“What’s it like?”
“At first it tastes sweet, but underneath it all it’s sour. It’s a sauce you could say is misleading.”
“Okay.”
It may have been thanks to the sauce that he emerged from the restaurant in a combative spirit.
Since he had the time, he didn’t drive straight to Montelusa but took a detour by way of Riguccio.
The Albachiara construction site was still empty. Work would resume the following day. Before Montalbano’s eyes lay a sea of mud in which the landscape itself was drowning.
But because of all the storms there had been, the pyramid of mud had lost its peak.
It was a decapitated pyramid. A ziggurat.
He took this as a good omen.
He waited a bit in the car, reviewing the notes Fazio had taken. Then he drove off.
Jacono sat there and listened to him attentively for a good hour and more without once interrupting him.
And he didn’t open his mouth even after the inspector had finished talking.
So Montalbano, feeling impatient, prodded him.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking.”
Moments later he sighed and shook his head.
Montalbano spoke again.
“Tell me sincerely whether—”
“Montalbano, everything you’ve told me makes perfect sense. It’s all well-founded and logical, but, you see . . .”
“I see what?”
“There are so many things.”
“Tell me one.”
“Well, just to cite the first example that comes to mind, the accusations you level at the regional council . . .”
“I get it. The usual special consideration for politics.”
Jacono slammed his hand down on the desk and said angrily:
“I don’t grant special consideration to anyone! And you should think twice before you talk like that to me!”
Montalbano bit his tongue and restrained himself. That wasn’t the right approach to take with Jacono.
“I apologize,” he muttered.
“Let’s both of us calm down. What I meant to say was that these are grave accusations unsupported by so much as a shred of proof. Do you realize this?”
“Of course.”
“Then tell me how you would proceed.”
“By decapitating the pyramid.”
“I don’t understand.”
“By making it possible for you to indict Rosales.”
“All right, but how?”
“If I had authorization to tap his phone and put him under video and audio surveillance . . .”
“Rosales?”
“Yes.”
“Montalbano, put yourself in my shoes for a minute. I have to account for and justify to my superiors every action I take. How will I explain that kind of surveillance? You haven’t given me a single scrap of evidence, do you realize that?”
“I have a witness who saw Rosales in Nicotra’s house—at a time when he had everyone believing he was at home in Sicudiana.”
“Well, that might be something . . . Is he a solid witness?”
Montalbano had a moment of doubt. Could one rely on Pitrineddru? That big ape of a man? No, a good lawyer would eat him alive.
“Unfortunately, no. He’s a bit off in the head.”
“Well, then, for now it’s best not to bring him into this. Got any other cards in your hand?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Jacono threw up his hands.
“I don’t know how to proceed in the eyes of the law.”
“So we have to drop the whole thing?”
Jacono looked him straight in the eye.
“I didn’t mean that. I only said that I, as public prosecutor, don’t know how to proceed in the eyes of the law. But you, as a police inspector, can perhaps view the question in a different light.”
Did he understand correctly what the prosecutor was suggesting to him? He wanted to be sure.
“Maybe I—”
“A few minutes ago,” Jacono cut in, not letting him finish, “you used a certain word, ‘pyramid,’ which brought to mind . . . Did you know that for the longest time nobody could go inside the pyramid of Cheops because nobody knew where the entrance was? Then someone took the bull by the horns and bored a hole into the wall, without the authorization of the pyramid’s curators. Now, however, the curators, who up until that moment had no way of entering, could also go inside.”
What a son of a bitch this Jacono was! In effect he was saying: If you can manage to pull something off that’s not strictly in keeping with the law, then be my guest.
They exchanged a warm good-bye.
After leaving the courthouse, he went into the nearest café, sat down at a table, and ordered a whisky.
His brain was whirring like an airplane propeller. What could he do, outside of surveillance, to find evidence against Rosales?
The only hope was to lay a trap for him. To set up a ruse that he would take to be real.
But how?
Nothing came to him.
He ordered another whisky.
A well-dressed lady came in. She peeled off a glove and was about to set it down on the table next to the inspector’s when it fell to the floor.
Montalbano bent down, picked it up, and . . .
. . . remained just like that, as though paralyzed, frozen.
“Are you going to give me back my glove?” the woman asked impatiently.
Montalbano gave it back to her, got up, went over to the cash register, paid for his whiskies, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Jannaccone’s number.
“Montalbano here.”
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“If I drop by in about fifteen minutes, who will I run into, you or your boss?”
“You’ll run into me.”
“I’m on my way.”
18
Fifteen minutes later he was in Jannaccone’s office.
“If I remember correctly, you guys found two pairs of cotton gloves in the garbage can of Nicotra’s house.”
“Yes. We’ve classified them as exhibits.”
“Did you get any fingerprints from them?”
“Of course. But there were so many superimposed on one another that they were indecipherable.”
“Could you lend me them for two days?”
“No problem.”
Getting back in the car, he looked at his watch. It was five-thirty. Just to be safe, he rang Catarella.
“Are Augello and Fazio on the premises?”
“Yeah, Chief, righ’ ’ere onna premisses.”
“Tell them not to budge from the station for any reason until I get there.”
Driving back to Vigàta, he sped faster than he ever had before. He wanted to put his plan into action that very evening. He was worried that the following day, after a night’s sleep, the wisdom and caution of his age might advise him against it.
“Don’t put any calls through to me, and get me Augello and Fazio,” he said to Catarella upon entering the station.
“’Ey’re awriddy onna premisses.”
In fact they were standing by the window, chatting. As soon as they saw the inspector they approached.
“Did Jacono give you the authorization?” Mimì asked hopefully.
“No. Have a seat, both of you.”
He told them what had transpired with Jacono.
“Simply speaking, does this mean that we have to drop the investigation?”
“You guys, yes. Me, no,” said Montalbano.
The two looked at each other, stunned.
“What’s that mean?” Augello asked.
“It means
I’m planning to lay a trap for Rosales. Without court authorization, mind you. For that reason, since such a thing could jeopardize your careers, I’m leaving you two out of it. Whereas me, since I’ve already gone as far as I’ll go, I couldn’t give a shit. Clear?”
“Clear,” said Augello.
“It’s clear to me, too,” said Fazio, “but, if possible, I’d like to know what this trap of yours consists of.”
Montalbano explained it to him.
“There’s one flaw,” Augello observed.
“Namely?”
“You can’t go alone. You wouldn’t be believable. Anyway, what is this, some cowboy movie where the sheriff goes and arrests the bandits all by himself?”
Augello was right. But the inspector didn’t want to waste any time.
“I’m going anyway,” he said.
Then, turning to Fazio:
“Explain to me how to get to Rosales’s house in Sicudiana.”
Fazio told him.
“I’ll see you guys later,” said Montalbano, standing up.
Augello and Fazio also stood up and followed him down to the parking lot.
“This is where we say good-bye,” Montalbano said after getting in the car.
“Good-bye, my ass,” said Augello. “You go on ahead, and we’ll follow behind you, each in his own car.”
“You guys are staying here. That’s an order!” Montalbano retorted angrily, getting out of the car.
“Save the order for your sister,” Augello rebutted.
Montalbano took a step towards him, which was enough to allow Fazio to bend down and grab the keys, which the inspector had already stuck in the ignition.
Montalbano caught this out of the corner of his eye and weighed his options. If he made a stink, he would just waste more time. And he didn’t have much at his disposal. So he gave in.
“All right,” he said through clenched teeth.
Smiling apologetically, Fazio gave him back the keys.
They stopped at a filling station on the outskirts of Sicudiana.
“Okay, Fazio, now you go to the front of the column and take us to Rosales’s house. Does he have any family living with him?”
“A thirty-year-old nephew who helps him out. But it’s possible he’s got the house watched over by his men. And we may find him in the company of a few friends.”
“In that case we’ll clear them out.”
“But is it possible he doesn’t even have a housekeeper?” asked Augello.
“He may have one he hires by the hour. Apparently Rosales doesn’t want any extraneous ears about the house that might overhear when he has guests or talks on the phone. And now let’s go. This is it, boys. The stakes are high. Keep cool, and don’t speak unless I address you first.”
They set off. Ten minutes later they were outside Rosales’s little palazzo, which was in the elevated part of town and gave onto a piazza with a church and a school. There wasn’t a soul around.
There was a speakerphone outside the front door. Montalbano rang. A male voice answered.
“Who is it?”
“Police!”
“The police? What do you want?”
“Open up and we’ll tell you.”
“Wait a second and I’ll come downstairs.”
Then, in one of the two wings of the double front door, a sort of tiny window, protected by a cast-iron grate, opened. A man looked out at them, then said:
“Put your documents in the hole.”
Which consisted of a rectangular slot in the other wing, over which was a metal plaque with the word LETTERS. The three did as asked.
One half of the door then opened and immediately closed again after they entered a vestibule.
Before them stood a young man of about thirty, tall and athletic, with a revolver stuck into the waistband of his trousers.
“Sorry about all the precautions. But the way things are these days . . .”
“Yes, it’s just terrible,” said the inspector. “You can’t trust anyone anymore, and there’s no respect for anybody. And who are you?”
“I’m Signor Rosales’s nephew. My name is Adolfo.”
“Is your uncle at home?”
“Where else would he be? He hasn’t set foot out of here for two and a half months. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“His heart condition’s got a lot worse in the last few days.”
“What happened? Overexertion?”
The young man looked a little ill at ease.
“Well . . . at his age . . .”
“I understand. Is he resting at present?”
“He’s in an armchair watching TV.”
“Could I speak with him?”
“I’m sorry, but you can’t. It would be too exhausting for him. The doctor said no visitors.”
“I have a search warrant and a warrant for the arrest of your uncle. Here,” Montalbano bluffed, sticking his hand into his jacket pocket as if to take out the documents.
Upon hearing these words, the young man turned pale as a corpse and seemed paralyzed.
In a flash Fazio stepped forward and snatched the gun out from his waistband. The nephew seemed not even to notice.
“Show me the way,” said the inspector.
They climbed a staircase, went down a corridor, and entered a sort of spacious bedroom with tasteful furnishings. But the air in the room stank of medicines and sickness.
Rosales was sitting in an armchair in front of a television turned off. To his left was a small table with two telephones and six cell phones. To his right was another small table with a bottle of water, a glass, and a great many boxes of medicines. He’d fallen asleep.
Adolfo lightly shook him by the shoulder. Rosales opened his eyes and looked at the three in astonishment.
One could see that he was truly unwell. Sickly yellow in color, hollow-eyed, unshaven, and breathing with difficulty. He said nothing. Montalbano was the first to speak.
“Emilio Rosales, I declare you under arrest.”
At first Rosales didn’t make the slightest move, and did not react in any visible way.
“Are you kidding me?” he then asked, venturing a hint of a smile. “What am I accused of?”
“Money laundering, racketeering, suborning of contract competitions, and one other more serious charge, which—”
“Money laundering and racketeering? Me?” Rosales cut him off. “I’m a real estate developer! At the very most I might grant you the false—I repeat, false—accusation of suborning the competition, but as for the rest . . .”
“You don’t know that we discovered the safe under Nicotra’s garage,” Montalbano blurted out.
Rosales absorbed the blow. He closed his eyes and shook his head, but quickly recovered.
“Of course I knew poor Nicotra, but I have no idea where he was living.”
“You’re making the wrong move, I’m warning you. Did you also know his wife, Inge Schneider?”
“I knew he had a good-lookin’ German wife, but I never saw her.”
“Second wrong move. We have an eyewitness who in his declaration to the prosecutor said he saw you as you were . . . ahem . . . intimately engaged with the woman in the room you were staying in at Nicotra’s house.”
The blow was harder this time. Rosales was overcome with a coughing fit, started gasping for breath, and didn’t calm down until Adolfo had him drink some water. Then he was in a condition to rebut.
“So you came here to tell me a story straight out of the puppet theater. But if you can’t show me any proof . . .”
“Here you go,” said the inspector, extracting from his jacket pocket two cellophane bags, inside each of which could be seen a pair of cotton gloves soiled from use.
“For th
e whole time you were staying at Nicotra’s house as the . . . let’s call it the cashier and guardian of the dirty money, you wore gloves like this to avoid leaving any fingerprints. But there are fingerprints inside the gloves—man, are there ever! You should have burned them, not thrown them into the garbage.”
Rosales remained silent.
Montalbano suddenly heard bells ringing joyfully in his head. The trap was working to perfection.
He put the gloves back in his pocket and said:
“There’s another decisive element that proves you were in that house. Your blood on the pillow, which got there when the assailants surprised you in bed and punched you in the face to make you get up and open the safe. We’ve recovered the DNA from that blood sample. You do realize you cannot deny the evidence, don’t you?”
Again Rosales said nothing. His breathing had become so labored that Fazio looked at Montalbano with concern.
“Do you want to summon the doctor?” Montalbano asked Adolfo.
“I think it would be best.”
“Then call him.”
Adolfo pulled out a cell phone, spoke, then signed off.
“He’ll be right over.”
“Signor Rosales,” the inspector continued, “now listen to me carefully, because compared to what I’m about to say to you now, everything I’ve told you so far will seem like a joke.”
“A joke?” said Rosales, eyes opening wide.
“You interrupted me while I was enumerating the charges.”
“There are others?”
“Yes, complicity in the attempted murder of Saverio Piscopo and in the murders of Pino Pennisi and Inge Schneider.”
Rosales reacted in a manner nobody was expecting. Making a desperate effort, he rose to his feet. He was shaking all over and had trouble speaking.
“I . . . had nothing . . . to do with those murders . . . it was the Cuffaros . . . who came and kidnapped me and took the money . . . They thought I was in cahoots with the Sinagras to screw them over . . .”
He fell back into the armchair, drained of strength. But Montalbano wasn’t about to back off now.
“I am quite certain that the money momentarily stolen by the Cuffaros has been returned,” he said, “and that the kitty is back in functioning order. But since there hasn’t been enough time to set up a new underground bank, the prosecutor is convinced the money is here with you. And I have a search warrant signed by him. My question for you is: What if you saved me the time and just told me where it is?”
The Pyramid of Mud Page 19
