ago to the Trapani police. Says his wallet was stolen with everything inside, including four or five calling cards, he couldn’t remember exactly how many.” “He tossed you overboard,” said Valente.
“Where the water’s way over your head,” Montalbano added.
“How long you gonna manage to stay afloat?” Valente piled it on.
The sweat under Prestia’s armpits formed great big blotches. The office was filled with an unpleasant odor of musk and garlic, which Montalbano saw as rot-green in color. Prestia put his head in his hands and muttered: “They didn’t give me any choice.”
He remained awhile in that position, then apparently made up his mind:
“Can I speak with a lawyer?”
“A lawyer?” said Valente, as if greatly surprised.
“Why do you want a lawyer?” Montalbano asked in turn.
“I thought—”
“You thought what?”
“That we were going to arrest you?”
The duo worked perfectly together.
“You’re not going to arrest me?”
“Of course not.”
“You can go now, if you like.”
It took Prestia five minutes before he could get his ass unstuck from the chair and run out the door, literally.
o o o
“So, what happens next?” asked Valente, who knew they had unleashed a pack of demons.
“What happens next is that Prestia will go and pester Spadaccia. And the next move will be theirs.” Valente looked worried.
“What’s wrong?” asked Montalbano.
“I don’t know . . . I’m not convinced . . . I’m afraid they’ll silence Prestia. And we would be responsible.”
“Prestia’s too visible at this point. Bumping him off would be like putting their signature on the entire operation.
No, I’m convinced they
“Will you explain something for me?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you stepping into this quicksand?”
“And why are you following behind me?”
“First of all, because I’m a cop, like you, and secondly, be cause I’m having fun.”
“And my answer is: my first reason is the same as yours.
And my second is that I’m doing it for money.”
“And what’ll you gain from it?”
“I know exactly what my gain will be. But you want to bet that you’ll gain something from it too?”
o o o
Deciding not to give in to the temptation, he sped past the restaurant where he’d stuffed himself at lunch, doing 120
kilometers an hour. A half kilometer later, however, his resolution suddenly foundered, and he slammed on the brakes, provoking a furious blast of the horn from the car behind him. The man at the wheel, while passing him, glared at him angrily and gave him the finger. Montalbano then made a U-turn, strictly prohibited on that stretch of road, went straight into the kitchen, and, without even saying hello, asked the cook: “So, exactly how do you prepare your striped mullet?” 2 3 1
17
The following morning, at eight o’clock sharp, he showed up at the commissioner’s office. His boss, as usual, had been there since seven, amid the muttered curses of the cleaning women who felt prevented from doing their jobs.
Montalbano told him about Mrs. Lapecora’s confession, explaining how the poor murder victim, as if trying to side-step his tragic end, had written anonymously to his wife and openly to his son, but both had let him stew in his own juices. He made no mention of either Fahrid or Moussa—of the larger puzzle, in other words. He didn’t want the commissioner, now at the end of his career, to find himself implicated in an affair that stank worse than a pile of shit.
And up to this point it had gone well for him; he hadn’t had to pull any wool over the commissioner’s eyes. He’d only left a few things out, told a few half-truths.
“But why did you want to hold a press conference, you who usually avoid them like the plague?”
