“He was in New York for a conference organized by Rudolph Giuliani, you know, the ‘zero tolerance’ mayor. The conference dealt with the best ways to maintain order in a large metropolis—”
“Didn’t that end two days ago?”
“Yes, of course, but, you see, afterward, Lieutenant Foti decided to explore Manhattan a little and got shot in the leg by some muggers who stole his wallet. He’s in the hospital at the moment. Nothing serious, thank God.”
Fazio didn’t show up until after ten.
“Why so late, Fazio?”
“Please, Chief, I don’t want to hear about it. First we had to wait for the assistant prosecutor’s assistant. Then—”
“Wait. Explain.”
Fazio looked up to the heavens. Having to rehash the whole affair brought back all the nervous agitation he’d suffered that morning.
“Okay When Galluzzo went to pick up Assistant Tommaseo, who’d wrapped his car around a tree—”
“Wasn’t it a pole?”
“No, Chief. He thought it was a pole, but it was tree. To make a long story short, Tommaseo hurt his forehead and was bleeding. Galluzzo took him to the emergency room at Montelusa Hospital. From there, Tommaseo, who by then also had a headache, called to ask for a replacement. But it was early and there was nobody in the office. So Tommaseo called a colleague of his at home, Judge Nicotra. So then we had to wait for Judge Nicotra to get dressed, have breakfast, get in his car and drive to the crime scene. Meanwhile, Captain Gribaudo was nowhere to be seen. Ditto his lieutenant. After the ambulance finally arrived and the body was taken away, I waited another ten minutes for the Flying Squad. Seeing that nobody was coming, I left. If Captain Gribaudo wants me, he can come look for me here.”
“What did you find out about the murder?”
“What the fuck do you care, Chief, with all due respect? It’s the Flying Squad’s case!”
“Gribaudo’s not coming, Fazio. He’s holed up in a john somewhere, shitting his soul out. Foti got shot in New York. Lattes called and told me. The case is ours.”
Fazio sat down, eyes gleaming with contentment. He immediately pulled from his pocket a piece of paper covered with minuscule writing. He began reading.
“Emanuele Sanfilippo, known as Nene, son of Gerlando Sanfilippo and Natalina Pato—”
“That’s enough,” said Montalbano.
He was irritated by what he called Fazio’s “records office complex,” but what irked him most was the tone of voice his sergeant used when citing birth dates, relatives, marriages, etc. Fazio understood at once.
“Sorry, Chief.” But he didn’t put the piece of paper back in his pocket. “I’ll keep it as a reminder,” he said by way of justification.
“How old was this Sanfilippo?”
“Twenty-one years and three months.”
“Was he a drug user? Dealer?”
“Apparently not.”
“Have a job?”
“No.”
“Did he live in Via Cavour?”
“Yessir. Third-floor apartment, with living room, two bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen. He lived alone.”
“Did he rent it or own it?”
“Rented. Eight hundred thousand lire a month.”
“Did his mother pay for it?”
“His mother? She’s penniless, Chief. Lives on a pension of five hundred thousand a month. If you ask me, things went as follows: around four o‘clock in the morning, Nene Sanfilippo parks his car right in front of the main entrance, he crosses the street, and—”
“What kind of car?”
“A Fiat Punto. But he’s got another one in the garage. A Duetto. Get the picture?”
“Ill gotten gains?”
“I’d say so. You should see what he had in his apartment. All the latest stuff, TV, satellite dish on the roof, computer, VCR, videocam, fax, refrigerator ... And I didn’t even get a good look. There are videocassettes, diskettes, and CD-ROMs for the computer.... We’ll have to check it all out.”
“Any news of Mimi?”
Fazio, who had got all worked up, seemed disoriented.
“Who? Oh, right. Inspector Augello? He showed up shortly after the assistant’s assistant showed up. Had a look around and left.”
