IM10 August Heat (2008) by Andrea Camilleri Page A

Dr. Pasquano. I don’t feel like doing it myself.”
    “I’ll be right over, Chief.”
    As he was putting on his gloves, Fazio, who’d come with Galluzzo, asked Montalbano:
    “Can I go down and have a look?”
    The inspector was reclining in a deck chair on the terrace, enjoying the sunset.
    “Sure. Be careful not to leave any fingerprints.”
    “You’re not coming?”
    “What for?”
     
     
     
    Half an hour later, the usual pandemonium broke out.
    First the Forensics team arrived, but since they couldn’t see a goddamn thing in the underground living room, they lost another half hour setting up a temporary electrical connection.
    Then Pasquano arrived with the ambulance and his team of undertakers. Realizing immediately that he would have to wait his turn, the doctor pulled up another deck chair, sat down beside the inspector, and dozed off.
    An hour or so later, by which time the sun had almost entirely set, someone from Forensics came and woke him up.
    “Doctor,” he said, “the body’s all wrapped up. What should we do?”
    “Unwrap it” was the laconic reply.
    “Yes, but who should do the unwrapping, us or you?”
    “I guess I’d better unwrap it myself,” said Pasquano with a sigh.
    “Fazio!” Montalbano called out.
    “Reporting, Chief.”
    “Has Prosecutor Tommaseo arrived yet?”
    “No, Chief, he called to say it would take him at least an hour to get here.”
    “You know what I say?”
    “No, sir.”
    “I say I’m gonna go eat and come back. Looks to me like things are gonna take a long time.”
    Passing through the living room, he noticed that Callara hadn’t moved from the sofa. He took pity on him.
    “Come with me, I’ll give you a lift to Vigàta. I’ll tell the prosecutor how things went.”
    “Oh, thank you, thank you,” said Callara, handing him the blanket.
     
     
     
    He dropped Callara off in front of his agency, which was now closed.
    “Don’t forget: Not a word to anyone about the corpse you found.”
    “My dear Inspector, I think I’m running a fever of a hundred and two. I don’t even feel like breathing, let alone talking!”
    Since going to Enzo’s would surely take too long, he headed back to Marinella instead.
    In the fridge he found a rather sizeable platter of caponata and a big piece of Ragusan caciocavallo cheese. Adelina had even bought him some fresh bread. He was so hungry, his eyes were burning.
    It took him a good hour to polish it all off, to the accompaniment of half a liter of wine.Then he washed his face, got in his car, and drove back to Pizzo.
     
     
     
    The moment the inspector arrived, Tommaseo, the public prosecutor, who’d been standing in the parking area in front of the house getting a breath of air, came running up to him.
    “It looks like a sex-related crime!”
    His eyes were sparkling, his tone almost festive. That’s how Prosecutor Tommaseo was: Any crime of passion, any killing related to infidelity or sex, was pure bliss for him. Montalbano was convinced he was a genuine maniac, but only in his mind.
    Tommaseo would drool like a snail after every woman he interrogated, and yet nobody knew of any female friends or lovers in his life.
    “Is Dr. Pasquano still inside?” asked Montalbano.
    “Yes.”
    It was stifling in the illegal apartment. Too many people going in and out, too much heat given off by the two floodlights the Forensics team had turned on. The already close atmosphere of before was a lot closer, with the difference that now it stank of men’s sweat, and now, indeed, one also smelled the stench of death.
    The corpse had, in fact, been taken out of the trunk, unwrapped as best as was possible, considering that one could see pieces of the plastic still sticking to the skin, having perhaps fused with it over time. The men had placed the body, naked as they’d found it, on a stretcher, and Dr. Pasquano, cursing under his breath, was finishing his examination. Montalbano realized that it wasn’t a good time to ask