IM10 August Heat (2008) by Andrea Camilleri

the girls?”
    “All right, you can go now. But make yourself available to us.”
    Dipasquale had spontaneously offered him Ralf ’s head on a platter not silver but gold. Especially since the foreman, thus far, knew nothing about the murdered girl he’d found. So Montalbano had an embarrassment of riches to choose from, as far as sex maniacs went: Spitaleri and Ralf. There were just two little problems.The young German had disappeared on his way back to Germany, and on that terrible twelfth of October, Spitaleri was traveling.

7
    Just to kill some time while waiting for Fazio to return, he decided to phone Forensics.
    “I’d like to speak to Dr. Arquà. Montalbano here.”
    “Please hold.”
    He had enough time for a leisurely review of the multiplication tables of six, seven, eight, and nine.
    “Inspector Montalbano? I’m sorry, but Dr. Arquà is engaged at the moment.”
    “And when will he be disengaged?”
    “Please call back in about ten minutes.”
    Engaged? Right, to be married to his dog. The fucking asshole was playing hard to get. Getting precious. But how precious could an asshole get? And can an asshole increase in value?
     
     
     
    He got up, left the room and, when passing by Catarella, said:
    “I’m gonna go have a coffee at the port. I’ll be right back.”
    Once outside, he realized there was no way. In the parking lot the heat was similar to what one feels when standing in front of a blazing fireplace. He touched the handle on the car door and burned himself. Cursing the saints, he went back inside. Catarella looked bewildered and glanced at his watch. He couldn’t figure out how the inspector had managed to go to the port, drink a coffee, and come back in such a short time.
    “Catarella, go make me a cup of coffee.”
    “Anutter one, Chief? Din’t you juss have one? ’Ss not good to drink too much coffee.”
    “You’re right. Forget about it.”
     
     
     
    “I’d like to speak with Dr.Arquà, if he’s been disengaged, that is. Montalbano here, same as before.”
    “Please hold.”
    No multiplication tables this time, but a few laborious attempts at singing a tune that must have been by the Rolling Stones, then another that was probably by the Beatles but came out almost the same as the first because he didn’t exactly have perfect pitch.
    “Inspector Montalbano? Dr.Arquà is still engaged. If you want, try calling back—”
    “—in about ten minutes, I know, I know.”
    But why was he wasting all this time on an imbecile who was surely enjoying making him wait? He rolled up two sheets of paper into a ball and stuck it in his mouth.Then he pinched his nostrils shut with a binder clip and redialed the forensic lab’s number. He spoke with a slight Tuscan accent.
    “This is Plenipotentiary Minister and Supervisor General Gianfilippo Maradona. Please get me Dr. Arquà at once.”
    “Right away, your excellency.”
    Montalbano spit out the ball of paper and removed the clamp. Half a minute later, Arquà came on the line.
    “Good day, your excellency, what can I do for you?”
    “Excuse me, why are you calling me ‘your excellency’? This is Montalbano.”
    “But I was told that—”
    “But you can keep calling me that, I rather like it.”
    Arquà let a few moments of silence pass. It was clear he was tempted to hang up, but then he made up his mind.
    “What do you want?”
    “Do you have anything to tell me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then tell me.”
    “You’re supposed to say ‘please.’ ”
    “Please.”
    “Question.”
    “Where was she killed?”
    “Where she was found.”
    “In the exact same place?”
    “Next to what would have been the French door in the living room.”
    “Are you sure about that?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Why?”
    “Because a pool of blood had formed there.”
    “Anywhere else?”
    “No, nothing.”
    “Just that pool?”
    “There were streaks from her being dragged from the pool over to a spot next to the trunk.”
    “Did you find