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models and license plates of the three stolen cars?”
    “No. But if you go into my office, there’s a sheet of paper on the desk with everything written down on it.”
    Fazio was very orderly, almost to a fault, and Montalbano found the page without effort.
    He copied down the information and returned to his office.
    Daewoo CZ 566 RT Dr. Vaccaro.
    Volvo AC 641 RT Lojacono.
    Fiat Panda AV 872 RT Peritore.
    When it came to cars, Montalbano understood about as much as he did about astrophysics, but he was certain that none of these was a luxury model.
    Not five minutes later, Catarella came in and set a sheet of paper down on his desk.
    1) Gemellaro, Angelo, Via Garibaldi 32, Montereale, tel. 0922 4343217.
    Garage: Via Martiri di Belfiore 82. One conviction.
    2) Butticè, Carlo, Via Etna 38, Sicudiana, tel. 0922 469521.
    Garage: Via Gioberti 79. One conviction.
    3) Macaluso, Carlo, Viale Milizie 92, Montelusa, tel. 0922 2376594.
    Garage: Via Saracino (no number). Two convictions.
    There you go: out of three crooks, two were named Carlo. This surely must mean something. Statistics never lied.
    Of course, sometimes statisticians came up with findings fit for the loony bin, but in general . . .
    There wasn’t a minute to lose. The thieves probably hadn’t placed the Peritores’ car anywhere yet.
    “Catarella, get me Prosecutor Tommaseo on the line.”
    He had enough time to review the multiplication table for seven.
    “What can I do for you, Montalbano?”
    “Could I come and talk to you in about twenty minutes?”
    “Sure, come right over.”
    He put the list of the three wreckers in his jacket pocket, called Gallo, and headed for Montelusa in a squad car.
    It took him a good hour to persuade Tommaseo to put a tap on the three telephones.
    Normally whenever anyone brought up phone tapping, the prosecutor would shut down like a hedgehog.
    What if it turned out that a given thief, drug dealer, or pimp was a close friend of a member of parliament? There would be hell to pay for the poor prosecutor.
    The government was therefore trying to push through a law that would make all wiretapping illegal, but luckily they hadn’t succeeded yet.
    Montalbano returned to headquarters satisfied.

    Less than five minutes after he’d sat down at his desk, the telephone rang.
    “Ah, Chief, ’at be yer lady frenn ’at tol’ me as how she’s waitin’ f’yiz inna parkin’ latt, but I quickly sez straightaways ’at you wasn’t here an’ so she—she meanin’ yer lady frenn—sez to me as how she’s gonna wait f’yiz anyways. So whaddouwe do now?”
    “But why’d you tell her I wasn’t here?”
    “’Cuz this mornin’ ’ass whatcha tol’ me ta say.”
    “But it’s not this morning anymore!”
    “’Ass true, Chief. But ya nivver cunnermannit the order. ’N’ so I din’t know if yer diff’rinces wit’ the lady was a timprary or poimanent state o’ fairs.”
    “Listen, go and see where she’s parked.”
    Catarella returned immediately to the phone.
    “She’s right ousside th’intrince gate.”
    The only hope was to attempt an escape under siege.
    “Is the back door of the building unlocked?”
    “Nossir, iss always lacked.”
    “What a fucking pain in the ass! And who has the key?”
    “I do, Chief.”
    “Go and open it.”
    Montalbano got up, traveled all the way across the building, and came to the door, which Catarella was holding open for him.
    He went out onto the street, turned the corner, turned another corner, and came out in front of the gate.
    Upon seeing him, Livia gave a light toot of the horn.
    Montalbano smiled and got into the car.
    “Been waiting long?”
    “Barely five minutes.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “Do you mind if we go home first? I want to take a shower.”

    While Livia was in the bathroom, Montalbano sat out on the veranda, enjoying the evening and smoking a cigarette.
    Livia then appeared, ready to go out.
    “Where do you want to go?” Montalbano asked.
    “You