“Listen, have you finished examining the clothes Luparello was wearing? Did you find anything?”
“We found what you’d expect. Traces of semen on the underwear and trousers.”
“And inside the car?”
“We’re still examining it.”
“Thanks. Now go back to the toilet.”
~
“Inspector? I’m calling from a phone booth on the provincial road, near the old factory. I did what you asked me to do.”
“Tell me about it, Fazio.”
“You were absolutely right. Luparello’s BMW
came from Montelusa, not Vigata.”
“Are you certain?”
“On the Vigata side the beach is interrupted by cement blocks. You can’t get through. He would have had to fly.”
“Did you find out which way he might have come?”
“Yes, but it’s totally crazy.”
“Why? Explain.”
“Because, even though from Montelusa to Vigata there are dozens of roads and byways that one can take to avoid being seen, at a certain point, to get to the Pasture, Luparello’s car would have had to pass through the dry bed of the Canneto.”
“The Canneto? But it’s impassable!”
“Well, I did it, and therefore somebody else could have done it. It’s completely dry. The only problem is, my car’s suspension is ruined. And since you didn’t want me to take a squad car, I’m going to have to—”
“I’ll pay for the repairs myself. Anything else?”
“Yes. As it was pulling out of the riverbed and turning onto the sand, the BMW’s tires left some tracks. If we tell Jacomuzzi right away, we can get a cast of them.”
“Fuck Jacomuzzi.”
“Yes, sir. Need anything else?”
“No, Fazio, just come back to headquarters. And thanks.”
5
The little beach of Puntasecca, a compact strip of sand sheltered by a hill of white marl, was deserted at that hour. When the inspector arrived, Gege was already there waiting for him, leaning against his car and smoking a cigarette.
“Come on out, Salvu,” he said to Montalbano.
“Let’s enjoy the fine night air a minute.”
They stood there a bit in silence, smoking. Then Gege, having put out his cigarette, began to speak.
“I know what you want to ask me, Salvu. I’m well prepared. You can ask me anything you like, even jumping around.”
They smiled at this shared memory. They’d known each other since La Primina, the little private kindergarten where the teacher was Signorina Marianna, Gege’s sister, some fifteen years his senior. Salvo and Gege were listless schoolboys, learning their lessons like parrots, and like parrots repeating them in class. Some days, however, Signorina Marianna wasn’t satisfied with those litanies, so she’d start jumping around in her questions; that is, she wouldn’t follow the order in which the information had been presented. And this meant trouble, because then you had to have understood the material and grasped the logical connections.
“How’s your sister doing?” asked Montalbano.
“I took her to Barcelona. There’s a specialized eye clinic there. They say they can work miracles. They told me they can get the right eye, at least, to recover in part.”
“When you see her, give her my best.”
“I will. But as I was saying, I’m well prepared, so you can start firing away with the questions.”
“How many people do you have working for you at the Pasture?”
“Between whores and fags of various sorts, twenty-eight. Then there’s Filippo di Cosmo and Manuele Lo Piparo, who are there just to make sure there’s no trouble. The smallest thing, you know, and I’m screwed.”
“Gotta keep your eyes open.”
“Right. Do you realize the kind of problems I’d have if there was a brawl or somebody got knifed or OD’d?”
“Still sticking to light drugs?”
“Yeah. Grass, coke at the most. Ask the street cleaners if they ever find a single syringe, go ahead and ask ’em.”
