“Get this asshole to explain to you this business about somebody stuck in an elevator. Let ’em call the goddamn fire department! But get him out of here, I don’t want to hear his voice.” Fazio returned in a flash.
“Somebody got killed in an elevator,” he said, brief and to the point, to preempt any further flying inkwells.
o o o
“Giuseppe Cosentino, security guard,” said the man standing near the open elevator door, introducing himself. “I was the one who found Mr. Lapecora.”
“How come there’s nobody around? Where are all the nosy neighbors?” Fazio asked in amazement.
“I sent them all home. They do what I say around here. I live on the sixth floor,” the security guard said proudly, adjusting the jacket of his uniform.
Montalbano wondered how much authority Giuseppe Cosentino would have if he lived in the basement.
The dead Mr. Lapecora was sitting on the floor of the elevator, shoulders propped against the rear wall. Next to his right hand was a bottle of Corvo white, still corked and sealed.
Next to his left hand, a light gray hat. Dressed to the nines, necktie and all, the late Mr. Lapecora was a distinguished-looking man of about sixty, with eyes open in a look of astonishment, perhaps for having pissed his pants. Montalbano bent down and with the tip of his forefinger touched the dark stain between the dead man’s legs. It wasn’t piss, but blood. The elevator was one of those set inside the wall, so there was no way to look behind the corpse to see if the man had been stabbed or shot. He took a deep breath and didn’t smell any gunpow-der, though it was possible it had already dissipated.
They needed to alert the coroner.
“You think Dr. Pasquano is still at the port or would he already be back in Montelusa by now?”
“Probably still at the port.”
“Go give him a ring. And if Jacomuzzi and the forensics gang are there, tell them to come too.”
Fazio raced out. Montalbano turned to the security guard, who, sensing he was about to be addressed, came to attention.
“At ease,” Montalbano said wearily.
The inspector learned that the building had six floors, with three apartments per floor, all inhabited.
“I live on the sixth floor, the top floor,” Giuseppe Cosentino felt compelled to reaffirm.
“Was Mr. Lapecora married?”
“Yessir. To Antonietta Palmisano.”
“Did you send the widow home too?”
“No sir. She doesn’t know she’s a widow yet, sir. She went out early this morning to visit her sister in Fiacca, seeing as how this sister’s not in good health. She took the six-thirty bus.” “Excuse me, but how do you know all these things?” Did living on the sixth floor grant him that power too?
Did they all have to tell him what they were doing and why?
“Mrs. Palmisano Lapecora told my wife yesterday,” the security guard explained. “Seeing as how the two women talk to each other and all.”
“Do the Lapecoras have any children?”
“One son. He’s a doctor. But he lives a long way from Vigata.”
“What was Lapecora’s profession?”
“Businessman. Had his office in Salita Granet, number 28. But in the last few years, he only went there three times a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, seeing as how he didn’t feel much like working anymore. He had some money stashed away, didn’t have to depend on anyone.” “You are a gold mine, Mr. Cosentino.”
The security guard sprang back to attention.
At that moment, a woman of about fifty appeared, with legs like tree trunks. Her hands were loaded with plastic bags filled to bursting.
“I went shopping!” she declared with a surly glance at the inspector and the security guard.
“I’m glad,” said Montalbano.
“Well I’m not, all right? Because now I have to climb up six flights of stairs. When are you going to take the body away?”
And, glaring again at the two men, she began her difficult ascent, snorting like an enraged bull.
“A terrible woman, Mr. Inspector. Her name is Gaetana Pinna. She lives in the apartment next to mine, and not a day goes by without her trying to start an argument with my wife, who, since she’s a real lady, won’t give her the satisfaction. And so the woman gets even by making a horrible racket, especially when I’m trying to catch up on my sleep after my long shift.”
o o o
The handle of the knife stuck between Mr. Lapecora’s shoulder blades was worn. A common kitchen utensil.
“When did they kill him, in your opinion?” the inspector asked Dr. Pasquano.
“To make a rough guess, I’d say between seven and eight o’clock this morning. I’ll be able to tell you more precisely a little later.”
Jacomuzzi arrived with his men from the crime lab, and they began their intricate search.
