Pietra seemed to notice the dog for the first time. “I don’t know about that. I prefer cats.” The deputy chief of the mobile squad hoisted his oversized body off the chair. “All right, then, I’m going to call on the police chief. I’ll hand over all the documentation I have, and then I’m heading back to Turin. There’s nothing else for me to do here. When are you returning to active duty?”

“I still have some vacation time to use up.”

“And you’re going to use it up here?”

“I don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“It’s been a pleasure.” Pietra extended his hand and shook Rocco’s. “How do you like being in Aosta?”

The deputy chief thought it over for a few seconds. “Have a safe trip.”

IT WAS MASSIMO, HIS FRIEND FROM VITERBO, WHO HAD given him a recommendation of the best dog food for Lupa. You could rely on Massimo. He bred Lagotto Romagnolo dogs for truffle hunting and he trained them like soldiers. So Rocco had taken a picture of his puppy and texted it to his friend. Massimo replied: “My good friend Rocco, it’s hard to tell the breed. At a glance, I see three: setter, Brittany, and a shepherd of some kind. Anyway, she’s a beauty, hold on to her.” He picked up the dog food bowl, all the food eaten now, and placed it in the sink of the galley kitchen. Then he picked the newspaper up off the floor to crumple it up and throw it away. His eye landed on the article by Buccellato:

We wonder, however: Is this an investigation that warrants a wall of secrecy to keep from tipping off the culprits, or is it more of a delaying action being run by law enforcement now that one of their members is at the eye of the hurricane?

He crushed the newsprint into a ball and hurled it into the trash can.

“I HAVE 7 DOWN, ‘AIMLESS, MEANINGLESS,’ ELEVEN LETTERS.”

Marina is sitting on the bed, next to Lupa. She’s petting the puppy with her right hand. In her left hand, she’s holding La Settimana Enigmistica, the weekly puzzler magazine.

“‘Vague’?”

“Hold on, it starts with p and ends with s.”

“‘Pointless’?”

“Rocco, I said it has eleven letters.”

Eleven letters . . .

“It’s pretty ugly in here . . .”

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh, Lord, it’s not like Rue Piave was much to look at, either.”

“True enough,” I answer her.

“You need to find yourself a place.”

“It’s useless.” Then I stop to think. “‘Useless’?”

“What?”

“The answer for the crossword puzzle. Is ‘useless’ the answer?”

“Rocco, that’s seven letters and it starts with u. I said eleven letters and it starts with p. Hold on, let me solve 12 across . . . ‘Receive an offering’ . . . That’s easy, ‘accept’ . . . ‘The fictional grimoire by Abdul Alhazred’ . . .”

“By who?”

“The Necronomicon.”

“How on earth do you know these things?”