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.”