can’t you wait? What’s the hurry? Meanwhile you can do whatever you want, and then we’ll see”). She also said that the hospital management were cynical bastards who took advantage of her, knowing she would come running every time they asked her to work off-hours because she had a heart of gold.
“It happened here,” she said suddenly, coming to a halt.
They were on a short street with no residences or shops, practically only the backs of two large buildings.
“But there’s not a single house here,” said Montalbano.
“You’re right. We’re behind the hospital, which is this building here on the right. I always take this route, because that way I can enter through the emergency room, which is the first door on the right once you turn this corner.”
“So the woman with the three children must have exited emergency, turned left, taken this street, and then was greeted by that car.”
“Exactly.”
“Did you notice whether the car was coming from the direction of the emergency ward or from the opposite direction?”
“No, I couldn’t tell.”
“When the car stopped, could you see how many people were inside?”
“Before the woman and her children got in?”
“Yes.”
“There was only the driver.”
“Did you notice anything in particular about the man driving?”
“How could I, Inspector? He stayed in the car the whole time! But he wasn’t black, if that’s what you mean.”
“He wasn’t? He was one of us?”
“Yes, but can you tell the difference between a Sicilian and a Tunisian? You know, one time, I—”
“How many ambulances does the hospital have?” the inspector interrupted.
“Four, but they’re not enough. And there’s no money to buy even one more.”
“How many men are there in an ambulance when it’s on duty?”
“Two. We have a shortage of personnel. One medic and a driver, who helps out.”
“Do you know them all?”
“Of course.”
He wanted to ask her about the gaunt medic with the mustache but didn’t. The woman talked too much. She was liable to run to the man afterwards and tell him the inspector had asked about him.
“Shall we go have a coffee?”
“Yes, thank you, Inspector. Even though I’m not supposed to. You know, one time I had four coffees in a row, and . . .”
Fazio was waiting for him at headquarters, impatient to resume his search for information on the dead man he’d found in the sea. Fazio was like a dog that, once he picked up a scent, didn’t relent until he’d flushed out his quarry.
“Chief, the ambulance worker’s name is Gaetano Marzilla.”
He stopped.
“Yeah? Is that all?” asked Montalbano, surprised.
“Chief, can we make a deal?”
“A deal?”
“Let me indulge a little in my records office complex, as you call it, and afterwards I’ll tell you what I found out about him.”
“It’s a deal,” the inspector said, resigned.
Fazio’s eyes sparkled with contentment. He pulled a small piece of paper out of his pocket and began reading.
“Gaetano Marzilla, born in Montelusa on October 6, 1960, son of the late Stefano Marzilla and Antonia nee Diblasi, resident of Montelusa, Via Francesco Crispi 18. Married Elisabetta Cappuccino, born at Ribera on February 14, 1963, daughter of Emanuele Cappuccino and Eugenia nee Ricottilli, who—”
“Stop right there or I’ll shoot,” said Montalbano.
“Okay, okay. I’m satisfied,” said Fazio, putting the piece of paper back in his pocket.
“So, do we want to talk about serious matters now?”
“Sure. This Marzilla’s been working at the hospital ever since getting his nursing degree. His wife came with a modest gift shop in her dowry, but the shop burned down three years ago.”
“Arson?”
“Yes, but the place wasn’t insured. Rumor has it that it was burned down because Marzilla got tired of paying the protection money. And you know what Marzilla did?”
