti view it? To what degree is Patta eager to protect his son, and to what degree is he concerned about his reputation?

8. Lacking a friend in the local police department in Jesolo, Brunetti turns to another contact, the local club owner. What request does he make, and why? Is he acting in an official or unofficial capacity? Is his acting ethically?

9. Paola offers a very specific explanation for the deterioration of Luca and Maria’s marriage. Who does she blame or hold responsible for the soured relationship? Does Brunetti agree? Do you?

10. Brunetti is particularly troubled by the death of Marco Landi, an architecture student who appears to have overdosed on drugs. Still, “there was no way [he] could see that this crime would have serious legal consequences” (p. 144). What is the crime that has been committed? Who, in the long chain of producer to drug dealer to drug user, is responsible for Landi’s death?

11. When Brunetti recounts Landi’s overdose, Paola says, “How lucky we were to be born when we were” (p. 156). What is she referring to, and is her nostalgia warranted? How has the drug trade, and drug culture, changed over the last few decades?

12. How does Patta ultimately treat his son’s arrest? What motivates Brunetti to ask him about the matter, and why is Brunetti enraged by Patta’s response? Does Brunetti want to see Patta’s son punished, or is he after something else?

13. “Like the plagues inflicted upon the children of Egypt, moneylenders afflicted the children of Italy…” (p. 172). What are the conditions that allow predatory money lending to flourish in Italy? How do these moneylenders function? Consider the lending practices that led to the recent U.S. mortgage crisis. Are there any similarities to be drawn?

14. How do Angela and Massimo Volpato run their business, and what role does the bank play in drumming up customers? Is there any redeeming quality to their service, or is it purely exploitative?

15. Brunetti makes several informal inquiries from friends during his investigation. What does he learn from real estate broker Stefania about the inner workings of the Ufficio Catasto, both in regards to the office personnel and to the project of consolidating the city’s real estate records? What does Brunetti find so “inventive and efficient,” and how does he consider using the information (p. 211)?

16. Signorina Elettra’s investigation of the Volpatos’ assets uncovers vast real estate holdings that Brunetti estimates may be bringing in tens of millions of lire a month from rent. How does this wealth square with Brunetti’s initial impression of the couple? What two explanations does Brunetti offer for the disparity? What are some of the cultural or historical reasons for Venetians’ penchant for “thrift,” and what are some of the extreme forms this penchant can take?

17. In his “bleakest moments,” Brunetti wonders whether his fellow police officers are corrupt or merely incompetent, but he concludes that they, like himself, may be growing discouraged. Which circumstances during this investigation make him fear that “any attempt to obstruct, prevent, or punish crime [is] doomed to failure?” (p. 227). Which are specific to this case, and which are endemic to the society in which he lives or works?

18. How does Brunetti know Gino Zecchino? Is he a reliable witness? Consider the way Brunetti questions him, and the kinds of calculations he makes about getting the most useful information.

19. As a government office with broad authority over real estate, the Ufficio Catasto and its bureaucrats hold great power over Venice’s citizens. What kind of tie does Brunetti suspect the office might have to the Volpatos, and how do Signorina Elettra’s findings support his theory? Which party would be more predatory in that scheme, the government office or the private business?

20. Who is the girl who comes to see Brunetti about Marco Landi’s death? What information does she offer, and what does she refuse to reveal? What are her motivations for coming forward, and for keeping some details to herself?

21. In what ways does Brunetti use the daily newspapers as a tool in his investigative arsenal? Are his methods effective? Are they ethical, and are they justified? What is the responsibility of the press in running a story based on a tip from the Commissario? What if both parties know the information to be untrue?

22. How does Brunetti secure Dr. Carraro’s cooperation for his scheme? Do his dealings with the doctor constitute blackmail, and are they justified? How do Brunetti’s actions in this case compare with what he suspects Dal Carlo’s office of doing?

23. Signorina Elettra’s undercover visit to the Volpatos leaves her disgusted with “the combination of greed and piety” she encounters there (p. 283). What expressions of piety does she witness? Why do you think Angela Volpato even bothers with these displays?

24. How is the issue of Brunetti’s apartment—and its official status—finally resolved? What is the reason given for closing the inquiry, and what does Brunetti suspect to be true? Why does Brunetti see himself as a “little” person? Is it only in comparison with his “powerful” father-in-law and boss? Do you agree with Brunetti’s conclusion that a corrupt system cannot be corrupted?

25. What repercussions does Brunetti face at work for planting a story about Marco Landi’s drug dealer? What kind of a tradeoff is he ultimately forced to make?

26. The second planted story accomplishes Brunetti’s goal, bringing in a suspect who reveals how Rossi died. Who is Giovanni Dolfin, and why is he involved? Why is he immune to persecution?

27. As with many of his cases, Brunetti arrives at the end of his investigation deeply frustrated by his inability to “obstruct, prevent, or punish [a] crime.” How does he decide to mete out justice instead? Why is his method particularly effective? Is it ethical? Does his threat to Signorina Dolfin signal his corruption by a corrupt system?