Di Cristoforo! Undersecretary for communications! Rising star of the ruling party—not to mention, according to gossips, a young man much admired in those circles where admiration goes hand in hand with staying alive.
“But he wasn’t even fifty years old! What’d he die of?”
“Officially, a heart attack. Owing to the stress of all the political commitments to which he so generously devoted himself…and so on and so forth. Unofficially, from the same illness as Nicotra.”
“Fuck!”
“Exactly. Now you understand why Liguori, feeling the seat of his pants starting to burn, demands that we arrest the supplier before any more illustrious victims fall.”
“Listen, Mimi, weren’t these gentlemen doing cocaine?”
“Of course.”
“But I’d always heard that coke wasn’t—”
“That’s what I thought, too. Except Liguori, who’s a first-class asshole but knows his trade well, explained to me that when coke isn’t properly cut, or is cut with certain other substances, it can turn poisonous. And in fact both Nicotra and Di Cristoforo died of poisoning.”
“But I don’t get it, Mimi. What interest could a dealer have in killing his clients?”
“Well, in fact, it wasn’t intentional. It’s just a little collateral damage. According to Liguori, our dealer didn’t just deal. He also further cut the merchandise, by himself and with inadequate means, doubling the quantity before putting it on the market.”
“So there might be other deaths.”
“Absolutely.”
“And what’s lighting a fire under us all is the fact that this dealer supplies a high-flying circle of politicians, businessmen, established professionals, and so on.”
“You said it.”
“But how did Liguori come to the conclusion that the dealer is in Vigata?”
“He merely hinted that he deduced it from clues provided by an informer.”
“Best wishes, Mimi.”
“What do you mean, ‘best wishes’? Is that all you have to say?”
“Mimi, I told you yesterday what I had to say. Make your moves very carefully. This is not a police operation.” “It’s not? Then what is it?”
“It’s a secret service operation, Mimi. For the guys who work in the shadows and are followers of Stalin.” Mimi scowled.
“What’s Stalin got to do with this?”
“Apparently Uncle Joe once said that when a man becomes a problem, you need only eliminate the man to eliminate the problem.”
“What’s that got to do with this?”
“I’ve already told you, and I repeat: The only solution is to kill this dealer or have him killed. Think about it. Let’s say you go by the book and arrest him. When you’re writing the report, you can’t very well say he’s responsible for the deaths of Nicotra and Di Cristoforo.”
“I can’t?”
“No, you can’t. Mimi, you’re more thickheaded than a Calabrian. Senator Nicotra and MP Di Cristoforo were respectable, honorable men, paragons of virtue—all church, family, public service. No drugs of any sort, ever. If need be, ten thousand witnesses will testify in their favor. So you weigh the pros and cons and come to the conclusion that it’s better to gloss over this business of their deaths. And you end up writing that the guy’s a dealer and that’s all. But what if the guy starts talking to the prosecutor? What if he blurts out the names of Nicotra and Di Cristoforo?”
“Nobody would voluntarily incriminate himself in two homicides, even unintentional ones! What are you saying?”
“Okay, let’s say he doesn’t incriminate himself. There’s still the risk that someone else might link the dealer to the two deaths. Don’t forget, Mimi, Nicotra and Di Cristoforo were politicians with many enemies. And in our neck of the woods, and not only our neck of the woods, politics is the art of burying one’s adversary in shit.”
“What’s politics got to do with me?”
“A lot, even if you don’t realize it. In a case like this, do you know what your role is?” “No. What’s my role?” “You supply the shit.” “That sounds a little excessive.”
“Excessive? Once it comes out that Nicotra and Di Cristoforo used drugs and died from it, their memory will be unanimously dumped on in direct proportion with the equally unanimous praise that will be heaped on you for having arrested the dealer. Some three months later, at most, somebody from Nicotra and Di Cristoforo’s party will start by revealing that Nicotra took very small doses of drugs for medicinal purposes and that Di Cristoforo did the same for his ingrown toenail. We’re talking medicine here, not vice. Then, little by little, their memory will be rehabilitated, and people will start saying that it was you who first started slinging mud at the dear departed.”
“Me?!”
‘Yes Sir, You, by making a careless arrest to say the least.
Augello stood there speechless. Montalbano threw down his ace.
“Don’t you see what’s happening to the ‘Clean Hands’ judges? They’re being blamed for the suicides and heart attacks of some of the accused. The fact that the accused were corrupt and corrupters and deserved to go to jail gets glossed over. According to these sensitive souls, the real culprit is not the culprit who in a moment of shame commits suicide but the judge who made him feel ashamed. But we’ve talked enough about this. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, I’m tired of explaining it to you. Now get out of here, I got work to do.”
Without a word, Mimi got up and left the room, even glummer than before. Montalbano started eyeing four pages densely covered with numbers, unable to make anything whatsoever of them.
After five minutes of this, he pushed them away in dis-gust and called the switchboard. A voice he didn’t recognize answered.
13
“Listen, I want you to find me the phone number of a Palermo contractor named Mario Sciacca.” “Home phone or business phone?” “Home.” “All right.”
“But just find me the number, understand? If the home phone’s not listed, ask our colleagues in Palermo. Then I’ll call myself from a direct line.”
“I understand, Inspector. You don’t want them to know it’s the police calling.”
Smart kid. Knew his stuff.
“What’s the name?”
“Sciacca, Inspector.”
“No, yours.”
“Amato, Inspector. I started working here a month ago.”
He made a mental note to talk to Fazio about this Amato. The kid might be worth having on the squad. A few minutes later, the phone rang. Amato had found Mario Sciacca’s home phone number.
The inspector dialed it.
“Who’s this?” asked an old woman’s voice. “Is this the Sciacca residence?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Antonio Volpe. I’d like to speak with Signora Teresa.”
“My daughter-in-law’s not home.” “Is she away?”
“Well, she’s gone to Montelusa. Her father’s sick.”
What a stroke of luck! This might spare him the boring drive to Palermo. He looked for the number in the phone book. There were four people named Cacciatore. He would have to be patient and call them all.
“The Cacciatore residence?”
“No, the Mistrettas’. Look, this whole thing is a big pain in the ass,” said an angry male voice. “What whole thing, if I may ask?”
“The fact that you all keep calling, when the Cacciatores moved away a year ago.”
“Do you know their number, by any chance?”
Mr. Mistretta hung up without answering. A fine start, no doubt about it. Montalbano dialed the second number.
“The Cacciatore residence?”
“Yes,” replied a pleasant female voice.
“Signora, my name is Antonio Volpe. I tried to get in touch with a certain Teresa Sciacca in Palermo and was told—”
“I’m Teresa Sciacca.”
Astonished by his sudden good fortune, Montalbano was speechless.
“Hello?” said Teresa.