IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) (16 page)

He slept poorly, the usual tossing and turning, the usual getting up and going back to bed, the usual flicking the light on and off to look at the hands of the clock, which seemed to be moving in slow motion.

At last he saw the glow of a clear dawn filter in through the window.

He got up feeling hopeful. Maybe the fisherman had been wrong about how long the bad weather would last. And that was indeed the case. The sky was pure, the air cool and crisp. The sea wasn’t calm yet, but neither was it so rough as to prevent the fishing boats from going out. He felt comforted by the thought that he could finally eat fresh fish at Enzo’s.

So comforted that he went back to bed and slept for three hours straight to make up for the sleep he’d lost.

Leaving the house, he decided not to drop in at the station but to go immediately to the prison a few miles outside Montelusa. He had no authorization whatsoever to speak with the inmate, but he was counting on his good friendship with the warden, a woman who understood things.

And, in fact, it took him no time at all to find himself in a small room face-to-face with Pasquale, Adelina’s son.

“When are they going to grant you house arrest?”

“Just a few more days. Supposedly the judge needs to think it over. What’s there to think about? The horns on his head? But I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you what I have to tell you.”

“And what do you have to tell me?”

“Inspector, this is very important. I mean it. Even though I’m in here with you, I never said anything to you. Know what I mean?”

“Exactly.”

“So that’s the deal: You never met with Pasquale Cirrinciò in prison. I don’t wanna get a reputation for being a rat.”

“I give you my word.”

“Have you identified the dead girl you found at the dump?”

“Not yet, unfortunately.”

Pasquale stopped to think this over a moment, then said:

“The other evening when I was watching TV, they showed two photographs.”

Montalbano pricked up his ears. He had been ready for anything, except for Pasquale to tell him something connected to his ongoing investigation.

“You mean the butterfly tattoo?”

“Yessir.”

“You’d seen it before?”

“Yessir.”

“On a girl’s body?”

“No, sir, in a photograph.”

“Go on. Don’t make me have to pry the words out of you.”

“Do you remember Peppi Cannizzaro?”

“No. Who is he?”

“He was charged with armed robbery at the Banca Regionale of Montelusa. They kept him inside for a few months, then let ’im go ’cause they din’t have no proof.”

“But did he do it?”

Pasquale brought his face so close to the inspector’s that it looked like he wanted to kiss him.

“Yes, but they din’t have no proof.”

“Okay, and what’s Peppi Cannizzaro got to do with—”

“Lemme explain. They took Peppi Cannizzaro and put him in the same cell as me.”

“Did you already know him?”

Pasquale became evasive.

“Well . . . we worked together a few times.”

Better not ask what kind of “work” they had done together.

“Go on.”

“Inspector, you gotta believe me. This wasn’t the same Peppi I used to know. He was changed. Before, he was always jokin’ around, all friendly, laughing over the littlest bullshit. But now he was all silent and gloomy and nervous.”

“Why?”

“He’d fallen in love.”

“And that was the effect it had on him?”

“Yeah, ’cause he couldn’t be without the girl. At night he would groan and call her name. I felt really bad for the poor guy! He was always holdin’ up a picture of her, and now and then he’d kiss it. Then one day he let me see it. She was really a beautiful girl.”

“How is it you could see the tattoo in the photo?”

“ ’Cause the picture was taken from behind, with the bottom cut off a little below the girl’s shoulder blades and her head turned round. So you could see the butterfly real good.”

“What did he tell you about her?”

“He said she was Russian, twenty-five years old, and she used to be a dancer.”

“What was her name?”

“Zin, I think.”

What kind of name was that? Perhaps a diminutive for Zinaida?

“What else did he tell you about her?”

“Nothing.”

“Where can I find Cannizzaro?”

“How should I know, Inspector? I’m inside and he’s out.”

“Thanks, Pasquà. I hope they let you out soon. You’ve been very helpful.”

Before leaving the prison, he asked the management office for the address of Peppi Cannizzaro. He lived in Montelusa, in a cross street off Via Bacchi-Bacchi. The inspector decided to go see him at once.

It was a four-story building. Cannizzaro lived on the third floor. Montalbano rang the doorbell, but nobody came to the door.

He rang a bit longer. Nothing. So he started knocking with his closed fist. Then he complemented the fist with a few kicks. He made so much noise that the door facing Cannizzaro’s opened, and an infuriated elderly woman appeared.

“What’s all this racket? My son is sleeping!”

“Well, signora, it’s a bit late for sleeping.”

“My son is a night watchman, you ignorant son of a bitch!”

“I’m sorry, I was looking for Cannizzaro.”

“If he doesn’t answer the door, it means he’s not there.”

“Do you know if he’ll be back soon?”

“How should I know? I haven’t seen Peppi going up or down the stairs for three days.”

“Listen, signora, have you recently seen Peppi’s girlfriend, who’s called Zin?”

“What the hell do you care if I’ve seen her or not?”

“I’m Inspector Montalbano.”

“D’you realize how much you’re frightening me? You got me so scared I’m shittin’ my pants!” said the old woman.

And she slammed the door in his face so hard that her poor night watchman of a son must surely have fallen out of bed.

There was no way to track down Cannizzaro.

He went back to the prison, and this time the warden made something of a fuss, but in the end she let herself be persuaded. Montalbano found himself with Pasquale in the same little room as before.

“What happened, Inspector?”

“I went to Cannizzaro’s place, but he wasn’t at home. The lady from the apartment across the landing says she hasn’t seen him for three days.”

“Zin wasn’t there, either? Peppi told me he’d taken her home to live with him.”

“She wasn’t there, either. Any idea where I might find him?”

“No, Inspector. But maybe talking to somebody in here . . . Two of Peppi’s friends are here . . . If I find anything out, I’ll let you know.”

He didn’t arrive at the office till past midday, his nerves on edge from the heavy traffic he’d encountered on the way there. The moment he walked in, Catarella launched into a Greek choral lament.

“Ahh Chief Chief!”

“Wait. Is Fazio here?”

“He ain’t here yet. Ahh Chief Chief !”

“Wait. What about Augello?”

“Him neither. Ahh Chief Chief !”

“Jeez, what a pain in the ass, Cat! What is it?”

“The c’mishner called! Twice, he called! An’ he was rilly ousside himself, he was! An’ the secon’ time more than the foist!”

“What’s he want?”

“He says as how you gotta drop everyting yiz about to be doin’ and go emergently right now to see ’im. God, you shoulda heard ’im yell! Wit’ all doo respeck for the c’mishner, he was like ’e was outta his mine!”

What could the inspector possibly have done to put the commissioner in such a rage? Then he had a frightening thought.Want to bet it turned out that Picarella had indeed been kidnapped?

“Do me a favor, call Fazio on his cell phone and put him through to me on the office phone.”

“Buuu . . . Chief, Chief, if you don’t go there emergently, the c’mishner—”

“Just do as I say, Cat.”

The moment he sat down, the phone rang.

“Fazio, where are you?”

“In Montelusa, Chief. Doing what you asked me to do.”

“D’you find out anything about Mirabilis?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Therefore there
was
something. He’d been right.

“Listen, Fazio, I’ve been called into the commissioner’s office, and I wouldn’t want . . . Is there any news about the Picarella kidnapping?”

“What news could there possibly be, Chief?”

“See you at four.”

He hung up.

“Catarella? Call Inspector Augello on his cell.”

“Straightaways, Chief. Count up to five . . . ’ere ’e is, Chief, I’ll put ’im on.”

“Mimì, where are you?”

“In Monterago. I’ve checked out the furniture works they’ve got here.”

“Find anything?”

“Nothing.They make modern furniture without any gilding. Horrendous.”

“Do you know by chance if there’s any news about Picarella?”

“Why should there be any news about Picarella?”

“See you at four.”

He went out, cursing the saints as he got in his car, and headed back up the road to Montelusa. It was a good thing the pleasant morning weather had held up. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.