The Potter's Field (20 page)

“Chief, the guy's been in the sights of the narcotics authorities of at least two continents his whole life! With the line of work he's in? No, he's never tripped up, not even once.”

“Oh, listen, take this photo of Giovanni Alfano and have ten copies of it made for me. They may come in handy. Then have the three friends come in for questioning tomorrow morning, one hour apart. Oh, and one other thing. I want to know the exact date Balduccio Sinagra went into the hospital.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes and no. I'm thinking of that anonymous letter that claimed Balduccio gave the order to have one of his couriers killed. If I'm not mistaken, Ballerini told Musante that Balduccio was hospitalized and in a coma in Palermo, and so Musante decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with it.”

“You're not mistaken.”

“Except that Dolores showed me a photo of Balduccio in which he looked just fine. I managed to get a glimpse of the date on the back: August 28. Therefore Balduccio could have had all the time in the world to order a hit on whoever he liked before going into the hospital. Make sense?”

“Makes sense.”

The inspector had just finished eating the way God had intended and was getting up from the table when Enzo approached.

“Inspector, where are you going to spend Christmas and New Year's this year?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I wanted to let you know that if by any chance you're staying in Vigàta, the trattoria will be closed on the night of the thirty-first. But if you want to come to my place that night, I'd be honored and pleased to have you.”

So now the tremendous pain in the ass of the holidays was about to begin! He couldn't stand them anymore—not so much the holidays in themselves, but the annoying rituals of best wishes, presents, lunches, dinners, invitations and return invitations. And then the greeting cards expressing the hope that the coming year would be better than the one just ended—a vain hope, since every new year in the end turned out to be slightly worse than the one before.

Enzo's question had managed, in the end, to block his digestion like a blast of cold air. In vain he took his customary walk to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty. The effect was nil, his stomach still felt heavy.

As the final blow, he imagined the inevitable, imminent arguments with Livia—
Will you be coming to Boccadasse? No, you come to Vigàta
—on and on to the point of exhaustion or bickering.

“Ahh Chief Chief! Misser Giacchetta called! He says it wadn't so important 'n' so iss not so important f 'you to call'im cuz he's gonna call back.”

Fabio Giacchetti, the bank manager and new father. What might he have to say?

“When he calls back, put 'im through to me.”

“Ahh, Chief, I almos' forgot. Fazio called an' tol' me to tell yiz 'e knows when 'e's goin' inna haspitol.”

“Fazio's going into the hospital?!” said Montalbano, alarmed.

“No, no, Chief, don' worry, I prolly din't say it right. So I'll try agin, so jus' bear wit' me a seccun. So, Fazio tol' me to tell yiz 'e knows when 'e—but he ain't Fazio, 'e's summon ellis—when 'e's gone inna haspitol.”

At last he understood: Fazio had learned the date of Balduccio Sinagra's admission to the hospital.

“And when was it?”

“'E says it was the turd o' September.”

Confirmed. So Don Balduccio would have had time to give as many execution orders as he wanted. But why hadn't the people at Antimafia reached the same conclusion as he?

Why had they taken the information given them by Narcotics as valid? Why were they so convinced the anonymous letter wasn't true? Or had they in fact investigated but didn't want anyone to know?

“Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

“Hi. What's up? Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“First I have to ask you something.”

From his tone of voice, he seemed on edge. Maybe something had gone wrong. Or he'd had problems with some superior.

“Go on, ask your question.”

“Could you have a copy of a search warrant sent to me within an hour?”

“Within an hour? I can try.”

“Do it right away, I'm telling you.”

“Do you need to cover your rear?”

“Yes. I can't not tell our prosecutor, who's quite the formalist, that I entered the Via Gerace apartment completely illegally.”

“Why do you have to tell him?!”

“Because.”

Maybe someone had seen them breaking down the door. It would have been amusing to watch if they'd been arrested by the carabinieri.

“Did you go there yourself?”

“Of course. Without a warrant, I had to be the one to take responsibility. Get me that warrant, and I'll let you know why I have to report everything to the prosecutor.”

“All right, but in the meantime, did you take any photos? Could you send them to me?”

“There are four photos, and you'll be receiving them at any moment. Bye, talk to you soon.”

By the time Fazio returned, Montalbano had already spoken to Prosecutor Tommaseo, told him about Alfano's disappearance, obtained a warrant, and had it faxed from Montelusa to Macannuco.

Fazio looked befuddled.

“What's wrong?”

“What's wrong, Chief, is we were wrong.”

“Can you speak a little more clearly?”

“I compared the data on Giovanni Alfano that Dolores gave me with the missing persons data. You remember when I said there wasn't anybody whose data matched up with the body we found in the
critaru?
”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, now there
is
somebody, and his information matches up with Alfano's. In every respect: age, height, probable weight.”

Now it was Montalbano's turn to look befuddled.

And as they were looking at each other, the door flew open with a crash that might have been a bomb. Montalbano and Fazio cursed in unison, while Catarella remained in the doorway, looking pensive.

“Well, aren't you going to come in?”

“Chief, I's thinkin' that maybe I oughta try knockin wit' my feet, since my 'and always slips.”

“No, instead you ought to try this: when you're in front of the door, instead of knocking, take out your gun and shoot once in the air. I'm sure it would make less noise. What is it?”

Catarella came in, went up to the desk, and set four photographs down on it.

“They's juss sint from Tauro Gioiosa an' I prinnit 'em.”

He left.

“You'd better be careful, Chief. The next time he comes in, the guy's gonna shoot just like you said,” said Fazio, worried. “And it may start a revolution.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Montalbano. “Come and have a look at these photos yourself.”

Fazio came up beside him.

The first shot, which showed the bedroom, had been taken in such a way as to display the whole room. On the right was an open door that afforded a glimpse of the bathroom. The bed was almost as big as the one the Alfanos had in Vigàta, and there was an armoire, a chest of drawers, and two chairs. All in perfect order but for a pair of trousers tossed carelessly onto the bed.

The second shot showed a sort of living room with a kitchenette in the corner and hanging cupboards. There was also a small table with four chairs, two armchairs, a television, a sideboard, and a refrigerator. Beside the sink was an uncorked bottle of wine, a can of beer, and two glasses.

The third photo showed the bathroom. But the shot was taken so as to isolate the sink, toilet, and bidet. Here it was clear that whoever had last used the toilet had forgotten to flush, since the bowl was full of shit.

The fourth was an enlargement of the pair of trousers on the bed.

“Hadn't the lady said she left the place in order?” said Fazio.

“Yeah. That means someone entered the apartment after she left.”

“The husband?”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely accompanied by someone else. There are two glasses.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think, Chief?”

“At the moment I don't want to think about anything.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We have to show these photos to Dolores immediately. Call her right now and ask her if she can come here or if we should go there.”

Dolores Alfano showed them into the living room, after receiving them without so much as a smile. She was clearly nervous and mostly curious to know what the two men had to tell her. She didn't even ask if they wanted coffee or something to drink. Montalbano weighed his options. Should he get straight to the point or beat around the bush, given that she wasn't going to like what he had to tell her? Better not to waste any time.