Game of Mirrors (18 page)

“Could you give us a couple of examples?”

“Well, he made an anonymous telephone call to a well-known journalist and made no effort to camouflage his very recognizable voice, and he went personally, in his own Mercedes, to the killing of Arturo Tallarita, not bothering to mask the license plate . . . These blunders were so gross that I wonder how his bosses can still have faith in such a wreck of a man.”

“And what, in your opinion—provided you’re allowed to tell us—what was the motive behind these two savage murders?”

“Well, Arturo Tallarita fell in love with the married Liliana Lombardo, who was also in love with him. And
their affair did not go down well with Nicotra. He did everything in his power to separate the two lovers—wrecking the engine of Signora Lombardo’s car, trying even to have her shot, but the bullet missed. . . .

“Finally, in exasperation, he had both of them murdered in particularly cruel fashion. Inexplicable behavior. Or perhaps it can be explained, since at first he was only trying to get the woman. But such matters are beyond my competence.”

“Are you trying to tell me Nicotra saw Signora Lombardo as a rival?”

“I repeat that is not within my competence to plumb the depths of the soul of a multiple murderer like Carlo Nicotra, but that is one of the possible explanations.”

“How is it that there has been no news of Signora Lombardo’s husband?”

“I don’t know the answer to that. But since he works as the representative of a large computer company—and in fact there are still a few computers at his house—and travels a great deal, it’s possible he still doesn’t know what happened to his wife. We’re hoping he comes forward as soon as possible.”

He’d taken care of Nicotra. After saying what he said, it was unlikely the Sinagras would pull out all the stops to defend him. They had no more use now for Nicotra; indeed, they might even consider him a risk. Better to let him rot in the bowels of some prison. And he’d quite purposely thrown down the trump card by insinuating that Nicotra might prefer boys, a sin that his bosses would never forgive.

After the interview, he phoned Fazio again.

“I’ll be back at the office in half an hour at the most. I want Mimì Augello there, too, so I can explain to him how we narrowed things down to Carlo Nicotra. He’ll be the one to escort him to the prosecutor’s office. And have a television with a DVD player ready on my desk.”

Then, turning to Zito:

“Could you make me a copy of the interview?”

He was parking in the station’s lot when Fazio, who had apparently been waiting for him, came and opened the car door.

“What is it?”

“Zaccaria the lawyer’s here. He’s in the waiting room. He was obviously sent by the Sinagras.”

Michele Zaccaria, elected to Parliament in the majority party by a landslide in the last elections, was the top
lawyer of the Sinagra family. He was very good at his job, one of the best. He’d come just in the nick of time.

“Did you find a video monitor and a DVD player?”

“Yup.”

They went into the office. Montalbano took a video disk out of his pocket and handed it to Fazio.

“See if this works.”

“What is it?”

“An interview I did with Zito.”

“And why do you want us to see it?”

“You’ll understand as soon as you see it.”

They set up the chairs in such a way that Augello, Fazio, Nicotra, and the defense counsel Zaccaria could watch the show. Montalbano himself wasn’t interested in the video. He wanted to enjoy another, much more interesting show, the one put on by Nicotra’s and Zaccaria’s faces as they watched the interview.

“Okay, bring ’em all in.”

Carlo Nicotra, a tiny man of about sixty with fine features and extremely well groomed, a sort of cross between a chief physician and a ministerial division head, was known to be a cold-blooded fish. They said he never, under any circumstance, lost his cool. Indeed he didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable and acted as if he were among friends.

Montalbano and Zaccaria greeted each other with a barely perceptible nod of the head. After everyone had sat down, the inspector turned to the lawyer and began to speak.

“Let me start by saying that there will be no interrogation at this time. I consider it unnecessary. However, before turning the suspect over to the public prosecutor, I feel duty bound to have him listen to an interview I gave today that will be broadcast on the evening news tonight and on subsequent news reports.”

Nicotra, who was certainly surprised but didn’t let it
show, limited himself to whispering something in his counsel’s ear, to which the lawyer responded by doing the same.

“Does either of you have any objections to the viewing?” Montalbano asked.

“None whatsoever,” the lawyer replied.

The inspector gestured to Fazio to begin.

When he heard himself being called a “wreck,” Nicotra’s face turned as red as a beet and he squirmed in his chair. But at the point in the video where Montalbano insinuated that he might be in love with Arturo Tallarita, he suddenly emitted a sort of lionlike roar, stood up, and lunged at the inspector, but Fazio grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to sit back down.

“Can we go back a ways?” the lawyer asked, cool as a cucumber. “In all the confusion I missed something.”

He seemed quite interested. Nicotra, on the other hand, kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

“All right,” Montalbano said when it was over. “Now Inspector Augello is going to accompany the suspect to the prosecutor’s office. Have a good day.”

“Just a moment,” said the lawyer Zaccaria. “Since I have another urgent engagement, an associate of mine, Barrister Cusumano, will accompany Signor Nicotra to the prosecutor’s office in my place. So I ask you please, Inspector, to wait for my colleague to get here before sending these men away. All right?”

“All right,” said Montalbano.

“Thank you, and good-bye,” said Zaccaria, practically running out of the room.

“Fazio, take him to a holding cell and then come back.”

As soon as he was alone with Augello, the inspector started laughing. Mimì looked at him darkly.

“What’s so funny? I didn’t see the point of the interview.”

“You didn’t either? Let’s wait for Fazio to return, and then I’ll explain.”

Fazio returned.

“Now I get it!” he exclaimed.

“Then if you would be so kind as to share some of your wisdom with a poor ignoramus . . .” said Augello, getting more and more irritated.

“Mimì,” said Montalbano. “What can be gathered from this interview is, first of all, that I come off as a first-class asshole who still doesn’t have a fucking clue as to the true motive of the double murder—that is, drugs. And that’s why the good lawyer dashed off to inform the Sinagras of my ignorance. Their next move will be to show that I’m right, and that Nicotra has always been gay. Is that clear now?”

“When you put it that way, yes, it’s clear. But for what purpose?”

“Wait. Secondly, in the interview I also blurted out that there were still a few of Lombardo’s computers and printers at the house. As Fazio must have told you, those
are simply containers for cocaine. But I pretended not to know that. And by way of conclusion, I would bet the family jewels that that house is going to be mobbed tonight.”

“I’m beginning to understand,” said Augello. “You’re setting a trap for Lombardo.”

“Lombardo’s at the top of the list. Knowing that Nicotra’s behind bars, he’ll feel safe and will rush back to recover the merchandise before the court sequesters everything in the house. But the trap’s not only for him.”

“So for who else, then?”

“For the Sinagras, of course. I would say they’re practically obligated to get those computers and printers out of there without wasting another minute. That is, before I discover what’s inside them. Because if I never find out, then they’re completely out of the picture. But if I do, they’re in it up to their necks. Got it now?”

“Got it,” said Augello.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Fazio.

“Simple,” said the inspector. “The interview will be aired three times this evening: at eight, at ten, and at midnight. I’m one hundred percent convinced that Lombardo is lurking nearby. But he won’t show up before two a.m., when the traffic on the main road becomes scarce. And the Sinagras will also come out around the same time. I want two teams. One on the sea side of the house under your command, Mimì, and one on the land side, directed by Fazio. You’ll go on duty at midnight.”

“And what about you?” asked Mimì.

“Around the same time, I’ll go into the Lombardo house and lie in wait in the small room with the computers.”

“Wait a second,” said Mimì. “Let’s make sure we’re on the same page. When am I supposed to intervene?”

“If it’s Lombardo, let him enter the house and I’ll deal with him. If, on the other hand, it’s the Sinagras’ men, arrest them the moment they set foot inside,” said Montalbano.

“But how will we tell it’s them?” asked Mimì. “It’s not as if they’ll be wearing name tags.”

“Look, Lombardo has the keys to the house and will be alone. He’ll surely come in through the front door. The Sinagras, on the other hand, will send at least two men, and they’ll try to enter through the back, on the beach side, where it’s safer. They’ll have to remove a few of the planks to enter through the boarded-up French door.”

“And how will we communicate to you when someone is approaching?” asked Fazio.

“I’ll bring a cell phone. Set it so that it doesn’t ring but just vibrates. That’ll be enough for me,” said the inspector.

At that moment Catarella rang to announce the arrival of the lawyer Musulmano. Who naturally was Cusumano.

“I’m going home to Marinella. You can call me, if necessary, up until midnight.”

“Bring your weapon with you,” Fazio advised him before leaving the room.

The first thing the inspector did when he got home was to turn on the television. The Free Channel was airing his interview. Then he switched to TeleVigàta. Pippo Ragonese was in the process of commenting on the news item of the day, the arrest of Carlo Nicotra. Poor Zito hadn’t managed to scoop anyone with the story. Apparently the Sinagras had wasted no time informing TeleVigàta of the new development.

 . . . it was probably his insane passion that drove Nicotra
to murder the two lovers with such ferocity. Arturo Tallarita
was brought to the place of his execution in the trunk
of Nicotra’s own Mercedes, taken out, goat-tied with a
thin steel chain, and put in the backseat of Lombardo’s
Suzuki, which was then drenched in gasoline and set on
fire. Nicotra wanted to enjoy the horrific spectacle to the
bitter end, as the young man struggled to free himself of
the chain, merely killing himself slowly while the flames
attacked his flesh . . . What words can describe such terrible
agony? We will do everything possible to keep you
informed of this atrocity . . .

The inspector prayed that Signora Tallarita wasn’t watching TV and turned it off. Everything was going as planned. The Sinagras had abandoned Nicotra to his destiny. And therefore, in order to keep what Ragonese
called the “insane passion” thesis alive and safe from any evidence to the contrary, they had to get their hands on the computers and printers in the Lombardo house.

He went and opened the refrigerator. There was nothing. In the oven, however, he found a casserole of
pasta ’ncasciata
and a nice platter of fried shrimp and calamari. A special treat.

He set the table on the veranda and enjoyed the beautiful evening and good food, taking his time with everything.

Later, he cleared the table, washed up, and rang Livia.

“Since I have to go out later—”

“Where are you going?”

The whole thing was too complicated to explain.

“To the movies.”

“With whom?”

There was a note of alarm in her voice. Surely she thought he was going out with a woman.

“You skipped a line of dialogue.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain. If somebody says they’re going to the movies, the next line is supposed to be: ‘To see what?’ ‘With whom,’ if anything, would be the line you’d say after that.”

“I don’t care what film you’re going to see; I care about who you’re going with.”

“I’m going by myself.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A spat was inevitable.

At half past ten, Mimì Augello rang.

“I’m on my way back to Vigàta. Tommaseo interrogated Nicotra and locked him up. He’ll resume the questioning tomorrow morning at nine. Any news at your end?”

“Not a thing.”

“All right, then I’ll go directly to the station. See you tonight, Salvo.”

Montalbano sat down in the armchair and started watching a film he’d seen before and liked.

The second time around he liked it even more, and he was so engrossed in it that the ringing of the telephone made him start.

It was Fazio.

“Everything okay, Chief? My team’s heading out to Marinella now.”

The inspector looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes to midnight.

“What about Augello?”

“He’s already left, about twenty minutes ago. He worked something out with the Harbor Office—got them to give him a motorized dinghy.”

It was time for Montalbano to get moving as well. He took a good long shower, then put on just a pair of jeans and a shirt. It was too hot to wear anything else. He made a pot of coffee and filled a thermos with it. He took his pistol, stuck it in his waistband, then grabbed his keys and a flashlight. He looked around for his cell phone but couldn’t find it. He started cursing the saints. At last he found it under a newspaper, put it in his shirt pocket, and went out of the house with the thermos in his hand. This time there was no need to wear gloves.

After removing the seals from the front door, he opened it, went inside, and closed the door behind him, hoping no one had seen him from the main road. Once inside, he opened the bedroom window, climbed over the sill, and jumped into the yard. He must have landed badly on his left foot, because he felt a sharp pain in his ankle.

He ran limping to the front door, put the seals back on, climbed back through the window, closed it, went and opened the little room, entered, then locked the door from the inside with a skeleton key.

Lombardo mustn’t suspect anything.

The small room was the same as the last time he’d been in it. The computers and printers were still in their places.

He sat down on the little bed, turned off the flashlight, and started massaging his foot in the dark, thinking bitterly that his days as an athlete were behind him.

He’d dozed off without realizing it, despite all the coffee he’d drunk. Sitting still on a cot in the darkness and total silence induced sleep. The vibration of his cell phone thus had the effect of an electrical charge on him, almost making him fall off the bed. He turned the flashlight on for a split second: it was two thirty. He grabbed his pistol, cocked it, and kept his eyes fixed and ears pricked in the direction of the door, which he couldn’t see.

Then he heard someone walking softly in the hallway. The man hadn’t made a sound coming in. Or at least Montalbano hadn’t heard anything. The door handle turned with a sort of squeak, but the door didn’t open, since it was locked.

Then something incredible happened.

Somebody knocked lightly with his knuckles, and a polite voice said:

“Inspector Montalbano, would you please open the door for me? I lost the key for this room.”

Montalbano froze, paralyzed. The voice, which had a slight Veneto accent, continued.

“I assure you I’m unarmed,” it said.

What had the cleaning woman said? That Lombardo always carried a revolver. The inspector didn’t trust him. Moving about in the dark, he went and flattened himself against the wall beside the door; then, holding the pistol in his left hand, he reached out with his right and, still
keeping himself covered, stuck the key in the door and turned it, standing immediately aside.

“You can come in.”

He held the shining flashlight in one hand and the gun in the other.

The door opened slowly and Adriano Lombardo appeared. He had his hands up.

He was tall, blond, and good-looking. And perfectly calm.

“How did you know I was here?” Montalbano asked him.

“No offense, but your trap was too naïve.”

“So why did you come?”

“Simple. To turn myself in. I was abandoned some time ago by the Cuffaros, and now the Sinagras’ men are after me. I’m better off in jail. I haven’t killed anyone, after all.”

“Why do you say the Cuffaros abandoned you?”

“They immediately realized that the plan to take over the Sinagras’ drug circuit was too difficult, and so they left me on my own.”

It was an absurd situation. They were chatting like two old acquaintances in a café.

At that moment they heard a sudden racket in the area of the veranda. It must have been the Sinagras’ men breaking down the planks. Then they heard a voice say:

“So where the fuck is this little room?”

Heavy footsteps were heard in the dining room. But
why wasn’t Mimì intervening? Montalbano went out into the hallway, saw the beam of a flashlight coming towards him, and fired. The flashlight went out, and a voice cried:

“Turì, take cover!”

There must have been at least two of them. Montalbano and Lombardo couldn’t let themselves be trapped in the room. The inspector flopped belly down on the floor and fired another shot. But what the hell was Mimì waiting for? Inside the room, meanwhile, Lombardo had moved the bed and was busy doing something he couldn’t figure out. The Sinagras’ men were on the move, perhaps preparing to mount an assault.