The Shape of Water Read Online Free PDF Page A

Luparello. But these always remained rumors, voices in the air and on the wind. Some even said that Rizzo was a liaison between Luparello and the Mafia, and on this very subject the inspector had once managed to read a confidential report that spoke of currency smuggling and money laundering. Suspicions, of course, and nothing more, since they were never given a chance to be substantiated; every authorization request for an investigation had been lost in the labyrinths of that same courthouse the engineer’s father had designed and built.
     
 
At lunchtime Montalbano phoned the Montelusa flying squad and asked to speak with Corporal Ferrara. She was the daughter of an old schoolmate of his who had married young, an attractive, sharp-witted girl who every now and then, for whatever reason, would try to seduce him.
    “Anna? I need you.”
    “What? I don’t believe it.”
    “Do you have a couple of free hours this afternoon?”
    “I’ll get them, Inspector. Always at your service, night and day. At your beck and call, even, or if you like, at your whim.”
    “Good. I’ll come and pick you up in Montelusa, at your house, around three.”
    “This must be happiness.”
    “Oh, and, Anna, wear feminine clothes.”
    “Spike heels and slit dress, that sort of thing?”
    “I just meant not in uniform.”
    Punctually, at the second honk, Anna came out the front door in skirt and blouse. She didn’t ask any questions and limited herself to kissing Montalbano on the cheek. Only when the car turned onto one of the three small byways that led from the provincial road to the Pasture did she speak.
    “Um, if you want to fuck, let’s go to your house. I don’t like it here.”
    At the Pasture there were only two or three cars, but the people inside them clearly did not belong to Gegè Gullotta’s evening shift. They were students, boys and girls, married lovers who had nowhere else to go. Montalbano took the little road to the end, not stopping until the front tires were already sinking into the sand. The large shrub next to which Luparello’s BMW had been found was on their left but could not be reached by that route.
    “Is that where they found him?” asked Anna.
    “Yes.”
    “What are you looking for?”
    “I’m not sure. Let’s get out.”
    As they headed toward the water’s edge, Montalbano put his arm around her waist and pressed her toward him; she rested her head on his shoulder, smiling. She now understood why the inspector had invited her along: it was all an act. Together they would look like a pair of lovers who had found a place to be alone at the Pasture. In their anonymity they would arouse no curiosity.
    What a son of a bitch! she thought. He doesn’t give a shit about my feelings for him.
    At a certain point Montalbano stopped, his back to the sea. The shrub was in front of them, about a hundred yards away as the crow flies. There could be no doubt: the BMW had come not by way of the small roads but from the beach side and had stopped after circling toward the bush, its nose facing the old factory; that is, in the exact opposite position to that which all the other cars coming off the provincial road had to take, there being absolutely no room in which to maneuver. Anyone who wanted to return to the provincial road had no choice but to go back up the byways in reverse. Montalbano walked another short distance, his arm still around Anna, his head down: he could find no tire tracks; the sea had erased everything.
    “So what now?”
    “First I have to call Fazio. Then I’ll take you back home.”
    “Inspector, may I tell you something in all honesty?”
    “Of course.”
    “You’re an asshole.”

4
    “Inspector? Pasquano here. Where the hell have you been hiding? I’ve been looking for you for three hours, and at headquarters they couldn’t tell me anything.”
    “Are you angry at me, Doctor?”
    “At you? At the whole stinking universe!”
    “What have they done to you?”
    “They forced