“You should know that early tomorrow morning Augello is meeting with Prosecutor Tommaseo and the commissioner.”
“Let them have their meeting, and you go and get a good night’s sleep. Oh, and listen. Did Mimi somehow find out I went to Gioia Tauro?”
“No. Who would’ve told him?”
Augello returned to the station late in the morning. He didn’t look very pleased with his meeting in Montelusa.
“Mimi, what the hell have you been cooking up?”
“Me?!”
“Yes, you. Last night I watched Ragonese on TV. I told you I wanted to be informed of every move you made.”
“But, Salvo, how was I going to inform you if you weren’t here? Anyway, what did I say or do that was new? All I did was relate to Tommaseo what Fazio filled me in on.”
“Namely?”
“That you thought the
The inspector should have embraced and thanked Mimi, but he couldn’t.
“But you also told the journalists.”
“I had Tommaseo’s authorization to do so.”
“Well, okay. How did your meeting go this morning?”
“Badly.”
“Why?”
“Because Tommaseo wants to proceed very cautiously with Balduccio Sinagra. He says we have nothing against him at the moment. But I say how can that be? Isn’t Balduccio Sinagra a Mafia thug and a killer?”
“So what, Mimi? It’s true he’s a killer, but what if he didn’t kill Alfano? Do you still want to pin the murder on him anyway? Are you saying that one murder more, one murder less makes no difference? Well, I’ve got news for you: It does.”
“So, now you’re defending him?”
Montalbano had a flash. He suddenly remembered the nightmare he’d had a few nights before, when Toto Riina had offered him the post of minister of the interior.
“Mimi, cut the crap,” he said, though in his mind the words were directed at Riina. “I’m not defending a mafioso, I’m telling you to be careful about accusing someone, mafioso or no, of a crime he cannot have committed.”
“I’m convinced he had Alfano killed.”
“Then try to convince Tommaseo. Where does the commissioner stand on this?”
“He agrees with Tommaseo. But he suggested I talk to Musante.”
“I don’t think he’ll be of any help to you. How are Beba and the boy doing?”
“Fine.”
Mimi got up to leave, but Montalbano stopped him before he could open the door.
“I’m sorry, Mimi, but I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a long time, and since lately we haven’t had any chance to talk, I—”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you know anything about three men from Catania . . .” He broke off, opened the top drawer on the left of his desk, grabbed the first sheet of paper that came within reach, and pretended to read: “ . . . whose names are Bonura, Pecorini, and Di Silvestro?”
Having uttered the question, Montalbano felt poised at the edge of a cliff. He stared at Mimi with both eyes pointed at him like shotgun barrels and hoped that what he felt inside didn’t show on his face. The first and third names he had invented. Mimi looked genuinely befuddled.
“Wait a second. I think I remember a certain Di Silvestro we dealt with last year, though I can’t remember why. The other two I’ve never heard of before. Why, are they of interest to you?”
“They came up a while ago in a case of attempted murder I was investigating. But that’s all right, it’s not important. I’ll be seeing you.”
It was an extremely risky question to ask, but he was glad he had asked it. If he had said he knew Pecorini, or had acted suspiciously, then Mimi’s position, in Montalbano’s eyes, would have been seriously compromised. Dolores therefore must not have told him about her earlier affair with the butcher. All things considered, it wouldn’t have been in her interest. More importantly, she also had not told him that the house where they had their amorous encounters belonged to Pecorini. The inspector felt so pleased that he caught himself whistling, something he’d never been able to do.
The second move he had been expecting was made late that evening, just as he was heading to the bathroom to get undressed and go to bed.
“Inspector Montalbano?”
“Speaking.”
