IM10 August Heat (2008) (12 page)

Fazio blushed slightly. He could not control his “records office mania,” as the inspector called it.

“Yeah, Chief, I did. But I didn’t read them to you.”

“You didn’t read them to me because you didn’t have the courage. Did you find out if they’re working now and where?”

“Of course. They’re currently working at the four construction sites Spitaleri’s got going.”

“Four?”

“Yessir. And in five days another one’s opening up.With the connections he’s got between politicos and mafiosi, imagine the guy ever lacking work! Anyway, to conclude, Spitaleri told me he prefers always using the same masons.”

“Except for the occasional Arab he can throw into the garbage can without too much fuss. Are Dalli Cardillo and Miccichè working at the Montelusa site?”

“No.”

“So much the better. I want you to call those two in for questioning tomorrow morning, one at ten and the other at noon, seeing that we’ll probably be up late tonight.And don’t accept any excuses.Threaten them if you need to.”

“I’ll get on it right away.”

“Good. I’m going home. We’ll meet back here at midnight, and then we’ll head off to Montelusa.”

“Okay. Should I put on my uniform?”

“You must be kidding. It’s better if the guy thinks we’re hoods.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting on the veranda at Marinella, he thought he felt a hint of cool, but it was mostly a hypothesis of cool, since neither the sea nor the air was moving.

Adelina had made
pappanozza
for him. Onions and potatoes boiled a long time and mashed with the back of a fork until they blend together. Seasoning: olive oil, a hint of vinegar, salt, and freshly ground black pepper. It was all he ate. He wanted to keep to light food.

He sat outside until eleven o’clock, reading a good detective novel by two Swedish authors who were husband and wife, in which there wasn’t a page without a ferocious and justified attack on social democracy and the government. In his mind Montalbano dedicated the book to all those who did not deign to read mystery novels because, in their opinion, they were only entertaining puzzles.

At eleven he turned on the television.
Lupus in fabula:
TeleVigàta featured a story showing the honorable Gerardo Catapano inaugurating the new municipal dog shelter of Montelusa.

He turned it off, freshened up a bit, and went out of the house.

 

 

 

He arrived at the station at a quarter to midnight. Fazio was already there. Each was wearing a light jacket over a short-sleeved shirt.They smiled at one another for having had the same idea. Anyone wearing a jacket in that extreme heat couldn’t help but cause alarm, since ninety-nine times out of a hundred the jacket served to hide a revolver tucked into the waistband or pocket.

And, in fact, they were both armed.

“Shall we go in mine or yours?”

“Yours.”

It took them scarcely half an hour to drive to the worksite, which was in the neighborhood of the old Montelusa train station.

They parked and got out. The worksite was surrounded by wooden fencing almost six and a half feet high and had a big, locked entrance gate.

“Do you remember,” said Fazio,“what used to be here?”

“No.”

“Palazzina Linares.”

Montalbano remembered it. A little jewel from the second half of the nineteenth century which the Linares, rich sulfur merchants, had hired Giovan Battista Basile, the famous architect of the Teatro Massimo in Palermo, to build. Later the Linares had fallen into ruin, and so had their
palazzina
. Instead of restoring it, the authorities had decided to demolish it and build, in its place, an eight-story block of flats. So strict, that cultural ministry!

They walked up to the wooden gate, peered between the fenceposts, but saw no lights on.

Fazio pushed the gate softly three times.

“It’s locked from the inside with a bolt.”

“Think you could manage to climb over and open it?”

“Yeah, but not here. A car might drive by. I’ll climb over the fencing in back and get in from there.You wait for me here.”

“Be careful.There may be a dog.”

“I don’t think so. It would have already started barking.”

The inspector had the time to smoke a cigarette before the gate opened just enough to let him in.

9

It was pitch-dark inside. To the right, however, one could make out a shed.

“I’ll go get the flashlight,” said Fazio.

When he returned, he relocked the gate with its bolt and turned on the flashlight. As they cautiously approached the door to the shed, they noticed that it was half open. Apparently, in this heat, Filiberto couldn’t stand being inside with the door closed.Then they heard him snoring lustily.

“We mustn’t give him any time to think,” Montalbano whispered into Fazio’s ear. “Don’t turn on the lights. We’ll work him over by the beam of the flashlight. We need to scare him to death.”

“No problem,” said Fazio.

They entered on tiptoe. Inside, the shed stank of sweat, and the smell of wine was so strong that one felt drunk just breathing it. Filiberto, in his underpants, was lying on a camping cot. He was the same man as in the dossier’s photo.

Fazio shone the flashlight around the room.The watchman’s clothes hung from a nail. There was a little table, two chairs, a small enamel washbasin on an iron tripod, and a jerry can. Montalbano grabbed it and smelled it: water.Without making any noise, he filled the basin, then picked it up in both hands, approached the cot and flung the water violently into Filiberto’s face. The man opened his eyes and, blinded by Fazio’s flashlight, shut them at once, then opened them again, raising a hand to shield himself.

“Who . . . who . . .”

“Whoopdeedoo!” said Montalbano. “Don’t move.”

And he brought his pistol into the beam of light. Filiberto instinctively put his hands up.

“You got a cell phone?” the inspector asked.

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“In my jacket.”

The one hanging from the nail. The inspector grabbed the cell phone, dropped it on the floor, and smashed it with his feet. Filiberto mustered the courage to ask:

“Who are you?”

“Friends, Filibè. Get up.”

Filiberto stood up.

“Turn around.”

His hands shaking slightly, Filiberto turned his back to them.

“But what do you want? Spitaleri’s always paid his dues!”

“Shut up!” Montalbano ordered. “Say your prayers.”

And he cocked the pistol.

Hearing that dry, metallic click, Filiberto’s legs turned to pudding and he fell to his knees.

“For heaven’s sake! I ain’t done nothing! Why do you wanna kill me?” he asked, weeping.

Fazio gave him a kick in the shoulder, making him fall forward. Montalbano put the barrel of the pistol up against the nape of his neck.

“You listen to me . . .” he began.

Then he suddenly stopped.

“He’s either dead or he just fainted.”

He bent down to touch the jugular on the man’s neck.

“He’s fainted. Sit him up in a chair.”

Fazio handed Montalbano the flashlight, grabbed the watchman by the armpits and sat him down. But he had to hold him up, because he kept sliding to one side.They both noticed that the man’s underpants were wet. Filiberto had pissed himself in fear. Montalbano went up to him and dealt him such a slap that he reopened his eyes. The watchman blinked repeatedly, disoriented, then immediately started crying again.

“Don’t kill me, please!”

“You answer our questions, you save your life,” said Montalbano, holding the pistol to his face.

“I’ll answer, I’ll answer.”

“When the Arab fell, was there any protective railing?”

“What Arab?”

Montalbano put the barrel to his forehead.

“When the Arab mason fell . . .”

“Ahh, yes—no, there wasn’t.”

“Did you put it up on Sunday morning?”

“Yessir.”

“You, Spitaleri, and Dipasquale?”

“Yessir.”

“Whose idea was it to douse the dead body with wine?”

“Spitaleri’s.”

“Now, be real careful and make no mistakes when you answer. Did you already have the materials for the railing here at the construction site?”

The question was essential to Montalbano. Everything hinged on the answer Filiberto would give.

“No, sir. Spitaleri ordered it, an’ it was brought here early Sunday morning.”

It was the best answer the inspector could ever want.

“Who supplied it? What company?”

“Ribaudo’s.”

“Did you sign the receipt?”

“Yessir.”

Montalbano congratulated himself. He’d not only hit the nail right on the head, he had even found out what he wanted to know.

Now they needed to add some drama to the drama, for the benefit of the boss, Spitaleri.

“Why didn’t you get the stuff from Milluso’s?”

“How should I know?”

“And to think we told Spitaleri a thousand times, ‘Ya gotta use Milluso’s! Ya gotta use Milluso’s! But, noooo . . . He wants to play wise guy wit’ us. He don’t wanna understand. So now we’s gonna kill you, just so he finally understands.”

With the strength of desperation, Filiberto leapt to his feet. But he had no time to do anything else. Fazio, from behind, clubbed him on the side of the neck.

The watchman fell and didn’t move.

They raced outside, opened the gate, got into the car, and as Fazio was turning on the ignition, Montalbano said:

“See how, if you’re nice, you can have anything you want?”

Then he said no more.

 

 

 

As they were heading back to Vigàta, Fazio commented:

“That was just like an American movie!”

And, since the inspector just sat there in silence, he asked:

“Are you counting up how many crimes we committed?”

“It’s better not to think about that.”

“Are you dissatisfied with the answers Filiberto gave you?”

“No, on the contrary.”

“So then, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t like what I did.”

“I’m sure the guy didn’t recognize us.”

“Fazio, I didn’t say we did something wrong, I said I didn’t like it.”

“You mean the way we treated Filiberto?”

“Yes.”

“But, Chief, the guy’s a criminal!”

“And we’re not?”

“If we hadn’t done what we did, he wouldn’t have talked.”

“That’s not a good reason.”

Fazio snapped.

“What do you want us to do, go back and tell him we’re sorry?”

Montalbano said nothing.

A minute later, Fazio said:

“I apologize, sir.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Do you think Spitaleri will swallow the story that we were sent by Milluso’s outfit?”

“It’ll take him two or three days to figure out that Milluso’s had nothing to do with it. But those two or three days will be enough for me.”

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” said Fazio.

“Say it.”

“Why, when he needed the material for the railing, did he turn to Ribaudo’s instead of having it sent from one of his other worksites?”

“That would have meant involving other people from the other worksites. Spitaleri must have thought that the fewer the people who knew about the matter, the better.Apparently he could trust Ribaudo’s.”

 

 

 

During the night, Montalbano’s conscience, contrary to his fears, chose to rest. Thus the inspector awoke from his five hours of sleep as if he had slept ten. The cloudless morning sky put him in a good mood. At that early hour, however, the air was already hot.

The minute he arrived at the office, he phoned Marshal Alberto Laganà, of the Finance Police, who had helped him so many times before.

“Inspector! What a pleasant surprise! What’s the good news?”

“It’s bad news, unfortunately.”

“Let’s hear it anyway.”

“Do you know the Ribaudo firm in Vigàta, the one that supplies construction materials?”

Laganà chuckled to himself.

“You bet we know them! Materials sold without invoices, evasion of sales tax, cooking the books . . . And we were just planning to renew the acquaintance in the next few days.”

A stroke of excellent luck.

“When, exactly?”

“Three days from now.”

“Couldn’t you start early, say, tomorrow?”

“But tomorrow is August the fifteenth! What’s this about?”

Montalbano explained the situation to him. And told him what he wanted to know.

“I think I can manage it the day after tomorrow,” Laganà concluded.

 

 

 

“Chief ? There’s summon says he’s called Falli Fardillo that says you summoned ’im for ten aclack this morning.”

“Have you got the printout of the girl who was killed?”

“Yessir.”

“Bring it to me, then tell Fazio to come to my office, and then, lastly, send that man in.”

Naturally, Catarella sent in Dalli Cardillo first, then went and got the file, which Montalbano placed upside down on his desk, and finally went and called Fazio.

Dalli Cardillo was thickset and fiftyish, with short-cropped hair without a trace of white, swarthy, and sporting a moustache of the sort that Turks used to wear in the nineteenth century. He was nervous, and it showed.

But who isn’t nervous when summoned without explanation to the police station? Wait a second.Without explanation? Was it possible Spitaleri hadn’t already told him what to say?

“Mr. Dalli Cardillo, did Mr. Spitaleri tell you why you were summoned here?”