The Shape of Water Read Free Page A

Inspector, what’s new in the chicken coop?”
    Knowing Gallo’s driving habits, Montalbano admonished him, “Don’t speed. We’re in no hurry.”
    At the curve by the Carmelite church, Peppe Gallo could no longer restrain himself and accelerated, screeching the tires as he rounded the bend. They heard a loud crack, like a pistol shot, and the car skidded to a halt. They got out. The right rear tire hung flabbily, blown out. It had been well worked over by a sharp blade; the cuts were quite visible.
    “Goddamn sons of bitches!” bellowed the sergeant.
    Montalbano got angry in earnest.
    “But you all know they cut our tires twice a month! Jesus! And every morning I remind you: don’t forget to check them before going out! But you ass-holes don’t give a shit! And you won’t until the day somebody breaks his neck!”
    For one reason or another, it took a good ten minutes to change the tire, and when they got to the Pasture, the Montelusa crime lab team was already there. They were in what Montalbano called the meditative stage, that is, five or six agents circling round and round the spot where the car stood, hands usually in their pockets or behind their backs. They looked like philosophers absorbed in deep thought, but in fact their eyes were combing the ground for clues, traces, footprints. As soon as Jacomuzzi, head of the crime lab, saw Montalbano, he came running up.
    “How come there aren’t any newsmen?”
    “I didn’t want any.”
    “Well, this time they’re going to accuse you of trying to cover up a big story.” He was clearly upset. “Do you know who the dead man is?”
    “No. Who?”
    “None other than ‘the engineer,’ Silvio Luparello.”
    “Shit!” was Montalbano’s only comment.
    “And do you know how he died?”
    “No. And I don’t want to know. I’ll have a look at him myself.”
    Offended, Jacomuzzi went back to his men. The lab photographer had finished, and now it was Dr. Pasquano’s turn. Montalbano noticed that the coroner was forced to work in an uncomfortable position, his body half inside the car, wiggling his way toward the passenger seat, where a dark silhouette could be seen. Fazio and the Vigàta officers were giving a hand to their Montelusa colleagues. The inspector lit a cigarette and turned to look at the chemical factory. That ruin fascinated him. He decided he would come back one day to take a few snapshots, which he’d send to Livia to explain some things about himself and his island that she was still unable to understand.
    Lo Bianco’s car pulled up and the judge stepped out, looking agitated.
    “Is it really Luparello?” he asked.
    Apparently Jacomuzzi had wasted no time.
    “So it seems.”
    The judge joined the lab group and began speaking excitedly with Jacomuzzi and Dr. Pasquano, who in the meantime had extracted a bottle of rubbing alcohol from his briefcase and was disinfecting his hands. After a good while, long enough for Montalbano to broil in the sun, the men from the lab got back in their cars and left. As he passed Montalbano, Jacomuzzi said nothing. Behind him, the inspector heard an ambulance siren wind down. It was his turn now. He’d have to do the talking and acting; there was no escape. He shook himself from the torpor in which he was stewing and walked toward the car with the dead man inside. Halfway there, the judge blocked his path.
    “The body can be removed now. And considering poor Luparello’s notoriety, the quicker we do it the better. In any case, keep me posted daily as to how the investigation develops.”
    He paused a moment, and then, to make the words he’d just said a little less peremptory:
    “Give me a ring when you think it’s appropriate,” he added.
    Another pause. Then:
    “During office hours, of course.”
    He walked away. During office hours, not at home. At home, it was well known, Judge Lo Bianco was busy penning a stuffy, puffy book, The Life and Exploits of Rinaldo and Antonio Lo Bianco, Masters of