“For heaven’s sake, please don’t bother!” said Montalbano, fleeing.
“Macannuco? Montalbano here.”
“Montalbano! Good to hear from you! How are you?”
“Not too bad. And
“You remember that song we used to sing in class?
“Listen, Macannuco, I need you to do me a big favor.”
“For you, I’ll do that and more.”
Macannuco headed the commissariat in the port of Gioia Tauro. Montalbano explained what he needed from him.
“Lemme get this straight, Montalba. You’re asking me to break down the door of an apartment in Via Gerace 15, photograph the place, and e-mail you the photos?”
“That’s right.”
“Without a warrant?”
“That’s right.”
Fazio straggled back less than half an hour later.
“Jesus, what a dame!”
“Did you get everything we needed from her?”
“Yessir. There’s only three names on the list of friends.”
“Listen, tell me in a little more detail the story of Balduccio and the Alfano guy he sent to Colombia.”
“Chief, did you notice how the lady kept talking about a ‘distant relative’ without ever mentioning Balduccio Sinagra by name?”
“Actually, she did mention him by name. When we were in the bedroom looking through the photos. But she did it very offhandedly, as if she didn’t know who Balduccio was. Do you think it’s possible she doesn’t know?”
“No. So, anyway, one day some twenty-odd years ago, Don Balduccio sends a second cousin, Filippo Alfano, to Colombia, to maintain direct contact with the big coke producers there. Filippo Alfano brings along his family, which consists of his wife and son, Giovanni, who at the time is fifteen. Then, sometime later, Filippo Alfano is shot and killed.”
“By the Colombians?”
“By someone from Colombia, definitely. But some people tell another version of this story. Some people, mind you.”
“I read you, go on.”
“They say it was Don Balduccio himself who had him killed.”
“And why?”
“I dunno, there were a lot of rumors. The most commonly accepted explanation is that Filippo Alfano took advantage of the situation, expanded his operations, and started thinking more about his own business than about Don Balduccio’s, hoping to replace him.”
“And Balduccio prevented him. But he kept looking after the widow and son, according to what Dolores told us.”
“Which makes sense. It’s in keeping with Don Balduccio’s mentality.”
“So the son, Giovanni, has always kept his nose clean?”
“Chief, the guy’s been in the sights of the narcotics authorities of at least two continents his whole life! With the line of work he’s in? No, he’s never tripped up, not even once.”
“Oh, listen, take this photo of Giovanni Alfano and have ten copies of it made for me. They may come in handy. Then have the three friends come in for questioning tomorrow morning, one hour apart. Oh, and one other thing. I want to know the exact date Balduccio Sinagra went into the hospital.”
“Is it important?”
“Yes and no. I’m thinking of that anonymous letter that claimed Balduccio gave the order to have one of his couriers killed. If I’m not mistaken, Ballerini told Musante that Balduccio was hospitalized and in a coma in Palermo, and so Musante decided that Balduccio had nothing to do with it.”
“You’re not mistaken.”
“Except that Dolores showed me a photo of Balduccio in which he looked just fine. I managed to get a glimpse of the date on the back: August 28. Therefore Balduccio could have had all the time in the world to order a hit on whoever he liked before going into the hospital. Make sense?”
“Makes sense.”
The inspector had just finished eating the way God had intended and was getting up from the table when Enzo approached.
“Inspector, where are you going to spend Christmas and New Year’s this year?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to let you know that if by any chance you’re staying in Vigata, the trattoria will be closed on the night of the thirty-first. But if you want to come to my place that night, I’d be honored and pleased to have you.”
So now the tremendous pain in the ass of the holidays was about to begin! He couldn’t stand them anymore—
