The Potter's Field (31 page)

“I was right, Chief. Filippo Alfano's murder was reported by the
Giornale dell'Isola
. He was killed on February the second, twenty-three years ago, at least that's the date the records office gives for his death.”

“And the upshot?”

“The upshot, for now, is that Catarella has accessed the magazine's archives.”

“Let's hope for the best. Any news of Mimì?”

“He's not back yet.”

“All right, thanks.”

But Fazio didn't budge.

“Chief, what's going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“First you turn the investigation over to Augello and now you're conducting a parallel investigation on your own.”

“But I'm not conducting any parallel investigation! I just got an idea that I thought might be useful. Or should I forbid myself to think just because I turned the investigation over to Mimì?”

Fazio seemed unconvinced.

“Chief, I still can't get it through my head that it was just a coincidence that you asked me about Dolores Alfano before the woman came here to tell us about her husband . . . And I can't stop thinking about the fact that you asked me about Pecorini before we knew he was involved with Dolores. Don't you think it's time you told me how things really stand?”

What a damn good cop Fazio was! Montalbano weighed his options and arrived at the conclusion that the best course was to tell Fazio part of the truth.

“If I asked you about Dolores and Pecorini, it wasn't because of the murder of Giovanni Alfano, but for another reason.”

“What's the reason?”

“I'd found out that Mimì has been carrying on, for over two months, with another woman.”

Fazio chuckled.

“Well, knowing him, it's a surprise it didn't happen sooner.”

“Yes, but I discovered that Mimì's lover is Dolores Alfano and that they meet in a house owned by Pecorini.”

“Holy shit! And are they still lovers now?”

“Yes.”

Fazio was speechless.

“And you . . . you . . . knowing this . . . you assigned him the investigation anyway?”

“Well, what's so strange about that? It was the Mafia that killed Alfano, wasn't it? Don't you agree?”

“So it seems.”

“If we suspected Dolores of having anything to do with her husband's murder, then that would change everything, and Mimì would find himself in a difficult position, to say the least.”

“Wait a minute, Chief. Does Inspector Augello know that you know?”

“That he has a lover and that this lover is Dolores? No, he doesn't.”

“I don't get it,” said Fazio. “The woman seemed so in love with her husband! Was she with Augello even before she began to worry that her husband had disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“So it was all an act she put on with us!”

“Yes, and she's still reciting it.”

“I'm sorry, but I think I'm losing my mind. Why was Inspector Augello so keen on leading this investigation? To do his girlfriend a favor? But at the time we didn't even know who the dead man was! Unless...”

“Very good! Unless Mimì himself already knew, because Dolores had told him who she thought the dead man might be.”

“But that means—”

“Wait. Somebody's scratching at the door,” Montalbano interrupted him. “Go see who it is.”

Fazio got up and opened the door. It was Catarella.

“I's knockin' wit' my fingernails and din't crash the door!” he said, chortling with satisfaction.

He laid a sheet of paper on the desk.

“Iss a copy o' the arcticle.”

As Catarella left, Montalbano started reading the article aloud.

“Shall we bet he was hacked into thirty pieces?” asked Montalbano.

“So our murder looks pretty much like Balduccio's follow-up act,” said Fazio.

Montalbano was thinking that, yes, Balduccio had confessed to the murder of Filippo Alfano, but he had neglected that little detail about having had him chopped up into thirty pieces, the same number as Judas's silver coins. That was why he had admitted to the crime, certain that Montalbano would look into it. He had omitted that detail on purpose. Once the inspector discovered the shambles that had been made of Filippo Alfano's body, he would understand that the repetition of the carnage was like forging his signature.

“Take this article and put it away somewhere.”

“Shouldn't I show it to Inspector Augello?”

“Only when I tell you to.”

“I'm sorry, Chief, but this article looks to me like proof that it was definitely Balduccio who—”

“Only when I tell you to,” Montalbano repeated coldly.

Fazio put the sheet of paper in his pocket, but seemed more doubtful than ever.

“So how should I act with Inspector Augello?”

“How do you feel like acting? Just act the way you always do.”

“Chief, I've still got hundreds more questions for you.”

“So many? We'll have plenty of time for that later.”

“You coming back in the afternoon?”

“Yes, but late. After lunch I'm going home. You can reach me there if you need me.”

Lost in all the potential complications of what he had decided to do, the inspector ate so listlessly that Enzo noticed.

“What's wrong, Inspector? No appetite?”

“I've got some worries on my mind.”

“That's bad, Inspector. Eating, like sex, wants no worries.”

Montalbano took his customary stroll, but, when he got to the lighthouse at the end of the jetty, he didn't sit down on his rock, but turned back and went home.

They had agreed that Macannuco would phone him at four o'clock. The inspector didn't want to be called at the office; there were too many people constantly going in and out of his room. At four on the dot, the telephone rang.

“Montalbano? This is Macannuco.”

“What do you say?”

“You were right on the money. The stains on the bottom of the garbage bin are definitely blood. Forensics's got the bin now and are checking to see if the blood's the same as in the sink.”

“How long's that going to take?”

“I asked them to be as quick as possible. They assured me they'll have an answer for me by tomorrow morning. What've you done in the meanwhile?”

“I sent you a letter that I want you to mail back here to Vigàta. Do it as soon as you get it, it's very important. Did you talk to your prosecutor?”

“Yes, he granted me authorization to tap the phone. They're working on it now.”

“Did you ask him not to say anything to Tommaseo?”

If the public prosecutor for Reggio Calabria mentioned anything to his counterpart in Vigàta, the latter was sure to talk about it with Mimì. And they could make a great big omelet with all the broken eggs.

“Yes. He put up some resistance, but in the end he agreed.”

“Look, I mustn't have any part in any of this, not now, not later, understood?”

“Not to worry. I never once mentioned your name.”

“How'd it go with Esterina Trippodo?”

“She promised to cooperate. She said she's doing it for you.”

“Did you tell her ‘Long live the king'?”

“Would you please go fuck yourselves, you and Esterina Trippodo!”

When the inspector got back to the station around five, Mimì was beside himself.

“It certainly helps the Mafia around here when you've got people like Musante fighting them! Incompetent fucking idiot!”

“Would you please calm down and tell me what happened?”

“I had an appointment with him at nine o'clock. He made me wait till eleven-thirty. We'd barely started talking when he's called away. He comes back five minutes later, saying he's very sorry but has to postpone our meeting until one o'clock. So I go out for a stroll in Montelusa and come back at one. He's waiting for me in his office. I bring him up to date on the investigation and tell him that all the evidence points to Balduccio Sinagra . . . So what does he do? He laughs. And he tells me that this is old news. He says that some time ago they'd received an anonymous letter accusing Balduccio of having had one of his couriers murdered for selling drugs on his own, and they'd investigated this and come to the conclusion that Balduccio had nothing to do with it. He says it was a trick to throw them off the trail. Fucking idiots! On top of everything else, he says the courier's body was never found. But now it
has
been found, I tell him, and it even has a name: Giovanni Alfano. And you know what he said to me?”

“Mimì, if you don't tell me, how can I—”

“He said that it couldn't have been Balduccio because it was entirely in Balduccio's interest to keep the man alive. And he mentioned some business about a letter that Alfano was supposed to deliver to someone in Villa San Giovanni...”

“Did he tell you how they found out about this letter?”

“Yes, it was actually a trap set by Narcotics. They had set things up so that Balduccio would have to get in touch with this person. They were waiting for the letter to be delivered so they could screw Balduccio. But since it never arrived, they decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with Alfano's murder. I don't really get it, to be honest with you.”

“I don't either. What do you intend to do?”

“I'm not giving up, Salvo. I am certain, you realize, absolutely one hundred percent certain, that Balduccio did it!” Mimì replied wildly.

Poor guy! What a state Dolores had reduced him to! She was contributing to the delinquency of a minor police inspector . . . She must have been stirring his pot without respite, not giving him a moment's peace.

“When you questioned Signora Alfano, did you ask her if her husband had ever told her how his father, Filippo, was killed?”

“Yes. She told me that Balduccio had him offed with a pistol shot at the base of the skull.”

“And that's all?”

Mimì looked a bit puzzled.

“Yes. One pistol shot, and that's all. Why do you ask?”

Montalbano chose not to answer the question straight off.

“But why didn't Giovanni ever try to get back at Balduccio, if he knew he was behind his father's murder?”

“Dol—Signora Alfano said that Balduccio wanted so badly to be forgiven by Giovanni, and did so much for him, that in the end he succeeded.”

“Want some advice?”

“Sure.”

“Ask the lady if she remembers the name of a Colombian newspaper of the time. Then look up this newspaper's archive on the Internet and ask for any articles dealing with the killing. Something useful might turn up.”

“You know, that's a good idea! First I'll talk to Dol—Signora Alfano, and then I'll put Catarella to work.”