The mist accentuated the scent of the sea, which he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs.
The sand, too, had a pleasant smell about it.
And the gentle sound of the raindrops on the porch roof was like a distant melody that . . .
What the hell had gotten into him?
How was it that he so suddenly appreciated the same rain that had always put him in a bad mood?
Was it the inevitable change that came with age which made him more understanding?
Or was it much more likely the “Marian effect”?
He decided not to watch his interview, which was about to come on.
He set the table, waited for the rice to get nice and hot, and then brought it outside.
He savored it down to the last pea and grain of rice.
Then he moved on to the tuna, which he gave the same reception as the risotto.
Then he cleared the table, grabbed his cigarettes and an ashtray, and went back out on the veranda.
No whisky this time. He wanted his mind to be lucid.
From his pocket he extracted the sheet of paper with the transcriptions of the intercepted phone calls and started studying them.
14
The first thing that jumped out at him like a black blot on a white sheet was that neither Valeria nor Loredana exchanged so much as a single word on the murder of Carmelo Savastano.
After all, it wasn’t as if a lot of time had passed since news of the identification of the body had come out.
Maybe they’d already touched on the subject in some prior phone call before the line had been tapped. But in any case it seemed as if the two girls were glossing over a very important matter. As if they had expressly agreed not to talk about it.
And this was very strange.
Until proven otherwise, Savastano, aside from having spent a long time with Loredana as her boyfriend and master, had also been her mugger and rapist.
The very fact that she was now in the hospital was in a certain sense a consequence of her intimate acquaintance with the murder victim.
How was it that not a single word about him, either of insult or compassion, had ever come out of the girl’s mouth? Savastano had suffered a horrific end. You’d think that some sort of heartfelt exclamation—“Poor guy!” or “He deserved it!”—would be forthcoming.
But no.
And how was it that Valeria, who with Mimì made a great show of accusing di Marta, made no mention of the fact that Loredana’s husband had been summoned by the police for questioning? Shouldn’t she have expressed some hope that they would send him straight to prison?
Too many omissions, too much silence.
And there were some other things that were utterly incomprehensible.
Loredana’s questions, when she wanted to know if everything was okay and said she was going crazy having to stay in the hospital, without being able . . .
Without being able to do what?
And then Valeria’s reassuring reply, when she said she would have plenty of opportunity to make up for time lost . . .
Make what up? And with whom?
Whatever the case, it was clear that Valeria was the only link between her friend and the thing that Loredana missed so much.
As for the second phone call, it was probably best not even to try. It was impossible to understand anything about it at all.
But the tone of Valeria’s voice when he’d heard the recording with his own ears had given him a clue.
Valeria’s immediate reaction had been somewhere between astonishment and fear. Or better yet, it contained both astonishment and fear.
She’d said: “You must be insane!” But she’d stopped short, hadn’t finished her sentence. She must surely have been about to say “to call me on the phone.”
So there must have been a prior agreement between Valeria and the caller, made who-knows-when. That the man must not call for a certain amount of time. And the man had not kept his word.
But given that Valeria was at home alone at the time of the call, as she nearly always was—and therefore no one could overhear her talking to the man—why was she so against talking to him over the phone?
If he was just a lover, she certainly would have had no problem talking to him.
Therefore he was not a lover.
So what was he?
And who was Valeria afraid might overhear her conversation with him?
Certainly not her faraway husband. Nor Loredana in the hospital.
Then who?
Want to bet Valeria thought her phone line might be tapped?
If that was the case, this meant that any contact with that man constituted a potential danger for her.
Mimì’s mission was becoming more and more crucial.
The phone rang at eleven-thirty. It was Livia.
“I’m going to bed. I just wanted to wish you good night.”
Her voice sounded like she had a cold.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong? Do you have a fever?”
“I don’t think so, I don’t know, this has never happened to me before.”
“But what are you feeling?”
“Ever since I woke up this morning I’ve been feeling like I want to cry.”
He got worried. It wasn’t as if tears came so easily to Livia.
“And I don’t even feel like talking. I just want to sleep. I’m going to take a sleeping pill after I hang up. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
It came straight from his heart. It was all his fault. But then Livia said something he hadn’t expected.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. It has nothing to do with you, or with our current situation.”
“Then why?”
“I told you. I don’t know. I don’t understand. I feel a kind of looming emptiness, a loss that can never be filled. My own, personal loss. It’s a bit like when I learned that my mother had an incurable illness. Something like that. But I don’t want to depress you. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Montalbano, feeling like a cad.
And he was a cad. But he couldn’t help it.
He grabbed the phone, brought it into the bedroom, went to the bathroom, then lay down in bed.
He lay there belly-up, staring at the ceiling, unable to get Livia out of his head.
When, just before midnight, the phone rang, it was like a gust of wind that blew away any thought that didn’t have to do with Marian from his mind.
“Hello, Inspector.”
“Hello. How’s it going with Lariani?”
“What can I say? Today he phoned to tell me that he will almost certainly have two paintings for me the day after tomorrow.”
“Let’s hope this time it’s for real.”
“Let’s hope, because wasting all these days isn’t something I . . .”
“Can you tell me why you didn’t call me yesterday?”
Marian giggled.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because sometimes you assume this inquisitorial, coplike tone of voice.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, I only wanted—”
“I know. Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I realized that after I talk to you, I have trouble getting you out of my head. It intensifies my thoughts of you. And the more I think of you, the more I’m overwhelmed by the desire to be with you. And since I can’t be with you, I become cross and distracted and sometimes can’t fall asleep. So I wanted to do an experiment, and I didn’t call you. That made it even worse. And so here I am again, talking to you from Milan. I can’t stand it any longer, I’m going crazy here, not being able to . . .”
It was like a thunderbolt.
It just came out.
“What is it?” Marian asked in surprise.
“Finish the sentence, finish the sentence!”
“What sentence?”
“The one you were saying, that you couldn’t stand it any longer, you were going crazy there, not being able to . . .”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Please, I beg you, I implore you: not being able to what?”
There was a pause.
When she finally spoke, Marian’s voice was icy and mocking.
“To hug you, silly. To kiss you, moron. To make love to you, stupid.”
And she hung up.
She’d used almost the exact same words as Loredana! Wasn’t it possible Loredana was in the same position as Marian?
But now he had to repair the damage immediately.
He tried calling Marian on her cell phone. It rang and rang. He called her on her land line. No answer. Maybe she’d unplugged it. The fourth time he tried her cell phone, Marian finally answered.
It took them half an hour and then some to make up.
Then Marian wished him good night with her usual loving voice.
And he was able to sleep soundly.
At the station he found Mimì and Fazio waiting for him.
“I’m here to report,” said Augello.
“You look fresh as a rose this morning,” said the inspector. “So Valeria didn’t wear you out?”
“I’m still not there yet.”
“So where are you?”
“I got her to display the merchandise again and let me taste-test the freshness. I declared myself madly in love with her and ready to do anything for her.”
“I see. And how did she react to my interview?”
“I’m convinced that it was only after seeing you on TV that she got the idea to let me taste the merchandise. At a certain point, when I was hoping to go from tasting to purchasing, she stopped me and asked me if I was prepared to take a big gamble for her.”
“Were those her exact words?”
“Yes. ‘To take a big gamble.’”
“And what did you say?”
“That I was ready to give my life for her.”
“Was there any background music?”
“Absolutely. From the television.”
“Who knows what she has in mind?” Fazio cut in.
“I’m going to find out this afternoon, you can count on that,” said Augello. “She’s expecting me at four. Apparently it’s going to take a while.”
The meeting broke up.
“Ahh, Chief! Ahh, Chief Chief!”
Whenever Catarella intoned this litany you could be certain that it had something to do with Hizzoner the C’mishner, as he called him.
“Did the commissioner call?”
“Yessir, ’e did. An’ ’e’s still onna line!”
Montalbano imagined Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi as a scruffy crow perched on an electrical line.
“Put him through.”
“Montalbano?”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Commissioner?”
“Could you dash over here as quickly as possible?”
“As quickly as it takes me to get there.”
He got in his car and drove off. Normally, when the commissioner summoned him, it was to give him a solemn scolding, rightly or wrongly, and therefore Montalbano made a conscious effort to remain calm, whatever his boss might have to say to him.
The commissioner received him at once.
He must not have been feeling well, because his face had the same yellowish cast it had when he rose out of his coffin. He was even polite.
“Dear Montalbano, please sit down. How are you?”
Never before had Bonetti-Alderighi asked him this. Perhaps the end of the world was nigh?
“Not too bad, thanks. And yourself?”
“Not too well, but I’ll get over it. I asked you here to find out whether, aside from the Savastano murder, you have any other investigations in progress.”
“No, none.”
“Now answer me frankly: Could this ongoing investigation be carried on by Inspector Augello?”
“Of course.”
“Good. As perhaps you already know, Commissioner Sposìto and the rest of the counterterrorism unit are engaged in a manhunt for three Tunisians involved in illegal arms traffic and hiding out in our province. The area they have to cover is too vast, and Sposìto asked me this morning, before going out to join his men in the field, to provide some backup. I think you and a couple of your men would suffice . . . We’re only talking about two or three days.”
The commissioner had no idea how deeply immersed the inspector was in this affair.
“That’s fine with me,” said Montalbano.
“Thank you. I just wanted to make sure you were available before discussing it with Sposìto. I’m sure he’ll be pleased when I tell him.”
The commissioner stood up, shook the inspector’s hand, and smiled.
Montalbano felt numb as he left the office, seriously concerned for Mr. C’mishner’s state of health.
But while he was there, he might as well go all the way.
He went downstairs to the basement. In booth 12B De Nicola was still doing crossword puzzles.
“Good morning. Any calls?”
“Yes. One from the husband, at eight o’clock, another at eight-thirty from a lady asking for a charitable contribution, and then at nine, Signora Bonifacio called Signora di Marta.”
“Let me hear the last one,” said the inspector, putting on the headset.
“Loredà, darling, what time are they releasing you?”
“At noon.”
“I’ll come and pick you up in my car. I can’t believe we’ll be together again. It doesn’t seem real.”
“I can’t believe it either. Oh, goody! Listen, don’t get mad, but did you tell anyone I was getting out?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because for now it’s better this way.”
“But I . . .”
“It’s better this way, I tell you. And don’t make me repeat it a thousand times. Did you hear about your husband?”
“Yes. I have a TV in my room.”
“I met someone who might be a big help to us. I’m working him over pretty good.”
“Who is it?”
“A lawyer. His name is Diego Croma.”
“What did you say his name was?”
“Diego Croma.”
“I think I’ve met him. And why do you think he could be useful to us?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re together. See you later.”
“Should I go and have a coffee?” De Nicola asked, smiling.
Montalbano gave him a confused look.
“You don’t need to transcribe this one?”
Montalbano remembered and smiled.
“No, thanks.”
Not a word of comment from the two women about di Marta’s arrest. And Loredana found herself up against a wall when she wanted to get back in touch with someone against Valeria’s wishes.
He didn’t drop in at the station, but went straight to Enzo’s for lunch. Afterwards he took a stroll along the jetty and sat down on the flat rock. The crab scurried into the water the moment it saw him. Apparently it didn’t feel like playing. Most likely crabs themselves had their bad days and dark moods.
By now it was clear that the person who had to be placed at the center of the whole investigation into Savastano’s death was Valeria Bonifacio. And perhaps letting Mimì handle everything was the wrong approach. It was time to get Fazio involved too.
He returned to the office.
“Ah, Chief
! C’mishner Sposato called sayin’ if ya call ’im straightaways ’e’ll be there.”
“Cat, you wouldn’t happen to mean Commissioner Sposìto, would you?”
“Why, wha’d I say?”
“All right. Ring ’im and put the call through to me.”
“Montalbano?”
“What can I do for you? I spoke with Commissioner Bonetti-Alderighi and am ready—”
“That’s why I’m calling. I told the commissioner that’s not what I need.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I think the commissioner misunderstood what I said. I told him I needed men.”
“And what am I, a horse?”
“I need grunts, Montalbà, not someone like you.”
“Ah, I see. You don’t want me in your hair.”
“Oh, come on! That’s the furthest thing—”
“Are you worried I might steal your thunder if they’re caught?”
“Oh, fuck off! At any rate, I don’t want you. Got that?”
“Got it.”
Sposìto seemed to be having second thoughts.
“I’m sorry, Montalbano, but the circumstances—”
“Now you fuck off.”
He didn’t know Sposìto could be so petty. And what were these circumstances, anyway?
There was something about this that didn’t add up.
He’d provoked Sposìto on purpose, but the guy didn’t fall for it.
He thought for a second of calling Bonetti-Alderighi and demanding an explanation, but then decided to let it drop.
Maybe it was better this way. He would be spared the long treks across the countryside in the sun and rain, where he might even be forced to eat lamb stew or blood sausage, stuff he refused to put in his mouth, at the home of some shepherd or other.
He summoned Fazio and had him read the transcriptions of the two intercepted phone conversations. Then he described the exchange he’d overheard that morning.
“What do you think?”
Fazio basically made the same observations he had, and concluded that Bonifacio was up to her neck in this.
“So this is where you come in, Fazio. You’ve already told me a few things about Valeria Bonifacio, but it’s not enough. We have to dig deep into her life. We have to know everything about her, everything.”
A Beam of Light Page 15
