“It’s not as if things are that much nicer at my old place.” Rocco opened the little fridge. “Want anything to drink? Let’s see . . . I’ve got a Coke, some fruit juices, and three mini bottles of some brand of whiskey I’ve never heard of.”

“No, thanks.”

“Otherwise, I can make you a cup of coffee with a filter pack. It’s better than you’d think.”

“No, no, nothing for me. I’m going out to dinner at a trattoria and I want to have plenty of room.” And he smacked himself three times on his ample belly.

Rocco went over to the galley kitchen in the corner. Actually, he felt like a coffee. “Well then, Dottor Pietra, tell me everything.”

Pietra pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Listen, let’s do one thing before we start getting tangled up with formalities?”

“Certainly.”

“Can we use the informal? Be on a first-name basis?”

“That would be better.” The deputy chief pressed a button, and the espresso immediately began tumbling out of the coffee maker and into the porcelain demitasse cup.

“So, in that case, Rocco, do you feel like going over the situation quickly?”

“Let’s go.” Rocco picked up the espresso and went back to sit on the bed. Lupa had fallen asleep again.

“First of all, do you have any idea of who might have entered your apartment on Thursday, May 10, and shot . . .” Pietra hesitated as he leafed through the pages in the binder.

“Adele Talamonti,” said Rocco. “That’s right. Adele Talamonti was at my home. She was the girlfriend of a close friend of mine, Sebastiano. She’d come up here to lie low, a maneuver that was meant to force Sebastiano to lose his mind trying to find her. Yes, I know . . .” Rocco said, anticipating Pietra’s skeptical glance, “complete bullshit, but what she was hoping to do was rekindle her boyfriend’s passion and interest. Anyway, the killer assumed that the shape in that bed was me, and he shot her.”

Pietra nodded. “So that means you don’t have the foggiest idea who it could have been?”

“Not the foggiest.”

Carlo scratched his head. “Listen, Rocco, I’ve read a few things about you. And let’s just say that . . . at first glance, I’d say that you have a pretty messed-up past.”

“‘Messed-up’ is a euphemism, Carlo.”

“Which means that, even if it’s no easy matter to go dig into it, you must have some suspicions.”

Rocco shook his head. “No. I really don’t. All I know is that whoever tried to kill me is bound to try again.”

Carlo Pietra looked around the room. “And you’re waiting for them here?”

“No. I’m here because I don’t have a place to live anymore. As soon as I find a new place, I’ll move. Especially for her”—and he pointed at Lupa. “She’s a little cramped in here.”