IM10 August Heat (2008) (9 page)

“Mr. Spitaleri, I’m getting tired of seeing you answer in this fashion. Among other things, I’m beginning to wonder if you think we’re a bunch of dumbasses that you can fuck around with.” He turned to Fazio.“Were you wondering the same thing?”

“Yeah, I was.”

“So, you know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna take him into the bathroom, make him strip down naked, then give him a cold shower until he recovers his senses.”

“I want my lawyer!” yelled Spitaleri, miraculously recovering his voice.

“You think it’s such a good idea to publicize this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, if you call your lawyer, I’ll call the newsmen. I believe I remember you have a history in matters of young girls . . . If those guys turn it into a public trial, you’re fucked. If, on the other hand, you cooperate, you can walk out of here in five minutes.”

Pale as a corpse, the developer was overcome by a sudden fit of the shakes.

“What else do you want to know?”

“Just now you said you hadn’t been able to see the work through to the end, because you’d taken a plane somewhere. How many days before?”

“I left on the morning of the last day of work.”

“And do you remember the date of this last day?”

“The twelfth of October.”

Fazio and Montalbano exchanged glances.

“So you’re in a position to tell me whether, in the living room, aside from the fixtures wrapped in plastic, there was also a trunk.”

“There was.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely. And it was empty. Mr. Speciale himself had us carry it down there. He’d used it to bring some stuff from Germany. And since it was half broken and had become almost unusable, he had it put in the living room downstairs instead of throwing it away. He said he might need it later on.”

“Tell me the names of the two masons who were the last to work on the house.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then you’d better call your lawyer,” said Montalbano. “Because I’m going to accuse you of being an accessory to—”

“But I really don’t remember!”

“I’m sorry for you, but—”

“Can I make a call to Dipasquale?”

“Who’s he?”

“A foreman.”

“The same one you called earlier?”

“Yes. That’s him, Dipasquale. He was the foreman when we built Speciale’s house.”

“Go ahead and call, but remember: Don’t say anything that might compromise you. Don’t forget about the phone taps.”

Spitaleri dug out his cell phone and dialed a number.

“Hello, ’Ngilino? ’Ss me. Do you by any chance remember the names of the masons who worked for us six years ago, on the construction of the house at Pizzo, in Marina di Montereale? No? So what am I supposed to do? It’s Inspector Montalbano who wants to know. Oh, yes, that’s true, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Listen, before I forget, would you give me Angelo Dipasquale’s cell phone number? Fazio, write it down.”

Spitaleri dictated it to him.

“So?” Montalbano pressed him.

“Dipasquale can’t remember the names of the masons. But they’re definitely in my office somewhere. Can I go get them?”

“Go right ahead.”

The developer stood up and nearly ran to the door.

“Wait a minute. Fazio’s going with you and will bring the names and addresses back to me.You, meanwhile, have to remain available.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you are not to leave the Vigàta area. If you need to go anywhere farther away, you must let me know. Speaking of which, do you remember where you were flying to on the twelfth of October?”

“I . . . to Bangkok.”

“You really like fresh meat, eh?”

The moment Spitaleri and Fazio went out, Montalbano phoned Spitaleri’s foreman. He didn’t want to give the developer time to talk to him and get their stories straight.

“Dipasquale? Inspector Montalbano here. How long would it take you to come down to the Vigàta police station from your worksite?”

“Half an hour, at the most. But it’s no use asking me, ’cause I can’t come now. I’m working.”

“I’m working, too. And my work involves telling you to come here now.”

“I repeat, I can’t.”

“What do you say I send somebody to get you in one of our cars with sirens blaring, right in front of all your men?”

“But what do you want from me?”

“Just come, and I’ll satisfy your curiosity. You’ve got twenty-five minutes.”

 

 

 

It took him twenty-two minutes flat to get there. To save time, he hadn’t even changed clothes. He was still in his lime-stained overalls. Dipasquale was about fifty, with hair entirely white but a black moustache. Short and stocky, he never looked at the person he was speaking to, and when he did, he had a troubled gaze.

“I don’t understand why first you called Mr. Spitaleri about that Arab, and then you called me about the house at Pizzo.”

“I didn’t call you about the house at Pizzo.”

“Oh, no? Why’d you call me, then?”

“About the death of that Arab mason. What was his name?”

“I don’t remember. But it was an accident! The guy was completely drunk! Those people start drinking first thing in the morning, every day! Never mind Saturday! In fact, Inspector Lupuzone concluded that—”

“Forget about my colleague’s conclusions. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“But I already told the judge and the inspector—”

“The third time’s a charm.”

“Oh, all right. At five-thirty that Saturday, we finished working and went home.Then, on Monday morning—”

“Stop right there. Didn’t you notice that the Arab wasn’t there?”

“No.What am I supposed to do, take roll call?”

“Who closes up the worksite?”

“The watchman. Filiberto. Filiberto Attanasio.”

But when they came in and caught Spitaleri talking on the phone, hadn’t he said that very name, Filiberto?

“Why do you need a watchman? Don’t you pay for protection?”

“There’s always some young drug addict that might—”

“I see.Where can I find him?”

“Filiberto? He’s also the watchman at the site we’re working at now. In fact, he sleeps there.”

“In the open air?”

“No, there’s a prefab made out of corrugated tin.”

“Tell me the exact location of this construction site.”

Dipasquale told him.

“Go on.”

“But I’ve already told you everything I know! We found him dead on Monday morning. He fell from the scaffolding on the third floor. He’d climbed over the protective railing, drunk as a skunk. It was an accident, I tell you!”

“For now, we’ll stop here.”

“So I can go now?”

“In just a minute. Were you there when the work was completed?”

Dipasquale balked.

“But the construction in Montelusa’s still not finished!”

“I’m talking about the house at Pizzo.”

“But didn’t you say you called me in to talk about the Arab?”

“I just changed my mind. Is that all right with you?”

“Do I have any choice?”

“You know, of course, that a whole floor was built illegally at Pizzo?”

Dipasquale looked neither surprised nor concerned.

“Of course I know. But I was just following orders.”

“Do you know what the word ‘accomplice’ means?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then tell me.”

“Well, there’s accomplice and accomplice.To call helping somebody build an illegal floor on a house an accomplice is like calling a pinprick a fatal injury.”

He even knew how to debate, did the foreman.

“Did you stay at Pizzo until the work was completed?”

“No, Mr. Spitaleri transferred me to Fela four days before, ’cause they were just finishing setting up another construction site there. But everything was just about done at Pizzo.We only had to seal off the illegal floor and cover it up with sand. That was easy work, there wasn’t no need of supervisors. I remember I hired two masons, but I forget their names. Like I said to Spitaleri, you can find those names by looking—”

“Yes, Spitaleri went to look for them. Listen, do you know if Mr. Speciale stayed until the work was finished?”

“He was there as long as I was there.And that crazy stepson of his was there, too, that German kid.”

“Why did you call him crazy?”

“Because he was.”

“What did he do that was so unusual?”

“He could stand on ’is head for an hour straight with his feet in the air. An’ he used to get down on all fours and eat grass like a sheep.”

“Is that all?”

“When nature called, he would drop his pants and do it right in front of everybody without feeling embarrassed.”

“But nowadays there are a lot of people like him, no? They call themselves nature-lovers, with good reason, I guess . . . All things considered, it doesn’t seem to me like this German was so crazy.”

“Wait. One day he went down to the beach, it was summertime and there were people there, and he got it in his head to strip down bare-naked and start chasing a girl wit’ ’is dick hanging out and all.”

“So what happened?”

“It turned out a couple of young guys who was there grabbed him and busted his head.”

Maybe Ralf had got it in his head to pretend he was Mallarmé’s faun. But what the foreman was saying was very interesting.

“Do you know of any other episodes like this one?”

“Yes. They told me he did the same thing with another young girl he met on the path that leads from the provincial road to Pizzo.”

“What did he do?”

“Soon as he saw her, he took off all his clothes and started chasing her.”

“And how did the girl get away?”

“Well, just then Mr. Spitaleri drove by in his car.”

Just the right man at the right moment! A whole slew of clichés came into Montalbano’s head: from the frying pan into the fire, between a rock and a hard place . . . He felt irked at himself for having such obvious thoughts.

“Listen, I suppose Mr. Speciale knew about his stepson’s exploits?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“And what did he say about it?”

“Nothing. He would start laughing. He said the kid had his moments in Germany, too, but was harmless. All he wanted to do to the girls was kiss ’em, that’s what Mr. Speciale told us. But what I want to know is this: Why’d the blessed kid need to take off all his clothes if all he wanted to do is kiss the girls?”

“All right, you can go now. But make yourself available to us.”

Dipasquale had spontaneously offered him Ralf ’s head on a platter not silver but gold. Especially since the foreman, thus far, knew nothing about the murdered girl he’d found. So Montalbano had an embarrassment of riches to choose from, as far as sex maniacs went: Spitaleri and Ralf. There were just two little problems.The young German had disappeared on his way back to Germany, and on that terrible twelfth of October, Spitaleri was traveling.

7

Just to kill some time while waiting for Fazio to return, he decided to phone Forensics.

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Arquà. Montalbano here.”

“Please hold.”

He had enough time for a leisurely review of the multiplication tables of six, seven, eight, and nine.

“Inspector Montalbano? I’m sorry, but Dr. Arquà is engaged at the moment.”

“And when will he be disengaged?”

“Please call back in about ten minutes.”

Engaged? Right, to be married to his dog. The fucking asshole was playing hard to get. Getting precious. But how precious could an asshole get? And can an asshole increase in value?

 

 

 

He got up, left the room and, when passing by Catarella, said:

“I’m gonna go have a coffee at the port. I’ll be right back.”

Once outside, he realized there was no way. In the parking lot the heat was similar to what one feels when standing in front of a blazing fireplace. He touched the handle on the car door and burned himself. Cursing the saints, he went back inside. Catarella looked bewildered and glanced at his watch. He couldn’t figure out how the inspector had managed to go to the port, drink a coffee, and come back in such a short time.

“Catarella, go make me a cup of coffee.”

“Anutter one, Chief? Din’t you juss have one? ’Ss not good to drink too much coffee.”

“You’re right. Forget about it.”

 

 

 

“I’d like to speak with Dr.Arquà, if he’s been disengaged, that is. Montalbano here, same as before.”

“Please hold.”

No multiplication tables this time, but a few laborious attempts at singing a tune that must have been by the Rolling Stones, then another that was probably by the Beatles but came out almost the same as the first because he didn’t exactly have perfect pitch.

“Inspector Montalbano? Dr.Arquà is still engaged. If you want, try calling back—”

“—in about ten minutes, I know, I know.”

But why was he wasting all this time on an imbecile who was surely enjoying making him wait? He rolled up two sheets of paper into a ball and stuck it in his mouth.Then he pinched his nostrils shut with a binder clip and redialed the forensic lab’s number. He spoke with a slight Tuscan accent.

“This is Plenipotentiary Minister and Supervisor General Gianfilippo Maradona. Please get me Dr. Arquà at once.”

“Right away, your excellency.”

Montalbano spit out the ball of paper and removed the clamp. Half a minute later, Arquà came on the line.

“Good day, your excellency, what can I do for you?”

“Excuse me, why are you calling me ‘your excellency’? This is Montalbano.”

“But I was told that—”

“But you can keep calling me that, I rather like it.”