IM11 The Wings of the Sphinx (2009) Read Online Free PDF Page A

yourself!”
    “You’re smoking!”
    “And you call yourself an officer of the law!”
    “When in fact you’re a smoker.”
    He had walked away, letting the two geezers resume breaking each other’s head with their canes.

3
    “Good morning, Inspector,” said the girl at the entrance the moment she saw him walk in.
    “Good morning. Is my friend in?”
    At the Free Channel, Montalbano was one of the family.
    “Yes, he’s in his office.”
    He walked the length of the corridor, reached the last door, and knocked.
    “Come in!”
    He went in. Nicolò Zito looked up from a sheet of paper he was reading, recognized Montalbano, and stood up smiling.
    “Salvo! What a nice surprise!”
    They embraced.
    “How are Taninè and Francesco?” asked the inspector, sitting down on a chair in front of the desk.
    Taninè was Nicolò’s wife, who cooked like an angel when she felt like it. Francesco was their only son.
    “They’re fine, thanks. Francesco’s going to be taking his graduation exams this year.”
    Montalbano balked. Wasn’t it just yesterday he had played cops and robbers with Francesco? And wasn’t it just yesterday that Nicolò had red hair, whereas now it was suddenly all white?
    “And how’s your Livia doing?”
    “She’s fine, in good health.”
    Nicolò was too hip and wise to the facts of Montalbano’s life to be satisfied by his diplomatic reply.
    “Is anything wrong?”
    “Well, let’s say we’re going through a period of crisis.”
    “At age fifty-six, you’re having crises, Montalbà?” said his friend Zito, half ironic, half amused. “Don’t make me laugh! By the time one reaches our age, there’s no turning back.”
    The inspector decided it was best to get immediately to the point.
    “I came—”
    “—to talk about that girl who was killed, I figured that out right away, the moment you entered. What can I do for you?”
    “You need to give me a hand.”
    “I’m at your service, as usual.”
    Montalbano pulled the two photographs out of his pocket and handed them to him.
    “Nobody told us this morning that the girl had this tattoo,” said Nicolò.
    “Now you know. And you’re the only journalist who does.”
    “It’s a very artistic tattoo; the colors of the wings are beautiful,” Zito commented. Then he asked, “You still haven’t identified her?”
    “No.”
    “Tell me what you want me to do.”
    “I want you to air these photos on the evening news and broadcast them again during the evening update and on the late-night edition. We want to know anyone who knew a girl slightly over twenty with this kind of tattoo. You can say that anonymous phone calls are also welcome. Naturally you should give out the telephone number for here.”
    “And why not the police station’s?”
    “Have you any idea of the kind of mess Catarella might create?”
    “Can I say at least that you’re handling the investigation?”
    “Yes, at least until the commissioner takes it away from me.”

    As he was heading back down to Vigàta, he noticed the beginnings of what promised to be one of those sunsets so beautiful as to seem fake or from a picture postcard.
    It seemed best to head home to Marinella and enjoy it from the veranda, rather than to go back to the office. And hadn’t the angler predicted that it would rain for a week? He therefore had to take advantage of this last offering of the season.
    But perhaps it was better to pass by headquarters, stick his head in to inform Catarella, and then cut out. It proved to be the utterly wrong decision.
    “Ah Chief Chief! Iss Signora Picarella!”
    “On the phone?”
    “The phone? She’s right here, Chief! She’s waiting for you!”
    “Tell her I just called and I’m not coming in to the office.”
    “I already tol’ ’er that, Chief, all by m’self, but she said she’s gonna stay here all night if she has to, till you decide to come back!”
    Ugh, what a pain in the ass and then some!
    “Okay, tell you what. I’m going