“You should know that I—”
The outside phone line rang.
“Excuse me just a moment,” said Montalbano, picking up the receiver.
It was Fazio.
“I’m sorry, Chief, but it’s probably best you come here yourself.”
“Why, are there complications?” asked the inspector, keeping things vague in the presence of a stranger.
“Yeah.”
“Something that’ll take a while?”
“Yeah.”
“Gimme the address, and I’ll be right there.”
Via dei Fiori, number 38. He’d never heard of that street before. He stood up, and Virduzzo did the same.
“I’m terribly sorry, but . . .”
How many polite apologies had the two men already exchanged that morning? You’d think they were Chinese or something.
“I understand,” Virduzzo said in resignation.
Montalbano threw him a sop.
“If you want, you could come back late this afternoon . . .”
“Would six p.m. be all right?” Virduzzo asked hopefully.
“It’s fine with me.”
Not trusting Catarella, he called Fazio back and had him explain how to find the street. It wasn’t far away. A twenty-minute walk and he’d be right there.
* * *
Naturally, in Via dei Fiori there wasn’t a flower to be seen for love or money.
The street was in a neighborhood of old, deteriorated buildings that city hall had decided to renovate to create what one might call an “artists’ quarter.”
There was one painter’s studio, three photographers’ studios, two galleries exhibiting paintings and sculptures that nobody bought, a few houses with creatively painted façades, and a so-called Caffè degli Artisti.
At number 38 was a small two-floor building. The front door was open, and outside it stood a municipal cop, who immediately recognized the inspector and stood aside to let him in after greeting him.
Montalbano returned the greeting and went inside.
Opposite the entranceway, a bit to the left, were the remains of a wooden door consumed by fire; to the right was a staircase with an elegant bannister that led upstairs and didn’t look too damaged.
Montalbano went through the charred door and found himself in a large store that sold televisions, cell phones, and other electronic stuff.
He’d come through the store’s back door; the main entrance for the clientele, flanked by a display window, was at the opposite end and gave onto the main street of the neighborhood.
The rolling metal shutters had been lowered halfway both for the entrance and the display window, letting a bit of light into the store; otherwise, the interior would have been in pitch-darkness, further darkened by the veil of soot covering everything.
“Fazio!” he cried out.
No reply.
He decided there was nothing to be done in there. Possibly also because there was a dense, acrid odor that brought tears to his eyes and made him cough. He turned around and went out of the store.
At just that moment he saw Fazio coming in through the main door.
“The city cop came and told me you were here.”
“Where were you?”
“In a bar nearby. My throat was all dry from the soot and I couldn’t breathe.”
“Why did you have me come?”
“Chief, I would never have troubled you if there wasn’t a problem. Let’s go upstairs, it’ll be easier to talk.”
Fazio led the way. The door was open, and they went in.
The apartment, to judge from the entrance, must have been nicely furnished.
“This is where the store’s owner lives. His name is Marcello Di Carlo.”
“Where is he?”
Fazio seemed not to have heard the question.
“Want me to show you the apartment?” he asked.
If Fazio was acting this way, there must be a reason. Montalbano nodded in assent.
Fazio led the way. The front door to the flat was open, and they went in.
The vestibule area led to a corridor with doors on both sides.
Dining room, living room, ultramodern kitchen, bathroom with Jacuzzi tub on the right; master bedroom, bathroom, another large bedroom, and a study on the left.
It was all clean and in perfect order, but gave the impression that no one had been living there for a while.
They went back into the vestibule and sat down. In the short time he’d been in the place, Montalbano had already formed a precise opinion.
“I get it,” he said. “There’s no sign of this Di Carlo.”
“Exactly.”
“Any idea how old he is?”
“About forty.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Any relatives?”
“Yes, a sister, Daniela, who is married and lives in Montelusa. Or so I was told at the bar, where Di Carlo is a regular customer.”
“We have to try and find out her married name so we can call her.”
“Already taken care of,” said Fazio.
It always got terribly on Montalbano’s nerves when Fazio uttered those four words.
But this time he managed to control himself.
“The husband’s name is Ingrassia, and I was able to talk to him on the phone.”
“And what did he say?”
“He seemed more concerned with the fire than with his brother-in-law.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said Marcello is a good-looking guy who likes to enjoy life. He spent the whole month of August in Lanzarote, from where he called his sister and told her it was a sort of honeymoon. Apparently he’d found someone. He got back in touch on the thirty-first of the month, telling her he was back in Vigàta, but since then Daniela has had no news of him. She thinks he maybe brought the girl back from Lanzarote with him and is now taking her around and showing her all the sights of our beautiful island.”
“I’m sorry, but who’s looking after the store while the guy is enjoying the company of his latest girlfriend?”
“There’s a salesman by the name of Filippo Caruana, who’s got the keys. He’s down in the bar right now, if you want to talk to him.”
“And what did Daniela say about the fire?”
“She immediately said it was the Mafia. Without any hesitation. Back in July her brother told her they’d raised the protection fee and he had no intention of paying it.”
Montalbano sat there thinking.
“Go and get me the salesman,” he said a moment later.
Fazio went out and came back five minutes later with a lad of about twenty with an intelligent face.
“I would like you to tell me whether you noticed anything unusual in Di Carlo’s behavior when he returned from his vacation.”
The youth replied at once.
“Well, moodwise, he was more cheerful than usual.”
“Did you get any sense of the reason for the change?”
“He told me himself, the first day we reopened the store.”
“And what was that?”
“He’d fallen in love.”
“During his vacation in the Canary Islands?”
“No, apparently they’d met here in Vigàta in early June and immediately hit it off. By chance she had reserved a place in Tenerife for July and August, and he’d reserved in Lanzarote just for August. So on the first of August he went to get her in Tenerife and brought her back to Lanzarote with him.”
“I see. And did they come back together?”
“I can’t really say with any certainty, but I think so. Di Carlo told me he’d be back on the thirty-first of August.”
“What makes you think they came back together?”
“How?”
“The store closes every evening at eight p.m. Ever since he’s been back, he leaves at six-thirty. So now I’m the one who takes care of closing up.”
“And are you always the one who opens up in the morning?”
“No, he usually is. But in the last three days I’ve found the shutters down when I got to work, so I’ve had to open them myself.”
“And at what time has he come in?”
“He hasn’t come in at all. I haven’t seen him for three days. He hasn’t even phoned.”
“Has he by any chance said anything about the woman he spent his vacation with?”
“Like what?”
“Name, where she’s from, stuff like that . . .”
“He didn’t say any more than I’ve already told you.”
“Did he show you a picture of her?”
“No.”
“Has he ever been absent for several days like this in the past?”
“Yes. But he acted differently.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, he told me where he was going and how long he would be away.”
“Does Di Carlo have a cell phone?”
“Of course.”
“Have you tried calling him?”
“Naturally. But his phone is always turned off. I’ve even sent him text messages, but haven’t had any replies.”
“How has the store been doing?”
“Pretty well, actually, considering the economic crisis.”
“Do you know if he has anyone who cleans his apartment?”
“A woman comes every other day. But I can’t—”
“The people at the bar gave me her name and phone number,” said Fazio. “They know her, too, since she used to clean for them as well.”
“What kind of car does he own?”
The youth opened his mouth but didn’t have time to say anything before Fazio spoke.
“A Porsche Cayenne.”
“And where does he keep this treasure?”
“In a parking garage two blocks from here.”
4
They absolutely needed to find out whether the car was there or not, to have any sense at all of Di Carlo’s movements.
“We’ll have to go and see whether—”
“Already taken care of,” said Fazio.
“Ohhhhhhhh!” Montalbano exploded, unable to control himself this time.
It had come out as a kind of very loud, wolflike howl that scared the hell out of the other two.
“Are you feeling all right, Chief?” Fazio asked with concern.
“Yeah, it’s nothing . . . Just this rheumatic pain that sometimes creeps up on me . . . So, you were saying?”
“I was about to say that the car’s not there. Di Carlo came and took it one afternoon a few days ago, but they don’t know exactly when, and he hasn’t brought it back since. I have the license plate number.”
Montalbano didn’t have any more questions to ask the youth, so he dismissed him.
“But,” he said before the young man was out the door, “if you get any news of Di Carlo, directly or indirectly, please let us know immediately.”
The young man said good-bye and went out.
“What do you think?” asked Fazio.
“He may just be out tooling around with his girlfriend, and then again he may not be. If he’s not out tooling around, she, sooner or later, will come forward to ask us for news of her missing boyfriend. What did the firemen say about the fire?”
“They said it was a clear case of arson.”
“How was it done?”
“Somebody came through the front door with a skeleton key, then opened the back door of the store with another skeleton key. Then, once inside, they emptied two jerry cans of gasoline, lit a match, and left.”
“So, from what I can gather, they were trying to make as little noise as possible.”
“So it seems.”
“Maybe they thought Di Carlo was at home sleeping.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me something: Who opened the door to the apartment?”
“I found it already open.”
“So was it the firemen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s the fire chief?”
“Engineer Guggino.”
“Give him a call and ask him about the door.”
As Fazio was phoning, Montalbano got up and started pacing about, smoking a cigarette. When he saw that Fazio had finished, he sat back down.
“Guggino says that the door was already open when they got there, too, and there was nobody inside.”
“That changes the picture a little,” the inspector observed.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t Di Carlo, the owner, who left the door open.”
“It could have been the cleaning lady.”
“Give her a ring and find out what her hours are.”
The conversation was a quick one.
“The cleaning lady says she only comes here in the morning, but hasn’t been here for the past week because she’s been really sick with the flu.”
“So the cleaning lady had nothing to do with it. Which leaves us with two possibilities: Either there’s no connection between the fire and Di Carlo’s disappearance, or there is a connection, and a very close one.”
“So you’re saying that, in the second case, whoever set fire to the store also kidnapped Di Carlo?”
“Exactly.”
Fazio looked doubtful.
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t at all the way the Mafia usually operates!”
“You’re absolutely right. It’s not the way they usually operate. And that’s got me very worried.”
“What should we do?”
“I want to see the study.”
The room wasn’t very big, but enough to fit a white, semicircular, and very modern desk that looked like a cross between a missile and a Formula One race car; behind it was an aerodynamic, adjustable swivel armchair with so many levers and switches that one probably needed to get a license before sitting down in it; and in front of it were two normal chairs. The wall opposite the desk was entirely covered by a huge bookcase with very few books but, to make up for it, cluttered with knickknacks such as seashells, little animals made of terra-cotta and glass, miniature houses, and a few exotic musical instruments. Probably travel souvenirs.
Also of note were four cameras.
Built into the wall on the right was a large filing cabinet, which the inspector opened. You really couldn’t say that Di Carlo was a disorderly man. Neatly filed away, each with its own binder, were correspondences with suppliers, invoices, receipts, and suchlike.
Montalbano sat carefully down in the armchair and opened the left-hand drawer in the desk. More business-related documents. Then he opened the right-hand drawer. It was full of photo albums. Apparently Di Carlo aspired to be a great landscape photographer, since that was the most prevalent subject.
“Two things are missing,” the inspector observed.
“One is the computer,” said Fazio. “What’s the other?”
“Photos of the girl he was with. With someone as obsessed with photos as this guy, you can imagine how many he must have taken of her.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m sure he took the computer with him, or else, if he was kidnapped, they grabbed the computer, too. But where are the photos?”
He got up.
“You know what I say? Let’s go back to the station. There’s nothing else to see here.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna go into the bathroom for a minute,” said Fazio.
He went out, and moments
later the inspector heard him calling him.
Fazio had opened the curtain in the shower.
On the floor were two large yellow bags, one empty and the other full to bursting, a box of kitchen matches, and a great deal of black ash all around the shower drain.
The inspector bent down, picked up the swollen bag, and opened it. Photos of pretty young women, clothed, in bathing suits, and naked.
“Looks like our friend Di Carlo was getting rid of his souvenirs of past loves,” he said.
There were at least some ten photos for each girl, which Di Carlo, with customary care, had not only grouped together in a stack held together by a rubber band but, on the back of the last photo in each stack, had also written the girl’s name and the dates of the duration of their time together.
There were sixteen stacks in all. The first featured Adele (January 13–April 22, 2010) and the last, Giovanna (March 3–March 30, 2012). But the upshot was that there were still no photos of the girl he had gone to Lanzarote to see and was still with.
“This Di Carlo’s love affairs certainly never lasted very long,” Fazio observed.
“That’s true, but apparently it’s different now, with the new girl,” said Montalbano.
“How do you know that?”
“I know it from the fact that he wanted to burn all the photos of his other women. He wanted to, that is. But apparently he never managed to do so. And this definitely means something.”
“Namely?”
“Namely that Di Carlo hasn’t yet brought his new girlfriend here, since his plan to destroy the traces of his old affairs wasn’t completed, and so, for now, he goes and sleeps at her place. Logically we can surmise that the girl has her own place, since I don’t think they’re always out sleeping in hotels.”
“What should we do with these photos?”
“Leave them where we found them.”
Exiting the bathroom, they were walking down the hall when they heard a woman’s voice call from the stairwell.
“Signor Fazio!”
“Who’s that?” asked Montalbano.
“I have no idea. I’ll go and look.”
The inspector waited in the hallway. Fazio returned.
“It’s Daniela Ingrassia, Di Carlo’s sister. She’s come down from Montelusa and wants to talk to you. Will you see her here, or should I tell her to come in to the station?”
The Overnight Kidnapper Page 4
