Five minutes later he had the young man on the line. Montalbano turned on the speakerphone.
“Sorry to bother you, but I’d like you to answer an important question. About a month ago, did that Russian girlfriend of yours—the one who looks like the murder victim—did she come to your place during the night?”
“Natasha? Yes. She came again about a week ago as well, as far as that goes. She dropped by to say good-bye.”
“She went away?”
“She went back to St. Petersburg. Suddenly felt homesick. She’ll be back in a month.”
“So,” said Montalbano, after closing the communication, “the person Signora Manfredonio saw was definitely Natasha.”
“I agree,” said Fazio. “But a big question remains, so big you can’t see past it: Why did the girl have a key to the front door?”
* * *
At around eleven o’clock that same morning Montalbano tried something. He phoned the Institute for Forensic Medicine and asked for Dr. Pasquano. He imagined they would tell him to call back, but they actually put him on right away.
“How come you’re not working, Doctor?”
“Why, do I have to answer to you or something? But if you really must know, I was taking a short break to go to the toilet. Doesn’t that ever happen to you? Or do you prefer doing it in your pants? And do you mind telling me why the hell you’re busting my chops at this hour of the morning?”
“I just wanted to know if you had anything to tell me about the girl who was stabbed to death.”
“Just be patient and wait for the report.”
“Can’t you give me a little preview?”
“For a price.”
“Shall we say six cannoli?”
“Make it ten and you’ve got a deal.”
* * *
He stopped at the Caffè Castiglione, ordered a tray of ten cannoli, got back in his car, and headed for Montelusa. The first thing Pasquano did upon greeting him was eat one cannolo. The second thing he did was eat another. Then he looked at Montalbano and asked:
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything you can tell me.”
“First of all, she was very young, not even twenty, if you ask me. Body in excellent shape. To judge from some dental work she had done, I would assume she was from an Eastern European country. She had been raped repeatedly by several men and in every way possible and imaginable. Then they bound her wrists and hung her from some sort of hook—the marks are quite visible—and they started torturing her systematically.”
Montalbano turned pale. Pasquano noticed.
“What, does that upset you? We’re off to a good start! What should we do?”
“Would you please continue?” the inspector said brusquely.
“My, aren’t we touchy! Yessiree, tortured for hours on end, inflicting cuts to every part of the body, with a very sharp dagger. The cuts then started getting deeper, and when they thought they’d killed her, they untied the rope around her wrists and left her there on the floor. I’m sure they were going to come back to get rid of the body. But the girl—who I told you was in superb physical shape—regained consciousness, managed to get outside, climb into her car, and get as far as Via Pintacuda. There were traces of grass and asphalt on the soles of her feet. And there you have it, my good man. Would you like to join me for a cannolo?”
Montalbano shook his head no. His stomach was in knots.
“Why do you think they tortured her?”
“She was probably part of some criminal gang and either betrayed them or refused to tell them something that only she knew. Oh, and one more detail. To keep her from screaming, they stuffed her bra into her mouth. She swallowed the hook.”
* * *
He recounted to Fazio what Pasquano had told him. Fazio looked doubtful.
“What is it you’re not convinced about?”
“The bit about the girl being part of some criminal gang.”
“Why?”
“Chief, in the condition she was in, it’s not as if the girl could have driven very far in her car. This is something that happened in Vigàta or nearby. So where are these criminal gangs? With that kind of ferocity? And it can’t be a Mafia thing, either, because the Mafia doesn’t act that way.”
“I agree with you.”
“So what do you think this is about?”
“Exploitation and prostitution.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even in Vigàta we’ve got a fair number of foreign girls imported to work as prostitutes. And their pimps can be quite ferocious with any one of them that slips up. They have to set an example. The fact that they gang-raped her seems to me rather indicative of this.”
“You may be right.”
“But if that’s the way it is, there is something we can do. This commerce in young flesh can only be practiced with the consent of the Mafia. Who probably even take a cut.”
“That’s true.”
“You need to inform yourself. Who is associated with that circuit? The Cuffaros or the Sinagras? If we knew that, it would be a good start.”
“I’ll start asking around today.”
“Yes, because . . .”
“Because?”
“Because a murder so atrocious, so ruthless, preceded by long hours of torture, is probably not to the Mafia’s liking, either, or not to the liking of part of the Mafia. Actually, you know what I say? This afternoon, I’m going to have Zito interview me. Give me back the girl’s picture.”
* * *
Nicolò Zito, the news editor of the Free Channel, who was a close friend of Montalbano’s, interrupted the filming.
“I’m sorry, Salvo, but the way the interview’s turning out, I can’t possibly broadcast it. You’re too crude in your description of the details. It sounds like a horror movie. Try to soften it a little.”
“Unfortunately it’s not a movie. And that’s exactly what I want people to feel: horror. But I’ll try and soften it a little.”
They did it over.
3
“. . . and despite the fact that the tortures she’d been subjected to had reduced her to a mass of bleeding flesh, the poor girl found the strength to get into her car, drive a certain distance, open the front door in Via Pintacuda, and go inside. But then she fell to the floor and breathed her last.”
“Did she know anyone in Via Pintacuda?”
“None of the tenants has admitted to knowing her. But the girl had in her possession a key to the front door. Someone must have given it to her.”
“But did she also have the key to one of the apartments in the building?”
“We don’t know. We didn’t find any.”
“What do you think the motive could be?”
“A tragic, indeed a perverse show of power.”
“Could you explain a little?”
“No, no more questions, please.”
Zito signaled to the cameraman to stop filming.
“What kind of way is that to end an interview? Your answer didn’t say a goddamn thing!” he protested.
“It didn’t say anything to you, but somebody else will get the message. I can’t be any clearer because I, too, can only make conjectures. Between you and me, I can tell you I think it was the work of some prostitution ring. The girl probably rebelled, and they wanted to make an example of her, to show the others what they are capable of. But I’m telling you, Nicolò: I want you to broadcast the girl’s picture repeatedly and say that anyone who recognizes her should immediately contact the police or your station.”
* * *
After leaving the Free Channel studios, which were in Montelusa, the inspector coasted ever so slowly back down to Vigàta. He stayed in his office for a couple of hours signing useless documents, then went home early, because he wanted to watch the eight o’
clock evening news. And indeed, despite the fact that he had softened somewhat his description of the rape and the torture, the interview inspired horror and dismay. When it was over he set the table out on the veranda and feasted on the pasta ’ncasciata that Adelina, his housekeeper, had made for him. At ten o’clock he turned the TV back on. Nicolò Zito was saying that they had received dozens of phone calls from indignant people saying they wanted to see the killers thrown in jail as soon as possible. He also said that two men thought they recognized the girl. But he added no more on the subject. The broadcast had just finished when the telephone rang.
“I want to tell you about those two phone calls,” said Zito.
“Were they anonymous?”
“Yes. Two men. They both said the same thing: that the girl, whose name they didn’t know, dealt drugs at the Labrador.”
The Labrador was a huge nightclub with two dance floors. One of them was the realm of youngsters of both sexes; the other was much smaller and had all the features of an exclusive “gentlemen’s club.” Everyone knew the place was owned by the Cuffaro family.
This was undoubtedly interesting news. At midnight the inspector watched the late-night news report of TeleVigàta, the main competitor of the Free Channel and a progovernment station that was not above occasionally giving a little under-the-table boost to the Mafia. Pippo Ragonese, their top newsman, was interviewing a stocky, well-dressed man of about fifty with a mustache.
“You, Signor Lacuccia, are the manager of the Labrador, are you not?”
“Yes, for the past year.”
“Have you heard the persistent rumor that the recently murdered girl was someone who sold drugs at your establishment?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Have you seen the photo of the murdered girl that was broadcast on the news?”
“Yes, I have.”
“What can you tell us about her?”
“All I know is the girl’s first name, Vera, and I can say that she did, for a while, frequent our establishment, but then I ordered the doormen not to let her in anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d gotten wind that she was dealing drugs. That’s something I do not tolerate in my nightclub.”
“Would she come alone or with company?”
“She would come with whoever she could find.”
“So you assume that her murder was the result of some settling of accounts among drug dealers?”
“I think that’s pretty clear.”
Montalbano turned off the set and went to bed.
* * *
“Ahh, Chief, Chief! Ah, Chief!” Catarella said the following morning as soon as the inspector walked in.
This litany of lament meant that Hizzoner the C’mishner of P’leece had called.
“What did he want?”
“’E says as how ya gotta call ’im, ’im bein’ ’Izzoner the C’mishner, straightawayslike and all emoigently emoigentlike.”
“Okay.”
Montalbano went into his office, sat down, and rang the commissioner.
“Montalbano? I saw your interview on the television last night. A little crude, don’t you think?”
“Well, I was trying to—”
“Yes, I gathered that. At any rate, I wanted to tell you in advance that the prosecutor’s office has decided to turn the case over to the narcotics unit. And you will do me the favor, if asked, to cooperate with Inspector Gianquinto on the investigation. And just for your information, the prefect has taken the measure of shutting down the Labrador for fifteen days. This will be announced sometime this afternoon.”
The inspector thanked him and hung up. Then he summoned Fazio and informed him of the phone conversation he’d just had.
“So what are we gonna do?”
“We’re gonna go right ahead and fuck ’em all. I have to cooperate anyway, so why not? Got any news?”
“Yeah. The local prostitution circuit is controlled by two Slavs who nevertheless have to report to the Cuffaros.”
“And who’s in charge of drugs?”
“The Cuffaros. The Sinagras’ fortunes have been in decline lately.”
“And these same Cuffaros also own the Labrador.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Lots. Did you watch the interview with the manager of the Labrador?”
“Yes.”
“The whole thing was a smokescreen. A red herring the prosecutor’s office swallowed whole. The Cuffaros are taking a huge risk by diverting the investigation towards narcotics. Does anyone really believe an employee of the Cuffaros would publicly admit that drugs were being dealt at his establishment? Leading to the club’s closing for fifteen days? If he did so, it’s because he was ordered to, by the Cuffaros. Which means that there’s something else underlying the girl’s murder, something huge, something that must by all means remain hidden.”
* * *
“I told the prosecutor that I was unconvinced by the story of a settling of accounts, but he just dug in his heels,” said Gianquinto. “Normally drug dealers settle their differences with a burst of machine-gun fire and that’s the end of that. They don’t waste their time with rape, torture, and stuff like that.”
Gianquinto had shown up at the station as Montalbano was on his way to lunch, and since he seemed like a nice guy, the inspector had invited him to Calogero’s.
“These mullet are outstanding,” said Gianquinto. “So, tell me what you think.”
Montalbano told him. Gianquinto seemed convinced.
“So, how should we proceed?” he asked.
“I think I know a way. So, the Cuffaros want us to think it’s about drugs? Fine. We’ll pretend we believe them. We’ll do them a little damage and see whether the game is still worth the candle to them.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“Well, if I were you, I would go immediately and do a big-time search of the Labrador. You’re sure to find something. They won’t have had time to remove everything. That will extend the closure beyond the fifteen days to an indefinite amount of time, and the revenue lost by the Cuffaros will become huge. Then, always assuming you find some stuff, you’ll hold a nice press conference and announce that you steadfastly intend to continue down this path.”
“Excellent idea,” said Gianquinto. “I’ll get moving as soon as we’re done here.”
* * *
Gianquinto got back in touch at eight o’clock that evening. He was excited and spoke in dialect.
“You been talking to crows or something?”
“Was I right?”
“Right on the money! In the manager’s office—that is, the office of the man who didn’t tolerate drugs in his establishment—we found a good bit of heroin, cocaine, and various chemical junk in a hollowed-out leg of his desk!”
“And where was the manager during all this?”
“C’mon, Montalbà, I wasn’t born yesterday. He was present for the search, and there was even one of his bodyguards. Nobody can accuse us of planting the stuff ourselves.”
“So when’s the press conference?”
“Tomorrow morning at eleven.”
* * *
Montalbano watched the Free Channel’s rebroadcast of the press conference the following day at one p.m., from his table at Calogero’s, while eating lunch. At a certain point Gianquinto was chivalrous enough to thank his colleague, Montalbano, for his advice in the case. But he didn’t reveal what Montalbano had said.
* * *
“Chief, how much do you think a freelance cameraman would normally make?” Fazio asked.
Montalbano gave him a confused look.
“How the hell should I know? Why do you ask?”
“Well, Davide Guarnotta, in addition to the Renault he usually drives around, owns a spanking hot Ferrari. Not
to mention a nice little forty-foot boat he sometimes takes out on cruises.”
“Have you been investigating him?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“He’s the only person in the building who could have given the girl the key.”
There was certainly no doubt about that.
“Maybe he has family money.”
“Chief, his dad was a street sweeper and his mother a cleaning lady. Good people, mind you, but penniless.”
“We should find out what bank—”
“Already taken care of. I have a friend at the Credito Siciliano. He made it clear that our friend Guarnotta’s got a lot of money.”
“So where does he get it?”
“That’s the big question.”
A sudden boom sent the inspector flying out of his chair and Fazio falling into a crouch. It was the door crashing against the wall.
“I’m rilly sorry, jinnelmen, but my ’and slipped,” Catarella said from the doorway.
One of these days I’m going to shoot him, thought Montalbano.
But all he said was:
“What is it?”
“An invilope jest arrived f’yiz,” said Catarella, stepping forward and setting the envelope down on the desk.
It was a linen envelope with no address or return address.
“Who delivered it?”
“A man,” said Catarella.
“Ah, really?!” said Montalbano, feigning surprise. “A man? Are you sure? It wasn’t a crustacean or a three-toed sloth?”
“Nah, Chief, I c’n swear to that. ’Zs jest a man, shoily an’ soitanly.”
“Get the hell outta here!” the inspector exploded.
Montalbano opened the envelope. It contained a VHS cassette and nothing else.
Death at Sea: Montalbano's Early Cases Page 16