He could hear, literally hear, the alarm bells ringing in the judge’s head.
“Why, Montalbano? Is there something wrong?”
“No, Your Honor, nothing at all.”
“Well, why then, for the love of God? I’ll confess to you, Inspector—I’ve no problem doing so—that I, as well as the chief prosecutor, the prefect, and the commissioner, have been strongly pressured to bring this affair to an end as quickly as possible. Nothing illegal, mind you. Urgent entreaties, all very proper, on the part of those—family, political friends—who want to forget the whole sad story as soon as possible. And they’re right, in my opinion.”
“I understand, Your Honor. But I still need two days, no more.”
“But why? Give me a reason!”
He found an answer, a pretext. He couldn’t very well tell the judge his request was founded on nothing, or rather on the feeling that he’d been hoodwinked—he didn’t know how or why—by someone who at that moment was proving himself to be shrewder than he.
“If you really must know, it’s out of concern for public opinion. I wouldn’t want anyone to start whispering that we closed the case in haste because we had no intention of getting to the bottom of things. As you know, it doesn’t take much to start people thinking that way.”
“If that’s how you feel, then all right. You can have your forty-eight hours. But not a minute more.
Try to understand the situation.”
~
“Gege? How’s it going, handsome? Sorry to wake you at six-thirty in the evening.”
“Fucking shit!”
“Gege, is that any way to speak to a representative of the law? Especially someone like you, who before the law can only shit your pants? And speaking of fucking, is it true you’re doing it with a ten-andchange black man?”
“Ten-and-change?”
“Inches of cock.”
“Cut the shit. What do you want?”
“To talk to you.”
“When?”
“Tonight, late. You tell me what time.”
“Let’s make it midnight.”
“Where?”
“The usual place, at Puntasecca.”
“A big kiss for your pretty lips, Gege.”
~
“Inspector Montalbano? This is Prefect Squatrito.
Judge Lo Bianco communicated to me just now that you asked for another twenty-four hours—or forty-eight, I can’t remember—to close the case of the late Mr. Luparello. Dr. Jacomuzzi, who has politely kept me informed of all developments, told me that the autopsy established unequivocally that Luparello died of natural causes. Far be it from me to think—what am I saying, to even dream—of interfering in any way, since in any case there’d be no reason to do so, but do let me ask you: why this request?”
“My request, sir, as I have already explained to Justice Lo Bianco and will now reiterate, was dictated by a desire for transparency, to nip in the bud any malicious supposition that the police department might prefer not to clarify every aspect of the case and wish to close it without due verification of all leads. That’s all.”
The prefect declared himself satisfied with the reply, and indeed Montalbano had carefully chosen two verbs (“clarify” and “reiterate”) and one noun (“transparency”) which had forever been key words in the prefect’s vocabulary.
~
“Hello? This is Anna, sorry to disturb you.”
“Why are you talking like that? Do you have a cold?”
“No, I’m at the squad office, but I don’t want anyone to hear.”
“What is it?”
“Jacomuzzi called my boss and told him you don’t want to close the Luparello case yet. The boss said you’re just being an asshole as usual, which I agree with and actually had a chance to tell you just a few hours ago.”
“Is that why you called? Thanks for the confirmation.”
“There’s something else I have to tell you, Inspector, something I found out right after I left you, when I got back here.”
“Look, Anna, I’m up to my neck in shit. Tell me about it tomorrow.”
“There’s no time to lose. It may be of interest to you.”
“I’m going to be busy here till one or one-thirty this morning. If you want to drop by now, then all right.”
