The Potter's Field

“My dear Salvo, somebody took great care to get rid of every last trace. A perfect job, professional. And you don’t seem surprised. Did you expect as much?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see now if I can surprise you with some other news. Inside the bathroom ceiling, right over the sink, there’s a trapdoor.”

“It’s not visible in the photo you sent.”

“That’s because the shot’s not taken from the right angle. Anyway, I climbed a little stepladder and opened it. There’s a small sort of attic there, and I found an empty suitcase and a shoebox.”

“Which am I supposed to be surprised by, the suitcase or the shoebox?”

“The shoebox. It was also empty, but I noticed, on the bottom, a trace of some white powder, which I had tested.”

“Cocaine.”

“That’s right. And that’s why I had to inform the public prosecutor.”

“I understand. Thanks, Macannuco. I’ll be in touch.”

He went back inside. Fazio was sitting in the armchair. Dolores still hadn’t returned from the bathroom.

“What did Macannuco say?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Dolores came into the room. She had washed and changed her clothes. But she hadn’t recovered her vivacity. She looked withered. In her movements, her way of walking, and her eyes. She sat down with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, but I feel very tired.”

“We’ll be leaving right away, signora,” said the inspector. “But first I must ask you at least one question, which could be helpful to the investigation. Very helpful. I know it’s painful for you to be asked at a time like this to remember the past, but I have no choice.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you meet your husband?”

The question shocked Fazio, who looked at Montalbano with surprise. Signora Dolores winced before answering, as if from a shooting pain.

“He came to my father’s office.”

“In Bogotá?”

“No, we were in Putumayo.”

Putumayo. The biggest drug production center in Colombia. Filippo Alfano had gone to the right place.

“The nurse had been absent for several days,” Dolores continued, “and my father asked me to fill in for her.”

“Your father was a doctor?”

“A dentist.”

“And what sort of dental work did Giovanni need?”

She smiled at the memory.

“He’d fallen from his motorbike. Papa had to give him a bridge.”

What more did he need to know? Who’s in Grandma’s bed? The big bad wolf. What’s thirty minus two? Twentyeight. He had known for at least the past half hour who the dead man in the critaru was. But the fatigue was now making his legs ache. He got up from the armchair with some effort. Fazio also stood up.

“Thank you, signora. As soon as I have any news, I’ll be sure to tell you.”

“Thank you,” said Dolores.

She didn’t make a scene. Didn’t scratch him, didn’t twist his hand, didn’t grab him by the lapels of his jacket. The woman was dignified, composed, sober. Different. For the first time, the inspector felt genuine admiration for her.

“That woman’s got balls!” Fazio said admiringly once they were on the street. “I was expecting some hair-raising scene from her, and instead she controlled herself even better than a man.”

Montalbano didn’t comment on this comment, but only asked:

“Were you aware that Pasquano, when he did the autopsy on the critaru victim, found a bridge in the stomach?”

Fazio, who was bending down to unlock the car door, stopped halfway and looked up at him, stunned.

“He had a bridge in his stomach?”

“He most certainly did. Apparently, shortly before he was killed, the bridge came unstuck and he swallowed it. But it hadn’t had time to pass through his body.”

Fazio was still bent down halfway.

“And there’s more,” the inspector went on. “The bridge had been made, beyond the shadow of a doubt, by a dentist in South America. Now, you tell me. Who’s in Grandma’s bed?”

“The big bad wolf,” Fazio replied automatically.

But immediately afterwards, he straightened himself abruptly, as the meaning of Montalbano’s words finally penetrated his brain.

“So . . . according to you, the dead man in the critaru—”

“—is Giovanni Alfano. Not according to me, but according to Matthew,” Montalbano concluded. “Anyway, you yourself said that Alfano’s statistics corresponded pretty closely with those of the dead man.”

“Holy shit, you’re right! But, I’m sorry, who’s this Matthew?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“But why would anyone want to kill him?”

“You know what Macannuco told me? First, that all the fingerprints had been perfectly wiped away.”

“Professionals?”

“Apparently. The second thing he said is that they found an empty shoebox with traces of cocaine in it, in a sort of crawl space above the bathroom.”

“Holy shit!”

“Exactly. Which means that, despite the strict surveillance he was under, Alfano was mixed up with drugs. Maybe he was a courier.”

“That seems impossible.”

“Impossible or not, appearances lead us to conclude that those are the facts. So it’s only natural to think that one fine day, following in his father’s footsteps, Giovanni Alfano started behaving inappropriately in the eyes of his work provider.”

“Don Balduccio?”