“Cat, it’s not peepee, it’s probably a PPA they’re talking about. Which means Probable Profile of the Assailant. Understand?”
“No sir, Chief. But what’m I asposta take to De Cicco?”
“A photograph. I need him to make me some enlargements.”
There was silence at the other end.
“Hey, Cat, you still there?”
“Yessir, Chief, I ain’t budged. I’m still here. I’s jes thinkin.”
A good three minutes passed.
“Try to think a little faster, Cat.”
“Y‘see, Chief, if you bring me the photo, I’ll jes scan nafayou.”
Montalbano balked.
“What do you want to dp to me?”
“Not you, Chief, the photo. I wanna scan it.”
“Let me get this straight, Cat. Are you talking about the computer?”
“Yessir, Chief. An’ if I don’ scan it m‘self, ’cause you rilly need a rilly good scanner, I’ll bring it to a trusty friend a mine.”
“Okay, thanks. See you in a bit.”
He hung up and straight away the telephone rang.
“Bingo!”
It was Mimi Augello, all excited.
“I was right on the mark, Salvo. Wait for me. I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. Does your VCR work?”
“Yes. But there’s no point in showing it to me, Mimi. You know that porno stuff only gets me down and knocks me out.”
“But this isn’t porn, Salvo.”
He hung up and straight away the telephone rang.
“Finally!”
It was Livia. That “finally,” however, was said not with joy, but with utter coldness. The needle on Montalbano’s personal barometer began to plummet towards “Storm.”
“Livia! What a wonderful surprise!”
“Are you sure it’s so wonderful?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because I haven’t had any news from you for days. Because you can’t be bothered to give me a ring! I’ve been calling and calling, but you’re never at home.”
“You could have called me at work.”
“Salvo, you know I don’t like to call you there. Do you know what I finally did, to get some news about you?”
“No. What?”
“I bought
“No. What did it say?”
“It says you’ve got your hands full with no less than three murders, an old couple and a twenty-year-old. The reporter even insinuated that you don’t know whether you’re coming or going. In short, he said you were over the hill.”
This might be an escape route. To say he was unhappy, left behind by the times, practically incapable of understanding or wanting anything. That way, Livia would calm down and maybe even feel sorry for him.
“Ah, that’s so true, my Livia! Maybe I’m getting old, maybe my brain isn’t what it used to be ...”
“No, Salvo, rest assured, your brain is the same as ever. And you’re proving it by the lousy performance you’re putting on. You want to be coddled? I won’t fall for it, you know. I know you too well. Call me sometime. When you’ve got a free moment, of course.”
She hung up. Why was it that every phone conversation with Livia had to end with a spat? They couldn’t go on this way; a solution absolutely had to be found.
He went into the kitchen, filled the espresso pot, put it on the burner. While waiting, he opened the French doors and went out on the veranda. A day to lift the spirits. Bright, warm colors, a lazy sea. He took a deep breath, and at that moment the phone rang again.
“Hello! Hello!”
There was nobody there, but the telephone started ringing again. How was that possible, if he had the receiver in his hand? Then he understood: it wasn’t the phone, but the doorbell.
It was Mimi Augello, who’d arrived faster than a Formula 1 driver. He stood in the doorway, undecided as to
