“Let’s hear it anyway.”
“Pecorini, when he was twenty, raped a seventeen-year-old girl, the daughter of very poor parents. Pecorini’s father paid the girl’s family off, and in return they didn’t report it. But the girl got pregnant. And brought a little boy into the world. Who was called Arturo, like his father, and Manzella, like his mother. And, as these things go, Pecorini became fond of his unrecognized son, helped him to study, get his diploma, and find a job. He’s thirty years old now, with a degree in accounting, married and with a three-year-old little boy, Carmelo.”
“Come on, Fazio! What is this, the Bible?”
“We’re almost there, Chief. One day, when the kid was playing outside the front door of their building, he disappeared.”
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?”
“Disappeared, Chief. Vanished. Twenty-four hours later, Arturo Pecorini shut down his butcher shop and left for Catania.”
“And what about the kid?”
“Thirty-six hours later, he was found playing outside the front door of his building.”
“And what’d he say?”
“He said a nice old gentleman, a grandfatherly sort, asked him if he wanted to go for a ride and took him in his car to a beautiful house with lots of toys inside. Three days later he left him in the same place where he’d picked him up.”
“That’s Balduccio’s style, all right. The old man wanted to carry out the operation himself. Then what happened?”
“Pecorini got the drift of Balduccio’s signals and moved out. And so Dolores was allowed to return. But Giovanni Alfano’s friends were approached by some of the Sinagra family’s men, and they were all given the same advice: that they shouldn’t mention this business about the butcher to Giovanni when he returned, because Don Balduccio didn’t want him to get upset.”
“But the last time you told me that nowadays Pecorini can come back to town every so often.”
“Yes, he comes for two days a week, Saturday and Sunday. A short while after he moved to Catania, he reopened his butcher shop here and put his brother in charge of it. They say he’s completely over Dolores now.”
“All right, then, thanks.”
“Chief, would you explain to me how you knew that the butcher had had an affair with Dolores Alfano?”
“But I didn’t know!”
“Oh, no? Then how come you immediately started asking me for information about Pecorini? Even before Dolores first came to the station!”
He couldn’t tell him the real reason—that is, that the butcher owned the house where Mimi was performing gymnastics with Dolores.
“Maybe one day I’ll tell you, or you’ll figure it out yourself. Do you know if Inspector Augello is in his office?”
“Yes, he is. Shall I go get him for you?”
“Yes. And come back with him.”
Fazio went out. Montalbano leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took two or three deep breaths, as if about to dive underwater. The scene he had in mind had to come out perfectly, without one word too many or too few. He heard them approaching. He kept his eyes closed. He looked rapt in meditation.
“Mimi, come in and sit down. Fazio, go tell Catarella I don’t want to be disturbed for any reason, then come back.”
He still had his eyes closed and Mimi said nothing. He heard Fazio’s footsteps returning.
“Come in, lock the door behind you, and sit down.”
At last he opened his eyes. It had been several days since he last saw Mimi. Augello’s face was sallow and unshaven, his eyes hollow, his clothes wrinkled. He sat on the edge of the chair and kept the heel of his right foot raised, nervously shaking his leg. He seemed tight as a rope that might snap at any moment. Fazio, for his part, looked worried.
“Lately,” Montalbano began, “the air we’ve been breathing in this department hasn’t been very good.”
“I’d like to explain—”
“Mimi, you’ll talk when I say you can. Most probably the responsibility for what has been happening is largely my own. I—and I’m the first to realize this—no longer have the energy and confidence that used to have you all following my lead, no matter what. We had become more than a team; we were a single body. But then the head of this body stopped working so well, and the whole body started feeling the effects. As the saying goes, a fish always starts to rot at the head.”
“But, Salvo—”
“I still haven’t given you permission to speak, Mimi . . . It’s therefore natural that some part of this body should refuse to decay with the rest. I’m referring to you, Mimi. But before saying what I feel I must say to you, I contest your assertion that I have never wanted to grant you any autonomy, any leeway for making your own decisions. Stop, no talking. On the contary, as Fazio can attest, I have been trying, especially lately, to unload practically every investigation on you, precisely because I felt, and feel, that I’m no longer the man I used to be. And if that hasn’t been the case as often as I would have liked, it’s because of your family obligations, Mimi. I’ve taken on certain investigations to leave you more time to devote to your family. And now you ask me, in writing, to assign you the case of the
