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

and Fazio saw it, Mr. Picarella, with the complicity of a friend, had staged a little scene, pretending to be kidnapped but in fact heading off for a few months to the Bahamas or the Maldives in the company of his lovely stewardess. Another detail not to be ignored: The passport of Arturo Picarella happened to be in the pocket of the sport coat he put on that fateful night.
    “Inspector,” Signora Ciccina began after she’d been shown in, clearly restraining herself from yelling. “I’m telling you this only to ease my conscience: You should know that I’ve filed a statement with the minister.”
    Montalbano understood not a thing.
    “A statement with the minister?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “About what?”
    “About you.”
    “About me? Why?”
    “Because you are taking the disappearance of my poor husband very lightly!”
    It took him a good hour to persuade her to return home. He swore to a pack of lies, saying that whole squads of policemen, some of them coming from afar, were scouring the countryside looking for Mr. Picarella.

    So much for the sunset. When he got to Marinella, the sun had already long gone down. He flicked on the TV, tuned in to the Free Channel, and immediately saw the photograph of the dead girl’s tattoo on the screen. Nicolò Zito was doing what he had asked him to do.
    Montalbano watched the newscast to the end. Four hundred Third World refugees had come ashore from Lampedusa only to be sent on to concentration—well, “first reception” camps. A branch of the Banca Regionale was robbed by three armed men. A fire had broken out in a supermarket, a clear case of arson. Some poor homeless wretch living on alms was beaten within an inch of his life by five youths who had decided to kill a little time that way. A fourteen-year-old girl was raped by—
    He changed the channel, switching to TeleVigàta. And there was Pippo Ragonese, the political editorialist with a face like a chicken’s ass, speaking.The inspector was about to change the channel again when Ragonese mentioned his name.
    “. . . thanks to the well-known inertia—and there’s no better way to define it, only worse—of Inspector Montalbano, we are certain that this new, horrendous crime discovered at the Salsetto will also remain unsolved. That poor girl’s murderer can sleep peacefully. Also unsolved, to date, is the peculiar kidnapping of businessman Arturo Picarella. And in this regard I cannot refrain from bringing to the attention of our viewers that Mrs. Picarella has complained to us about the discourteous treatment, to say the least, she has received from the above-mentioned Inspector Montalbano—”
    He turned it off and went to open the refrigerator. His heart leapt at the sight of four mullets prepared as God had intended, ready for frying. Pippo Ragonese could go take it you-know-where. Montalbano slid them from the plate into a skillet, which he set over a burner. Then, to avoid a repeat of the previous evening, when Livia’s phone call had sent his meal to the dogs, he ran to unplug the telephone.
    Seated outside on the veranda, he dispatched the mullets, which had come out well but not as crispy as Adelina was capable of making them. Since he still felt a little hungry, he searched the fridge and found half a dish of leftover caponata. Sniffing it carefully, he convinced himself it was all right, took it outside, and wolfed it down.
    He plugged the phone back in.Then he wondered: What if Livia had called and found no one at home? Considering that seas were rough between them—with gale-force winds, in fact—Livia was liable to think that he had disconnected the phone precisely because he didn’t want to hear from her. It was best if he called her first. He dialed her number at Boccadasse, but there was no answer. And so he tried her cell phone.
    “The telephone of the person you are trying to reach may be turned off or—”
    Maybe she’d gone to the movies and would check in later.
    He sat back down on