Rocco was distracted by the escort’s web page. He was about to read the welcome message, but it struck him as more important to focus back on what Fumagalli was saying. “Let me get this straight . . . They injected him with this urethane, the guy died, and the killer was expecting a distracted, half-assed autopsy, in other words, hoping they’d give it a glance and move on, hopefully two days after his death . . .”

“Exactly, and in that case it would have appeared that Cuntrera had died of natural causes. A nice fat heart attack, just to make it perfectly clear . . .”

“The volatile chemical substance would have vanished . . .”

“And we would have just held a funeral and buried him. Most importantly, we’d never have noticed that sudden crazy swelling of the corpse, which was a result of the garbage they injected him with.”

“Where can a person get their hands on this urethane?”

“It’s not easy. No one uses it anymore. There was a time when it was prescribed for multiple myeloma, but nowadays we know that it’s highly toxic.”

“In other words, laying your hands on it is no simple matter . . .”

“No, not at all. Listen, maybe you can still find it in circulation for veterinary applications . . . but like I said, it’s hard to obtain. Meaning, it’s not as if you can go to the pharmacy and go up to the prescription counter and—”

“Albè, I get it!”

“It was useful, right?”

“You bet it was useful. It means that whoever killed Cuntrera had an accomplice outside of these walls. Thanks.”

“When are you coming back to Aosta?”

“Why?”

“Because I owe you dinner. I pay my debts and I pay my bets!”

“As soon as I get back I’ll call you.”

He hung up the phone. A detail of the photograph in which the escort in a garter belt with her face blanked out was giving it her all made the deputy chief smile. A little bee tattooed on her neck. Rocco recognized that tattoo. “Nice work, Amelia,” he said, under his breath. “‘I’m in charge of PR for Luca Grange’ . . .” Then it occurred to him that, in a sense, that was a form of PR, wasn’t it? Just a question of nuance.

He turned off the computer. He got up from the leather office chair and headed for the door. He pulled it open. He came perilously close to a head-on collision with Alessandro Martinelli, who was returning to his office.

“Ah, Martinelli. They put a phone call for me through to your office.”

“Yes, in fact, they told me about it. Listen, Dottor Schiavone, earlier an inmate came to see me. Sergio Mizzica . . . Mozzica—I can’t remember his exact name right now. He wanted to talk to you.”

“To me?”