The Potter's Field (28 page)

“Could I have a
vitello alla milanese
?”

“Sure, if you go to Milan,” the waiter replied.

He ended up eating an excellent fried sole, begging forgiveness. Back in Boccadasse, he lay down in bed. He woke up around four o'clock, got out of bed, and went back to the picture window to read the newspaper he had bought. Dress rehearsal for life in retirement, he thought to himself, half amused, half dejected.

Livia came home at six.

“You know what? When I told my friend Laura you were here, she invited us to spend the weekend at her villa in Portofino. Feel like going?”

“But I have to be back in Vigàta by Sunday evening.”

“Let's do this. We can leave tomorrow morning, spend all of Saturday there and then, Sunday morning, after breakfast, I'll drive you to the airport.”

“Okay.”

“Why did you unplug the telephone?”

“Because I didn't want to be bothered by any calls from Vigàta.”

Livia looked at him in shock.

“You used to fret when you had no news from Fazio or Mimì. You've changed, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” he admitted.

They went out to eat at the trattoria the inspector had chosen as the Boccadassian alternative to Enzo's in Vigàta. Before the food arrived, Livia brought up the subject of Mimì. She was worried.

“When was the last time Beba called you?”

“Three days ago.”

“You'll see, the next time she calls she'll tell you things are going better with Mimì.”

“Have the stakeouts ended?”

“Not yet, unfortunately. But since I know the commissioner is going to commend him for his work, his mood will definitely change, you'll see.”

Is it possible that one is never done telling lies in life?

He got back to Vigàta at nine in the evening, went to eat at Enzo's, and was home in Marinella by ten-thirty. He undressed, sat down in the armchair, and turned on the television. The Free Channel was running their umpteenth program on the arrival of illegal immigrants on Italian shores. TeleVigàta, for its part, featured the thousandth roundtable discussion on the construction of the bridge over the Straits of Messina. As there was still half an hour to go before the nighttime news broadcasts, he went out of the house for a walk along the beach.

On his way back, he thought he heard the telephone ring. He didn't run to pick up. It couldn't have been Livia, since he had phoned her from the restaurant. Surely it was Fazio. Once inside, he turned the television back on and tuned in to TeleVigàta. He was more than certain that during his absence Mimì had taken some initiative of his own and Fazio hadn't been able to inform him in time because there was no way to reach him in Boccadasse. And, indeed, the news he was expecting was the first item on the program.

“Major new developments are expected in the case of the man whose dismembered body was found at the so-called
critaru
,” the anchorman began.

Then, in order of importance, he ran through the other headlines of stories he would cover during the broadcast—fatal crashes on the Montelusa–Palermo highway; sheep stolen in Fela; robbery of a supermarket in Fiacca; a three-year-old boy who fell from a fourth-floor balcony in Montelusa and was unharmed thanks, according to his mother, to the miraculous intervention of Padre Pio; two regional deputies arrested for collusion with the Mafia—before returning to the first story, which featured footage of
'u critaru
itself; of Pasquale Ajena, the owner, showing the place where he had first seen the bag with the corpse inside; of the beautiful Dolores Alfano in tears, being supported by Prosecutor Tommaseo, who couldn't hide his pleasure at putting his hands all over those gifts from God; of Mimì in glory and triumph displaying some tiny thing that Montalbano only afterwards realized was the famous bridge that Alfano had swallowed; of Fazio performing an acrobatic leap to get out of camera range.

The essence of the news reported by the anchorman boiled down to the fact that Dolores had been unable to identify the corpse, “though she knew in her heart that those meager remains must belong to her husband.” He added that it would soon be possible to identify him through DNA testing, since samples of his blood had been taken by the Forensics laboratory of the Reggio Calabria police from the traces found in the victim's apartment in Gioia Tauro. In fact, Dolores Alfano recalled that on the morning her husband failed to board ship, he had cut himself while shaving with a straight razor. This surprised Montalbano. He hadn't seen any blood in the bathroom of the Via Gerace apartment, either in the photos or in person. Perhaps Forensics had cleaned it all up. At the end of the news report, it was time for the editorial of Pippo Ragonese, the purse-lipped prince of opinion at TeleVigàta.

“Just a few words to underscore how clear it is to everyone that as soon as the investigation into the
critaru
murder was passed on from Inspector Montalbano to his second-in-command, Inspector Domenico Augello, it immediately took a great leap forward. Indeed, in the space of barely more than twenty-four hours, Inspector Augello, under the guidance of Prosecutor Tommaseo, was able to identify with almost absolute certainty the man so brutally murdered. It must be said that in this particular case it was the close collaboration between Public Prosecutor Tommaseo and his counterpart in Reggio Calabria that yielded such impressive results. Inspector Augello also brought to our attention how the methods of the murder revived certain old Mafia rituals believed to have fallen into disuse. While he preferred not to name any names, it is obvious that the brilliant young deputy inspector already has a clear idea of who might be behind this. Whatever the case, we extend our heartfelt best wishes to Inspector Augello and fervently hope that Inspector Montalbano continues to refrain from participating in this investigation.

“And now let us move on to the arrest of two regional parliamentary deputies of the Center-Right on suspicion of collusion with the Mafia. While we have, of course, only the deepest respect for the magistrature, we cannot help but note that it moves all too often in only one direction. Is it possible, we ask as honest citizens, that—”

Montalbano turned it off. Everything had gone exactly as expected. He hadn't missed a beat. He had started a game of chess and made the first move (truth be told, he'd had Mimì, the unwitting player, make it). He should have felt satisfied, but in fact he did not. He felt ashamed of the way he was acting, but it was the only course of action he had come up with. Now all that remained for him to do was to pretend to be angry at Mimì and wait for the person who was supposed to make the next move to make it. Because someone, upon hearing Ragonese's words, was going to feel dragged into this case, and would react accordingly. Which would be the second move of the match.

The phone rang. It was Fazio.

“Ah, finally, Chief! I tried calling you about an hour ago and—”

“I heard the phone ringing but didn't pick up in time.”

“Did you watch the news?”

“Yes.”

“Chief, you have no idea how many times I tried to reach you in Boccadasse to warn you that Inspector Augello was—”

“I believe you, Fazio. Like an idiot I forgot my cell phone here, and in Boccadasse I was always out of the house. I'm very sorry, it's all my fault.”

“You should know that early tomorrow morning Augello is meeting with Prosecutor Tommaseo and the commissioner.”

“Let them have their meeting, and you go and get a good night's sleep. Oh, and listen. Did Mimì somehow find out I went to Gioia Tauro?”

“No. Who would've told him?”

Augello returned to the station late in the morning. He didn't look very pleased with his meeting in Montelusa.

“Mimì, what the hell have you been cooking up?”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you. Last night I watched Ragonese on TV. I told you I wanted to be informed of every move you made.”

“But, Salvo, how was I going to inform you if you weren't here? Anyway, what did I say or do that was new? All I did was relate to Tommaseo what Fazio filled me in on.”

“Namely?”

“That you thought the
critaru
body belonged to Dolores Alfano's husband, and that he'd been killed by the Mafia for being a courier who had betrayed the family. Not one word more or less than that.”

The inspector should have embraced and thanked Mimì, but he couldn't.

“But you also told the journalists.”

“I had Tommaseo's authorization to do so.”

“Well, okay. How did your meeting go this morning?”

“Badly.”

“Why?”

“Because Tommaseo wants to proceed very cautiously with Balduccio Sinagra. He says we have nothing against him at the moment. But I say how can that be? Isn't Balduccio Sinagra a Mafia thug and a killer?”

“So what, Mimì? It's true he's a killer, but what if he didn't kill Alfano? Do you still want to pin the murder on him anyway? Are you saying that one murder more, one murder less makes no difference? Well, I've got news for you: It does.”

“So, now you're defending him?”

Montalbano had a flash. He suddenly remembered the nightmare he'd had a few nights before, when Totò Riina had offered him the post of minister of the interior.

“Mimì, cut the crap,” he said, though in his mind the words were directed at Riina. “I'm not defending a mafioso, I'm telling you to be careful about accusing someone, mafioso or no, of a crime he cannot have committed.”

“I'm convinced he had Alfano killed.”

“Then try to convince Tommaseo. Where does the commissioner stand on this?”

“He agrees with Tommaseo. But he suggested I talk to Musante.”

“I don't think he'll be of any help to you. How are Beba and the boy doing?”

“Fine.”

Mimì got up to leave, but Montalbano stopped him before he could open the door.

“I'm sorry, Mimì, but I've been wanting to ask you something for a long time, and since lately we haven't had any chance to talk, I—”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you know anything about three men from Catania . . .” He broke off, opened the top drawer on the left of his desk, grabbed the first sheet of paper that came within reach, and pretended to read: “ . . . whose names are Bonura, Pecorini, and Di Silvestro?”

Having uttered the question, Montalbano felt poised at the edge of a cliff. He stared at Mimì with both eyes pointed at him like shotgun barrels and hoped that what he felt inside didn't show on his face. The first and third names he had invented. Mimì looked genuinely befuddled.

“Wait a second. I think I remember a certain Di Silvestro we dealt with last year, though I can't remember why. The other two I've never heard of before. Why, are they of interest to you?”