“Right? This is reality, too. That is, a Prince Charming who does drugs really doesn’t strike me as believable.”

Chiara took another drag and shyly passed it to Caterina, who shook her head.

“Caterì, just a drag never killed anyone.”

“But I don’t . . . I haven’t since I was in high school . . .”

“Exactly.”

Caterina took the joint. She eyed it. “It certainly smells good,” she said. Rocco gave her a wink. The deputy inspector raised the joint to her mouth, holding it between thumb and forefinger, as if she were afraid of getting her fingers dirty. She rounded her lips into an O, and then took a long drag. She swallowed the smoke. She didn’t cough. “Thanks,” she said, turning red. Then she handed it back to Rocco.

“So a sabbatical year, is that what you’re suggesting?” Chiara asked.

“Why not? You’re doing fine at school, I know that you have excellent grades. You can afford it. Put off university for a year. What’s so bad about that? Think about Max, he’s twenty-one years old, and even this year he’s not going to be graduating.”

“Yeah, if his parents don’t grease his teachers adequately, he’ll be graduating from high school with his children.”

All three of them laughed. Rocco passed the joint back around to Chiara, and this time she took a drag without much hesitation. “I realize that this is something I can tell you.” She stood up. She grabbed the crutch that leaned against the nightstand, hobbled over to the armoire, and opened it.

When she got back to the bed, she was carrying a ream of paper.

“Have you written a book?” Rocco asked her, frightened now.

“No, don’t worry. These are photocopies that Max made.” She sat down with her legs crossed, the paper in her lap. “These are things he found in his father’s office. Because for some time now, he’s thought things aren’t really adding up.”

“I’m not following you.”

“His parents . . . he hates them. He hates that bitch of a mother and that whoremonger of a father. The Turrinis are nasty people. And they hang out with nasty people.”

“I know that from personal experience,” Rocco said.

“They have some strange frequentations. Max xeroxed the documents that his father had in his safe, and he brought them to me because he doesn’t understand a word of it.”

“And what did you understand?”

“Not much. But . . .” And she started leafing through. “There’s one thing that’s pretty clear. His father owns a dozen or so companies, half of them in Switzerland. And it’s not clear what they’re for. Moreover”—and she handed a sheet of paper to Rocco—“you see this document? It’s a contract with a building company . . . the one that screwed Papà out of the project.”

“Chiara, these are extremely sensitive matters.”

“Take these documents to Judge Baldi. He’ll listen to you.”