At the rock, he sat down. Gazing at the water, he thought he saw the face of Carlo Martello appear indistinctly before him. He angrily threw the handful of pebbles at it. The image broke apart, flickered, and vanished. Montalbano fired up a cigarette.
“Oh, Chief, Chief, Chief!” Catarella assailed him as soon as he came through the front door of headquarters. “Doctor Latte, the one with an s at the end, called three times! He wants to talk to you poissonally in poisson! Says it’s rilly rilly urgint!”
He could guess what Lattes, the chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, nicknamed “Caffé-Lattes” for his nervous, unctuous manner, had to say.
Commissioner Luca Bonetti-Alderighi, Marquis of Vill abella, had been explicit and severe. Montalbano never looked his superior in the eye, but always slightly higher; he was fascinated by the man’s hair, which was very thick, with a great big shock on top that curled back like certain human shit piles deposited in the open countryside. Noticing that the inspector was averting his gaze, the commissioner had made the mistake of believing he’d finally intimidated his subordinate.
“Montalbano, now that the new captain of the Flying Squad, Ernesto Gribaudo, has arrived, I’m going to tell you once and for all: you’re going to play a supporting role from here on in. Your department will only handle little things; the big stuff will be handled by the Flying Squad in the person of Captain Gribaudo or his second-in-command.”
Ernesto Gribaudo, a living legend. Once, when glancing at the chest of a man who’d been killed by a burst of Kalashnikov fire, he’d declared the victim dead from a dozen stab wounds inflicted in rapid succession.
“Excuse me, Mr. Commissioner, could you give me a few practical examples?”
Luca Bonetti-Alderighi had beamed with pride and satisfaction as Montalbano stood before him on the other side of his desk, leaning slightly forward, a humble smile playing on his lips. Indeed, the inspector’s tone had been almost beseeching. The commissioner had him in the palm of his hand!
“Please be more explicit, Montalbano. What sort of examples do you mean?”
“I’d like to know what things I should consider little and what things I should consider big.”
Montalbano, too, was congratulating himself. His imitation of Paolo Villaggio’s immortal Fantozzi was succeeding marvelously.
“What a question, Montalbano! Petty theft, domestic quarrels, small-time drug-dealing, brawls, ID checks on im migrants, that’s the small stuff. Murders, that’s big.”
“Mind if I take notes?” Montalbano had asked, pulling a piece of paper and pen out of his pocket.
The commissioner had looked at him in bewilderment. And the inspector, for a moment, had felt frightened, thinking he’d pulled the other’s leg a little too hard and the commissioner had caught on.
But no. The commissioner had actually been scowling in disdain.
“Go right ahead.”
And now Lattes was about to reiterate the commissioner’s explicit orders. A homicide did not fall within his province. It was a matter for the Flying Squad. Montalbano dialed the cabinet chief’s number.
“Montalbano, old boy! How are you? Eh? And how’s the family?”
Family? He was an orphan and not even married.
“They’re all fine, thanks. And yours?”
“All well, by the Virgin’s good graces. Listen, Montalbano, on the matter of that homicide committed last night in Vigàta, the commissioner—”
“I already know, Dr. Lattes. It’s not my concern.”
“That’s not true! Who ever said that? I called you, in fact, because the commissioner actually wants you to take the case.”
Montalbano felt a mild shock. What could this mean?
He didn’t even know the murder victim’s vital statistics. Want to bet it will turn out the kid was the son of some big-wig? Were they trying to get him to take on some tremendous headache? Not a hot potato, but a glowing firebrand?
“I’m sorry, Dr. Lattes. I was at the crime scene, but I didn’t start any investigation. You can understand. I didn’t want to tread on anyone’s turf.”
“Of course I understand, Montalbano! We have some extremely sensitive people in this police department, thanks be to God!”
“Why isn’t Captain Gribaudo on the case?”
“You don’t know?”
“I know nothing.”
“Well, last week Captain Gribaudo had to go to Beirut for an important conference on—”
“I know. Was he held up in Beirut?”
“No, no, he’s back, but, upon his return, he immediately came down with a violent case of dysentery. We were worried it might be some sort of cholera—it’s not so unusual in those places, you know—but then, by the Virgin’s good graces, it turned out not to be.”
Montalbano himself thanked the Virgin for having forced Gribaudo not to stray more than a foot and a half from the nearest toilet.
“What about his second-in-command, Lieutenant Foti?”
“He was in New York for a conference organized by Rudolph Giuliani, you know, the ‘zero tolerance’ mayor. The conference dealt with the best ways to maintain order in a large metropolis—”
“Didn’t that end two days ago?”
“Yes, of course, but, you see, afterward, Lieutenant Foti decided to explore Manhattan a little and got shot in the leg by some muggers who stole his wallet. He’s in the hospital at the moment. Nothing serious, thank God.”
Fazio didn’t show up until after ten.
“Why so late, Fazio?”
“Please, Chief, I don’t want to hear about it. First we had to wait for the assistant prosecutor’s assistant. Then—”
“Wait. Explain.”
Fazio looked up to the heavens. Having to rehash the whole affair brought back all the nervous agitation he’d suffered that morning.
“Okay When Galluzzo went to pick up Assistant Tommaseo, who’d wrapped his car around a tree—”
“Wasn’t it a pole?”
“No, Chief. He thought it was a pole, but it was tree. To make a long story short, Tommaseo hurt his forehead and was bleeding. Galluzzo took him to the emergency room at Montelusa Hospital. From there, Tommaseo, who by then also had a headache, called to ask for a replacement. But it was early and there was nobody in the office. So Tommaseo called a colleague of his at home, Judge Nicotra. So then we had to wait for Judge Nicotra to get dressed, have breakfast, get in his car and drive to the crime scene. Meanwhile, Captain Gribaudo was nowhere to be seen. Ditto his lieutenant. After the ambulance finally arrived and the body was taken away, I waited another ten minutes for the Flying Squad. Seeing that nobody was coming, I left. If Captain Gribaudo wants me, he can come look for me here.”
“What did you find out about the murder?”
“What the fuck do you care, Chief, with all due respect? It’s the Flying Squad’s case!”
“Gribaudo’s not coming, Fazio. He’s holed up in a john somewhere, shitting his soul out. Foti got shot in New York. Lattes called and told me. The case is ours.”
Fazio sat down, eyes gleaming with contentment. He immediately pulled from his pocket a piece of paper covered with minuscule writing. He began reading.
“Emanuele Sanfilippo, known as Nenè, son of Gerlando Sanfilippo and Natalina Patò—”
“That’s enough,” said Montalbano.
He was irritated by what he called Fazio’s “records office complex,” but what irked him most was the tone of voice his sergeant used when citing birth dates, relatives, marriages, etc. Fazio understood at once.
“Sorry, Chief.” But he didn’t put the piece of paper back in his pocket. “I’ll keep it as a reminder,” he said by way of justification.
“How old was this Sanfilippo?”
“Twenty-one years and three months.”
“Was he a drug user? Dealer?”
“Apparently not.”
“Have a job?”
“No.”
“Did he live in Via Cavour?”
“Yessir. Third-floor apartment, with living room, two bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen. He lived alone.”
“Did he rent it or own it?”
“Rented. Eight hundred thousand lire a month.”
“Did his mother pay for it?”
“His mother? She’s penniless, Chief. Lives on a pension of five hundred thousand a month. If you ask me, things went as follows: around four o‘clock in the morning, Nenè Sanfilippo parks his car right in front of the main entrance, he crosses the street, and—”
“What kind of car?”
“A Fiat Punto. But he’s got another one in the garage. A Duetto. Get the picture?”
“Ill gotten gains?”
“I’d say so. You should see what he had in his apartment. All the latest stuff, TV, satellite dish on the roof, computer, VCR, videocam, fax, refrigerator ... And I didn’t even get a good look. There are videocassettes, diskettes, and CD-ROMs for the computer.... We’ll have to check it all out.”
“Any news of Mimi?”
Fazio, who had got all worked up, seemed disoriented.
“Who? Oh, right. Inspector Augello? He showed up shortly after the assistant’s assistant showed up. Had a look around and left.”
“Any idea where?”
“Dunno. Anyway, as I was saying, Nenè Sanfilippo inserts the key in the lock and, at that exact moment, somebody calls his name.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because he was shot in the face, Chief. Hearing his name called, Sanfilippo turns around and takes a few steps towards the person who called him. It must have happened very fast, mind you, because he left the key in the lock.”
“Was there a struggle?”
“Apparently not.”
“Did you look at the keys?”
“There were five keys. Two for Via Cavour: main door and apartment door. Two for his mother’s place, main door and apartment door. And the fifth is one of those ultramodern keys that locksmiths say can’t be duplicated. We don’t know what door that one was for.”
“Interesting kid, this Sanfilippo. Were there any witnesses?”
Fazio started laughing.
“Are you kidding, Chief?”
2
They were interrupted by some heated shouting in the lobby. There was decidedly a row in the making.
“Go have a look.”
Fazio went out, the voices calmed down, and a few minutes later he returned.
“There’s a man who got upset with Catarella because he wouldn’t let him in. He insists on speaking to you.”
“He can wait.”
“He seems pretty worked up, Chief.”
“Let’s hear him out.”
In came a bespectacled man of about forty, neatly dressed, with hair parted on the side and the look of a respectable clerk.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me. You’re Inspector Montalbano, aren’t you? My name is Davide Griffo and I feel mortified for having raised my voice, but I couldn’t understand what that policeman was saying to me. Is he a foreigner?”
Montalbano preferred not to answer.
“I’m listening.”
“Well, I live in Messina and work at City Hall. And I’m married. My parents live here, in Vigàta, and I’m an only child. I’m very worried about them.”
“Why?”
“I phone them twice a week from Messina, every Thursday and Sunday Two nights ago, last Sunday, they didn’t pick up, and I haven’t heard from them since. Every hour’s been hell, so finally my wife suggested I get in the car and drive to Vigàta.Yesterday I phoned the concierge to find out if she had the key to my parents’ apartment. She said no. So my wife said I should turn to you. She’s seen you a couple of times on TV.”
“Do you want to file a report?”
“First I’d like to get authorization to break down the door ...” His voice began to crack. “Something serious may have happened to them, Inspector.”
“All right. Fazio, get Gallo for me.”
Fazio went out and returned with his colleague.
“Gallo, please accompany this gentleman. He needs to have the door to his parents’ apartment broken down. He has no word of them since last week. Where did you say they live?”
“I hadn’t told you yet. In Via Cavour, number 44.”
Montalbano’s jaw dropped.
“Madunnuzza santa!” said Fazio.
Gallo started coughing violently and left the room in search of a glass of water.
Davide Griffo, now pale and spooked by the effect of his words, looked around.
“What did I say?” he asked in a faint voice.
As Fazio pulled up in front of Via Cavour 44, Davide Griffo stepped out of the car and rushed inside the main door.
“Where do we start?” Fazio asked the inspector as he was locking the car.
“We start with the missing old folks. The dead guy’s already dead and can wait.”
In the main doorway they ran into Griffo, who was racing back like a bat out of hell.
“The concierge said somebody was murdered last night! Somebody who lived in this building!”
Only then did he notice Nenè Sanfilippo’s silhouette, outlined in white on the sidewalk. He began to tremble violently.
“Calm down,” the inspector said to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“No ... it’s just that I’m afraid that—”
“Mr. Griffo, are you thinking that your parents might be somehow involved in this homicide?”
“Are you joking? My parents are—”
“Well, then, forget the fact that someone was killed in front of the building this morning. Let’s go have a look.”
Signora Ciccina Recupero, the concierge, was pacing about her six-by-six-foot porter’s lodge like certain bears that go insane in their cages and start rocking first on one leg, then another. She could allow herself this luxury because she was all bones, and the little bit of space she had available was more than enough for her to shuffle about in.
“Oh God oh God oh God! Madunnuzza santa! What is happening in this building? What on earth is happening? Has somebody cast a spell on it? We must call a priest at once for some holy water!”
Montalbano grabbed her by the arm—or, rather, by the bone of her arm—and forced her to sit down.
“Cut the theatrics. Stop crossing yourself and answer my questions. When did you last see the Griffos?”
“Last Saturday morning, when Mrs. Griffo came back from shopping.”
“Today is Tuesday Weren’t you worried?”
The concierge bristled.
“Why should I be? Those two never said a word to anyone! Stuck up, they were! And I don’t give a damn if their son hears me say it! They’d go out, come back with their groceries, lock themselves up in their house, and three days’d go by before anyone saw them again! They had my phone number. They could call if they needed anything!”
“And did that ever happen?”
“Did what ever happen?”
“Did they ever call you?”
“Yeah, it happened a few times. When Signor Fofo, the husband, was sick, he called me for help when his wife was out at the drugstore. Another time when a hose on the washing machine broke and their apartment got flooded. Another time—”
“That’s enough, thanks. You said you haven’t got the key?”
“I didn’t just say it, I don’t have it! Mrs. Griffo left me the key last summer when they went to see their son in Messina. She wanted me to water the plants she keeps on the balcony But then they asked for it back without a word of thanks, nothing, like I was their servant or something! And I’m supposed to be worried about them? Hell, if I went up to the fourth floor to ask them if they needed anything, they’d probably tell me to fuck off!”
“Shall we go up?” the inspector asked Davide Griffo, who was leaning against the wall. He looked a little weak in the knees.
They took the elevator to the fourth floor. Davide shot out at once.
Fazio brought his mouth to the inspector’s ear.
“There are four flats on each floor. N enè Sanfilippo lived in the one directly under the Griffos,” he said, gesturing with his chin toward Davide, who was pressing all his weight against the door of number 17 and wildly ringing the doorbell.
“Stand aside, please.”
Davide, seeming not to hear him, kept pushing the doorbell button. They could hear it ringing inside, remote and useless. Fazio stepped forward, grabbed the man by the shoulders, and moved him aside. The inspector extracted a large key ring from his pocket. From it hung a dozen or so variously shaped picklocks, a gift from a burglar with whom he’d become friends. He fiddled with the lock a good five minutes. It not only had a bolt, but had been given four turns of the key.
The door opened. Montalbano and Fazio opened their nostrils wide to smell the odor inside. Fazio was holding back Davide, who wanted to rush in, by the arm. Death, after two days’ time, begins to stink. But there was nothing. The apartment merely smelled stuffy. Fazio let go and Davide sprang forward, immediately crying out:
“Papa! Mama!”
Everything was in perfect order. The windows shut, the bed made, the kitchen tidy, the sink empty of dirty dishes. Inside the fridge, a packet of prosciutto, some olives, a bottle of white wine, half-empty In the freezer, four slices of meat and two mullets. If they’d indeed gone away, they certainly left with the intention of returning soon.
“Do your parents have any relatives?”
Davide was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, head in his hands.
“Papa, no. Mama, yes. A brother in Comiso, and a sister in Trapani who died.”
“Do you think they could have gone to—”
“No, Inspector, it’s not possible. They haven’t heard from my parents for a month. They’re not very close.”
“So you have absolutely no idea where they might have gone?”
IM5 Excursion to Tindari (2005) Page 2