The Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar Page B

sure every hair was in order.
    â€œSpeak to him now. The notary is on Capri, for a conference. He ought to have been back yesterday, but with the choppy seas the hydrofoils weren’t running. So he’s stuck there and we don’t know when he’ll be able to get back. If there’s anything we can do to help . . .”
    He looked over at his colleague uncertainly, and she dropped her eyes. Something isn’t right, thought Lojacono. He tried bluffing.
    â€œOkay, then we can get in touch with the police station there on the island. You must certainly be able to tell me the name and phone number of the hotel. I would imagine that for you the notary must always be available, isn’t that right, Signor . . .”
    The man opened and shut his mouth a few times, as if he couldn’t think of what to say. The young woman threw him a lifeline: “De Lucia, Salvatore De Lucia. As I informed you, he prepares the promissory notes, he’s in charge of . . .”
    Aragona interrupted her, raising one hand: “You can explain all that later, signorina. Right now we just need to know where we can find the notary. And fast.”
    The officer’s abrasive tone further frightened the fat man, who stammered: “Actually . . . that’s classified information, where the notary is. Top secret.”
    He shot Imma a sidelong glance.
    Lojacono said: “Not anymore, it isn’t. Now you’d better tell me. You have to.”
    De Lucia looked down at the floor and murmured: “He’s in Sorrento, with . . . on vacation. He’ll be back today, later this morning. But please, I beg you, this can’t get out. No one can know, especially not his . . . his family.”
    He had blushed to a pathetic degree. His coworker glared at him in disgust, and Lojacono wondered whether her reaction was due to the fact that the man had revealed a secret or just that he’d tried to cover up the notary’s affair.
    â€œYou can rest assured that this information will remain confidential,” Aragona told the two employees. “The notary’s wife, Signora Cecilia De Santis, was found dead this morning, in their apartment.”
    It was as if someone had unexpectedly fired a gun. The man stared at Aragona in disbelief, as if he’d just heard a very unfunny joke. The woman was the picture of surprise, eyes and mouth wide open like three capital O’s. Then she began to tremble, and finally she burst into sobs. De Lucia hesitantly raised his arm and put it around his coworker’s shoulders. Lojacono felt sorry for them both.
    â€œI’m sorry to have had to break the news to you like this, but it was to make you understand the urgency of the situation. Now, would you please tell me how to get in touch with the notary?”

XX
    T here seemed to be no way to reach the notary. His cell phone was turned off, and the two employees said they didn’t know the name of the hotel where he’d stayed that night and the night before because, according to the answers the police officers managed to wring out of the pair—grudging and monosyllabic though they were—the notary had left Saturday morning, that is, two days ago.
    Nothing, clearly, about who was traveling with him: but Lojacono got the impression that the two employees knew perfectly well who it was.
    There was nothing to do but wait. In the next hour, the other two employees came in, and they were immediately brought up-to-date on what had happened.
    The first was well over fifty years old, a wiry woman with thin lips and a pragmatic air; her name, which she reeled out as if it were some elaborate honorific, was Raffaela Rea, nicknamed Lina, and she ensured legal compliance after a deed had been drafted. After learning that Signora Festa was dead, she turned pale, sank into a chair, and stayed there. She stated that she had no idea of where the notary might be, and when she