The Potter's Field

“A little bit later I came back, but with the engine turned off. Mimì’s car was in the yard. He’d gone inside.”

“Did you wait for the woman to arrive?”

“Of course. Until half an hour ago. I never saw her arrive.”

“So what does it mean?”

“Look, Salvo, when I drove past the house the first time, I swear I saw the light on inside. There was already someone there waiting for him.”

“You mean the woman lives there?”

“Not necessarily. Mimì left his car in the yard. He didn’t put it in the little garage next to the house, maybe because the woman had already put her own car in it when she got there earlier.”

“But, Ingrid, the garage might have the woman’s car in it not because she got there shortly before Mimì, but because she lives there.”

“That’s also possible. At any rate, Mimì didn’t knock or ring a bell when he arrived. He opened the gate with a key he already had.”

“Why didn’t you wait a little longer?”

“Because too many people were starting to pass by.”

“Thanks,” said Montalbano.

“Thanks? That’s all?” asked Ingrid.

“Thanks, and that’s all,” said Montalbano.

Before leaving the house just before nine o’clock, the inspector phoned the Antimafia Commission’s Montelusa office.

“Hello, Musante? Montalbano here.”

“Carissimo! What a pleasure to hear from you! What can I do for you?”

“Could I drop by this morning? There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, it shouldn’t take long.”

“Could you come in about an hour? I’ve got a meeting afterwards that—”

“Thanks, see you in a bit.”

He got in his car, and when he was at the abandoned filling station, he did an extremely slow U-turn that unleashed the worst homicidal instincts in the drivers behind him.

“Asshole!”

“Faggot!”

“Blow you away, muthafucka!”

He turned onto the unpaved road, and after a short stretch passed by the fourth house. Windows shuttered, garage door down. The gate, however, was open because an old man was working in the garden, which was well tended. The inspector stopped, parked the car, got out, and started looking at the house.

“Looking for someone?” asked the old man.

“Yes. A Mr. Casanova, who’s supposed to live here.”

“Afraid not, sir. You’re mistaken. Nobody lives here.”

“But who owns the house?”

“Mr. Pecorini. But he only comes here in summertime.”

“Where can I find this Mr. Pecorini?”

“He’s in Catania. Works at the port, at customs.”

He got back in the car and headed for the station. If he got to Montelusa five minutes late, too bad. He parked in the station’s lot but remained in the car, pressed his hand on the horn and did not let up until Catarella appeared in the doorway.

Seeing the inspector in his car, he came running up.

“Whattizzit, Chief? Whass wrong?”

“Fazio around?”

“Yessir.”

“Call’im.”

Fazio arrived like a bat out of hell.

“Fazio, get moving, fast. I want to know everything there is to know about a certain Pecorini who works at customs in the port of Catania.”

“Should I proceed with caution, Chief?”

“Yeah, it’s probably better if you do.”

The local headquarters of the national Antimafia Commission consisted of four offices on the fifth floor of the Montelusa Central Police building. As the elevator was, as usual, out of order, Montalbano started climbing the stairs. Looking up when he’d reached the third floor, he saw Dr. Lattes descending. To avoid the usual hassle of answering his idiotic questions about the family, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, heaving his shoulders as if he were weeping uncontrollably. Dr. Lattes recoiled against the wall and let him pass, not daring to say a word.

“Want some coffee?” asked Musante.

“No, thanks,” said Montalbano.

He didn’t trust what passed for coffee in law enforcement offices.

“So, tell me everything.”

“Well, Musante, I believe I have a homicide on my hands that looks like the work of the Mafia.”

“Stop right there. Answer me a question. In what form are you going to say what you are about to say to me?”

“In trochaic pentameter.”

“C’mon, Montalbano, be serious.”

“Sorry, but I didn’t understand your question.”

“I meant, are you telling me this officially or unofficially?”

“What difference does it make?”

“If it’s official, then I have to write up a transcript; if it’s unofficial, I have to have a witness present.”

“I see.”

Apparently they didn’t take any chances at the Antimafia Commission. Given the ties between the Mafia and the upper echelons of business, industry, and government, it was best to cover one’s ass and proceed with caution.

“Since you’re a friend, I’ll give you a choice of witnesses. Gullotta or Campana?”

“Gullotta.”

The inspector knew him well and liked him.

Musante went out and returned a few minutes later with Gullotta, who smiled as he shook Montalbano’s hand. It was clear he was happy to see him.

“You can go on now,” said Musante.

“I’m referring to the unknown man we found dismembered in a garbage bag. Have you heard about it?”

“Yes,” said Musante and Gulotta in chorus.

“Do you know how he was killed?”

“No,” said the chorus.

“With a bullet to the base of the skull.”