“Sometimes, after a certain age,” said Montalbano, “people become more susceptible to certain influences, more easily persuaded . . .”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I don’t know, some acquaintance may have spoken to them about the miracles of the Black Madonna of Tindari ...”

“What would they have needed miracles for? Anyway, they were pretty lukewarm about anything to do with God.”

He was getting up to go to his rendezvous with Balduccio Sinagra when Fazio walked into his office.

“Sorry, Chief, you got any news of Inspector Augello?”

“I saw him at lunchtime. He said he’d be by later. Why?”

“Central Police of Pavia are looking for him.”

At first Montalbano didn’t make the connection.

“Pavia? Who was it?”

“It was a woman, but she didn’t tell me her name.”

Rebecca! Surely worried about her beloved Mimi.

“This woman from Pavia didn’t have his cell phone number?”

“Yeah, she’s got it, but she said it’s not connected.Turned off. She said she’s been trying to reach him for hours, since just after lunch. What should I tell her if she calls back?”

“You’re asking me?”

Deep down, even as he was answering Fazio with feigned irritation, he felt quite pleased. Want to bet the seed was beginning to grow?

“Listen, Fazio, don’t worry about Inspector Augello. He’ll turn up sooner or later. I was about to tell you I’m leaving.”

“Going home to Marinella?”

“Fazio, I don’t have to tell you where I’m going or not going.”

“Jeez, what did I ask! And what’s got your goat, anyway? I asked you a simple, innocent question. Sorry I was so bold.”

“Listen, I’m the one who should apologize. I’m a little on edge.”

“I can see.”

“Don’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. I’m on my way to an appointment with Balduccio Sinagra.”

Fazio turned pale and looked at him boggle-eyed.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“The guy’s a wild animal, Chief!”

“I know.”

“Chief, get as angry as you like, but I’ll say it anyway: In my opinion, you shouldn’t go to this appointment.”

“I’ve got news for you. Mr. Balduccio Sinagra, at this point in time, is a free man.”

“Well, hurray for freedom! The guy spent twenty years in the slammer and has at least twenty murders on his conscience! At least!”

“Which we haven’t been able to prove yet.”

“Proof or no proof, he’s still a piece of shit.”

“I agree. But have you forgotten that it’s our job to deal with shit?”

“Well, if you really want to go, Chief, I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not moving from this office. And don’t make me tell you that’s an order, ‘cause it pisses me off no end when you guys make me say things like that.”

7

Don Balduccio Sinagra lived with his entire populous family in a gigantic country house at the very top of a hill known since time immemorial as Ciuccafa, halfway between Vigata and Montereale.

Ciuccafa Hill had two peculiarities that distinguished it. The first was that it was entirely bald, lacking even the tiniest blade of green grass. Never had a tree managed to grow on that land, or even so much as a stalk of sorghum, a caper bush, or a clump of milk vetch. There was, true enough, a cluster of trees surrounding the house, but these had been transplanted, fully grown, by Don Balduccio, to create a little shade. And to prevent them from drying up and dying, he’d had truckloads of special soil brought in. The second peculiarity was that, except for the Sinagra house, no other dwelling, be it cottage or villa, was anywhere to be seen on the hill, no matter what side one was looking at. One saw only the snaking ascent of the broad, paved road, three kilometers long, that Don Balduccio had built for himself at his own expense, as he liked to say. There were no other houses not because the

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