The next day Tancredi stopped by the office.
He came into my room, sat down and looked at me without saying anything.
“Well?”
“I don’t know if you’re lucky, or the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what accommodation records are?”
“To be honest, no. Should I?”
“They’re the records kept in the databank of the Ministry of the Interior, where all overnight stays in hotels and boarding houses, and all apartment rentals, are registered. I did a search for our friend Macri, and guess what I found?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Granted that Signor Macri travels a lot – there are a lot of entries in his name-I found that he’s often stayed at hotels in Bari. Both before and after Paolicelli was arrested. The times after the arrest don’t matter very much. The others are more interesting. And two of these in particular are extremely interesting.”
“Why?”
“Guess who stayed in the same hotel on the same two nights.”
“I’m stupid. Who?”
“Luca Romanazzi. And the same Romanazzi slept in the same hotel the night after Paolicelli was arrested.”
Shit. I didn’t say that, but I made a noise as I thought it. “That is interesting.”
“Right. Now, though, you have to find a way to use it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, you can’t say a friend of yours, a police inspector, did an unauthorized search in the Ministry of the Interior database on your behalf.”
“Right.”
“Find a way to make him admit it when you question him. Make him think you hired a private detective to look at the hotel registers. Make up any story you like.”
“Thanks, Carmelo.”
He nodded, as if to say, you’re welcome, but I really don’t know how much good this’ll do you. Silently, he placed on the desk the sheets of paper he’d been holding in his hand until then.
“Memorize what’s written here and then throw these papers away. Technically, they’re evidence of an offence.”