The Potter's Field

He went into his office, locked the door behind him, sat down at his desk, dug Mimì’s letter out of his pocket, and read it one more time.

The previous evening, when he had started mulling over Mimì’s words, he was struck by two things. The first was the tone, and the second . . .

The second had slipped his mind because Ingrid had woken up. And even now, try as he might, he could not recall it.

And so he took a ballpoint pen and a clean sheet of paper without letterhead, thought things over a bit, and started writing.

7

Dear Mimì,

I have read your letter very carefully.

It did not surprise me, given your attitude over the last few weeks.

I even understand, in part, your reasons for writing it.

And thus I am (almost) convinced I should meet you halfway.

But don’t you think that asking me for total freedom and autonomy in investigating the

critaru

case, of all things, might be a mistake on your part?

You know I consider you a skillful, intelligent detective. But this seems to me the sort of case that might stymie a policeman even better than the two of us put together.

If I hesitate to turn it over to you, it is precisely because I am your friend.

Because, were you to fail, it would create endless complications, and not only in our personal relations.

Think it over.

At any rate, if your mind remains unchanged, allow me a few days to decide.

With unwavering affection,

Salvo

He reread the letter. It seemed perfect to him.

It would help keep Mimì in line for a few days, while the inspector awaited the results of Ingrid’s surveillance. And it gave him no reason to get angry and pull any more stupid stunts.

He got up, opened the door, and called Galluzzo.

“Listen, do me a favor and type up this letter. Then put it in an envelope and write: ‘For Inspector Domenico Augello / Personal and Confidential’ on it. Then deliver it to him. Is he in his office?”

Galluzzo only gawked at him, bewildered. No doubt he was wondering why Montalbano and Augello had suddenly decided to use him as their personal secretary.

“He hasn’t come in yet.”

“Give it to him as soon as he arrives.”

But Galluzzo made no move to leave the room. He clearly felt torn.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Well, yes, Chief. Could you tell me why you, too, are having me type up a letter?”

“So that you know exactly how things stand. You’ve read the one Mimì wrote to me, and now you can read my reply,” he said sharply—so sharply that Galluzzo reacted.

“Excuse me for saying so, Chief, but I don’t understand. First of all, you can’t type up a letter without reading it. And, second of all, after I know how things stand between the two of you, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“I don’t know. You decide.”

“Chief, you’ve got me all wrong,” said Galluzzo, offended. “I’m not the kind of guy who goes around telling everybody and his dog what goes on in here.”

Montalbano felt Galluzzo was being sincere and immediately regretted what he’d said. But the damage had been done. Directly or indirectly, Mimì Augello was sowing discord and resentment in his police department. The problem had to be resolved as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, he could only hope that Ingrid would manage to discover something.

“Catarella! Ring Forensics for me and get Dr. Arquà on the line!”

“Hello,” said Arquà after a spell.

“Montalbano here. You asked for me?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to prove to you that I am a gentleman and you are a boor.”

“An impossible task.”

“Professor Lomascolo called me from Palermo ahead of time with the results of his examination of the dental bridge. Interested?”

“Yes.”

“It took him only an hour, he said, to be absolutely certain that this kind of bridge was commonly used in South America until a few years ago. Happy?”

The inspector said nothing. What the hell was the little shit getting at?

“I made a point of letting you know at once,” Arquà continued, shooting the venom from his tail. “I hope you’re able, with your usual acumen, to find the right dentist among the million or more practicing in that part of the world. Bye.”

Fucker. Actually, no: motherfucking son of a bitch. Actually, no: motherfucking son of a stinking whore.