Arms extended away from his body, fingers stretched and spread out, he was strutting like a peacock.
“Come into my office.”
Catarella followed him with a sheet of paper in hand and an attitude so exultant that one could almost hear, in the background, the triumphal march from
Aïda
.
8
Montalbano glanced at the file that Catarella had printed out for him.
MORREALE, Caterina, known as “Rina”
daughter of Giuseppe Morreale and Francesca Dibetta
born in Vigàta July 3, 1983
residing in Vigàta, at via Roma 42
disappeared October 12, 1999
reported missing by father on October 13, 1999
Height: 5 ft. 9 in.
Hair: blond
Eyes: blue
Build: slender
Distinguishing marks: small scar from appendectomy and varus of right big toe
NOTE: Bulletin issued by Fiacca Central Police
He pushed away the sheet of paper, buried his face in his hands.
Throat slashed worse than if she’d been a sheep, or any kind of animal at all.
Now that he’d seen, from the accompanying photo, what she looked like, he felt sure, for no apparent reason, that Dr. Pasquano was simultaneously right and wrong.
He was right about how she’d been killed, but wrong about why she’d been killed. Pasquano had advanced the hypothesis of blackmail, but Rina Morreale, with her serene blue eyes, would never have been capable of blackmail.
Even if she had consented to making love with the man who would later kill her, how could she ever have followed him underground of her own accord, into an illegal apartment that one entered through a narrow, even dangerous opening? Above all, it must have been pitch-dark down there. Had the murderer perhaps brought a flashlight with him?
But wasn’t there a better place? Couldn’t they have done it in a car? Pizzo was a secluded spot; it wouldn’t have been a problem.
No, Rina Morreale was definitely forced by the killer to enter what would become her tomb.
Catarella had come up beside him to look at the photograph of the girl. Maybe he hadn’t paid much attention to it before.
“She was so beautyfull!” he said softly, moved.
The photo was consistent with the description and showed a girl of rare beauty. Her neck looked like it could have been painted by Botticelli.
There was no need to do any more searches. He had only to inform the family so that somebody could go to Montelusa to identify the body.
Montalbano felt his heart ache.
“She was so beautyfull!” Catarella repeated in a low voice.
Looking up, the inspector caught him turned three-quarters away, drying his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.
Better change the subject at once.
“Is Fazio back?”
“Yessir.”
“Could you go call him for me?”
Fazio, too, had a sheet of paper in his hand when he came in.
“Catarella told me the girl’s been identified. Can I see her?”
Montalbano handed him the printout. Fazio looked at it, then gave it back to him.
“Poor kid.”
“When we catch him—because we will catch him, of that much I am certain—I’m going to smash his face in,” the inspector said quietly.
A thought had just come to him.
“How is it,” he continued, “that the girl’s parents reported her missing to the Fiacca police?”
“I don’t understand it, Chief, even though it happened during the period of cooperation between all the different commissariats regardless of territorial boundaries. Remember all the confusion?”
“How could I forget? Since we had to deal with everything, we couldn’t deal with anything. Anyway, let’s not forget to ask the parents.”
“Speaking of which, who’s going to tell them?”
“You are. But inform Tommaseo first. In fact, do it right now, from this phone.That way we won’t have to think about it anymore.”
Fazio spoke with the prosecutor, who wanted the file sent to him by e-mail. But before alerting the parents, the inspector wanted to talk with Pasquano and be absolutely certain of the identification.
“Catarella!”
“Here I am, Chief.”
“Take the girl’s file and send it immediately to Prosecutor Tommaseo.”
After Catarella took it away, Montalbano went on the attack.
“How did it take you all morning to find those names?”
“It wasn’t my job to find them, Chief, it was Spitaleri’s.”
“But haven’t they got a computer or some other sort of filing system?”
“They have, but they keep only the information from the last five years in the office, and since that house was built six years ago . . .”
“And where do they keep the rest of it?”
“At the house of Spitaleri’s sister, who, it turns out, went to Montelusa this morning, so we had to wait till she got back.”
“I don’t understand why he keeps these documents at his sister’s house.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“Because of the Finance Police. In the event of an unannounced visit by the auditors.That way, Spitaleri has time to forewarn his sister.Who has been instructed beforehand and knows which documents to bring and which not to bring to the office. Does that explain it?”
“Perfectly.”
“Anyway, the masons who were working—” Fazio began.
“Wait a minute. We still haven’t had a chance to talk about Spitaleri.”
“Concerning the girl’s murder—”
“No. For now I want to talk about Spitaleri the real estate developer. Not the Spitaleri who likes underage girls.We can talk about him afterwards.What did you make of him?”
“Chief, the guy smells fishy to me. When we made up the story about the autopsy not finding any alcohol in the Arab’s blood but only on his clothes, he didn’t react. Not a peep.Whereas he should have either been surprised or said it couldn’t be true.”
“Therefore they must have drenched the poor bastard in wine after he died, so people would think he was drunk.”
“So what do you think happened, Chief ?”
“When you were out with Spitaleri, I called in the foreman, Dipasquale, and interrogated him. In my opinion, the Arab fell off the unprotected scaffolding and none of his comrades noticed. Maybe he was working alone in some concealed area of the structure. Then the worksite’s watchman, whose name is Filiberto Attanasio, finds the body after everybody’s gone home and calls up Dipasquale, who informs Spitaleri in turn.What’s wrong? Are you listening to me?”
Fazio looked lost in thought.
“What did you say the watchman’s name was?”
“Filiberto Attanasio.”
“Would you excuse me for a minute?”
He got up, went out, and returned five minutes later with a printout in hand.
“I remember him well,” he said.
He handed Montalbano the printout. Filiberto Attanasio had been convicted several times for larceny, aggravated assault, attempted homicide, and armed robbery. The photo showed a fiftyish man with an oversized nose and nary a hair on his head. He was classified as an habitual offender.
“A good thing to know” was the inspector’s comment. Then he said, “After being informed by the watchman, they check out the situation and decide to cover their asses by putting up a protective railing, which they hadn’t already done, at the crack of dawn on Sunday. They drench the body in wine and go home to sleep.The following morning, thanks to the watchman, they work it all out.”
“And Inspector Lozupone swallows it.”
“You think so? Do you know Lozupone?”
“No. But I certainly know who he is.”
“I’ve known him a long time. He’s not—”
The phone rang.
“Chief ? ’At’d be Proxeter Dommaseo onna phone wanting a talk to you poissonally in poisson.”
“Put him on.”
“Montalbano? Tommaseo.”
“Tommaseo? Montalbano.”
The prosecutor got disoriented.
“I wanted to tell you . . . er . . . ah, yes, I’ve seen the photo on the printout.What a beautiful girl!”
“Right.”
“Raped and slaughtered!”
“Did Dr. Pasquano tell you she’d been raped?”
“No, he told me only she’d had her throat slashed. But I sense intuitively that she was raped. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
As if the public prosecutor’s brain wouldn’t be working round the clock trying to imagine the crime scene down to the finest detail!
At this moment, Montalbano had a truly brilliant idea that might perhaps spare him or Fazio the unpleasant task of breaking the tragic news to the girl’s family.
“You know something, Tommaseo? Apparently the girl has a twin sister, or so I’ve been told, who is far more beautiful than the victim.”
“More beautiful? Really?”
“Apparently, yes,”
“So today this twin sister would be twenty-two years old.”
“It adds up.”
Fazio was glaring at him, dumbfounded. What on earth was the inspector concocting?
There was a pause. Surely the prosecutor, his eyes glued to the photo in the dossier, was licking his chops at the thought of meeting the twin sister.Then he spoke.
“You know what, Montalbano? I think it’s better if I go in person to inform the family . . . given the victim’s tender age . . . and the particularly savage manner . . .”
“You’re absolutely right, sir.You are a man of profound human understanding. So you’ll take care of telling the family?”
“Yes. It seems only right.”
They said good-bye and hung up. Fazio, having understood the inspector’s game, started laughing.
“Man, that guy, the minute he hears talk of a woman . . .”
“Forget about him. He’ll dash over to the Morreales’ house hoping to meet a twin sister who doesn’t exist. What was I saying to you before he called?”
“You were telling me about Inspector Lozupone.”
“Ah, yes. Lozupone’s been around, he’s smart, and he knows what’s what.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that in all likelihood Lozupone thought the same thing we did, that is, that the protective railing was put up after the accident, but he let it slide.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Maybe he was advised to stick to what Dipasquale and Spitaleri were telling him. But it’s unlikely we’ll ever find out who, in the commissariat or in the ministry of so-called justice, gave him this advice.”
“Well, we might be able to get an idea, anyway,” said Fazio.
“How?”
“Chief, you said you know Lozupone well. But do you know who he’s married to?”
“No.”
“Dr. Lattes’s daughter.”
“Ah.”
Not bad, as news went.
Dr. Lattes, chief of the commissioner’s cabinet, dubbed “Caffè-Lattes” for his cloying manner, was a man of church and prayer, a man who never said a word without first anointing it with lubricant, and who was continuously, at the right and wrong moments, giving thanks to the Blessed Virgin Mary.
“Do you know what political group Spitaleri’s brother-in-law is with?”
“You mean the mayor? Mayor Alessandro is with the same party as the regional president, which happens to be the same party as Dr. Lattes, and he’s the grand delegate of the Honorable M.P. Catapano, which is saying a lot.”
Gerardo Catapano was a man who had managed to keep both the Cuffaros and the Sinagras, the two Mafia families of Vigàta, on good behavior.
Montalbano felt momentarily demoralized. How could it be that things never changed? Mutatis mutandis, one always ended up caught in dangerous webs of relations, collusions between the Mafia and politicians, the Mafia and entrepreneurs, politicians and banks, money-launderers and loan sharks.
What an obscene ballet! What a petrified forest of corruption, fraud, rackets, villainy, business! He imagined a likely dialogue:
“Proceed very carefully because Z, who is M.P. Y’s man and the son-in-law of K, who is Mafia boss Z’s man, enjoys particularly good relations with M.P. H.
“But doesn’t M.P. H belong to the opposition party?”
“Yes, but it’s the same thing.”
How did Papa Dante put it?
Ah, servile Italy, you are sorrow’s hostel, a ship without helmsman in terrible storms, lady not of the provinces, but of a brothel!
Italy was still servile, obeying at least two masters, America and the Church, and the storms had become a daily occurrence thanks to a helmsman whom she would be better off without. Of course, the provinces of which Italy was the “lady” now numbered more than a hundred, but the brothel, for its part, had increased exponentially.
“So, about those six masons . . .” Fazio resumed.
“Wait. Have you got stuff to do this evening?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you come with me to Montelusa?”
“What for?”
“To have a little chat with Filiberto, the watchman. I know how to find the worksite; Dipasquale explained it to me.”
“It seems to me, sir, that you want to do harm to this Spitaleri.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head.”
“Count me in.”
“So, you going to tell me about these masons or not?”
Fazio gave him a dirty look.
“Chief, I’ve been trying to tell you for the past hour.”
He unfolded his sheet of paper.
“The masons’ names are as follows: Antonio Dalli Cardillo, Ermete Smecca, Ignazio Butera, Antonio Passalacqua, Stefano Fiorillo, Gaspare Miccichè. Dalli Cardillo and Miccichè are the two who worked up until the end and buried the illegal ground floor.”
“If I ask you a question, will you answer me truthfully?”
“I’ll try.”
“Did you go dig up the complete vital statistics on each of these six masons?”