open now.
“Gallo!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find the fax number for Auto Registration in Rome and send this right away. Galluzzo!”
“At your orders.”
“Well?”
“I took the old lady to Montelusa. Everything’s taken care of.”
“Listen, Gallu. Tell your brother-in-law to be in the general vicinity of headquarters after Lapecora’s funeral tomorrow. And tell him to bring a cameraman.”
“Thanks, Chief, with all my heart.”
“Fazio!”
“I’m listening.”
“It completely slipped my mind. Did you go to Mrs.
Lapecora’s apartment?”
“Sure did. And I took a small cup from a set of twelve.
I’ve got it over there. You wanna see it?”
“What the hell for? Tomorrow I’ll tell you what to do with it. For now, put it in a cellophane bag. Oh, and, did Jacomuzzi send you the knife?”
“Yessirree.”
o o o
He didn’t have the courage to leave the office. At home the hard part awaited him. Livia’s sorrow. Speaking of which, if Livia was leaving, then . . . He dialed Adelina’s number.
“Adeli? Montalbano here. Listen, the young lady’s leaving tomorrow morning; I need to recuperate. And you know what? I haven’t eaten a thing all day.”
One had to live, no?
2 0 1
15
Livia was on the veranda, sitting on the bench, utterly still, and seemed to be looking out at the sea. She wasn’t crying, but her red, puffy eyes said that she’d used up her supply of tears. The inspector sat down beside her, took one of her hands, and squeezed it. To Montalbano it felt as if he’d picked up something dead; he found it almost repulsive. He let it go and lit a cigarette. Livia, he’d decided, should know as little as possible about the whole affair. But it was clear she’d given the matter some thought, and her question went right to the point.
“Do they want to harm him?”
“Actually harm him, probably not. Make him disappear for a while, yes.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Maybe by putting him in an orphanage under a false name.”
“Why?”
“Because he met some people he wasn’t supposed to meet.”
Still staring at the sea, Livia thought about Montalbano’s last words.
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“If these people Francois met are Tunisians, perhaps illegal immigrants, couldn’t you, as policemen—”
“They’re not only Tunisian.”
Slowly, as if making a great effort, Livia turned and faced him.
“They’re not?”
“No. And I’m not saying another word.”
“I want him.”
“Who?”
“Francois. I want him.”
“But, Livia—”
“Shut up. I want him. No one can take him away from me like that, you least of all. I’ve thought long and hard about this, you know, these last few hours. How old are you, Salvo?” “Forty-four, I think.”
