“Your uncle didn’t tell you?”
“My uncle only told me to make myself available.”
“I want to shoot some footage of the coast at Spigonella. But I don’t want anyone to see us.”
“Who’s going to see us, Inspector? At this time of year there isn’t a soul in Spigonella.”
“Just do as I say.”
After barely half an hour on the water, Tanino slowed down.
“Down there are the first houses in Spigonella. Is this speed okay for you?”
“Perfect.”
“Should I go a little closer?”
“No.”
Montalbano grabbed the videocam and realized, to his horror, that he didn’t know how to use it. The instructions Torretta had given him the night before had turned into a formless mush in his brain.
“
“Want me to try? I’ve got one just like it at home.”
They traded places, and the inspector took the rudder, steering with one hand and holding the binoculars to his eyes with the other.
“And this is where Spigonella ends,” Tanino said at a certain point, turning around to face the inspector.
Lost in thought, Montalbano didn’t answer. The binoculars dangled from his neck.
“Inspector?”
“Hm?”
“What should we do now?”
“Let’s go back. And, if possible, a little closer and a little slower.”
“It’s possible.”
“Another thing: when we’re in front of the villa with the big terrace, could you zoom in on those rocks in the water below?”
They passed by Spigonella a second time, then left it behind them.
“What next?”
“Are you sure you got some good shots?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay, then, let’s go home. Do you know who owns that villa with the terrace?”
“I do. An American had it built, but that was before I was born.”
“An American?’
“Actually he was the son of a couple that had emigrated from Montechiaro. He came here a few times in the early days, or at least that’s what I’m told. Then he never came back. There were rumors he’d been arrested.”
“Here in Sicily?’
“No, in America. For smuggling.”
“Narcotics?”
“And cigarettes. People say that for a while he was directing all the traffic in the Mediterranean from here.”
“Have you ever seen those rocks in front of the house from up close?”
“Around here, Inspector, everybody minds his own business.”
“Has anyone been living in the villa recently?”
“Not recently, no. But there was somebody there last year.”
“So they rent it out?”
“I guess.”
“Do they use an agency?”
“Inspector, I have no idea. If you want, I can try to find out.”
“No, that’s all right, thanks. You’ve gone to enough trouble as it is.”
When he pulled into the main square in Montechiaro, the town clock rang eleven-thirty. He stopped the car, got out, and headed for a glass door with the word REALTOR over it. Inside there was only a pretty, polite girl.
“No, we don’t handle the villa you’re talking about.”
“Do you know who does?”
