D’INTINO AND DERUTA HAD PILED UP DOZENS MORE PAGES with lists of the guests at local hotels and motels on the nights of the ninth and tenth of May, as ordered by Rocco. The commitment they were devoting to the task was deeply moving. They’d even come up with a variant that, in their fervid imaginations, was meant to simplify the deputy chief’s work, by highlighting the women in pink and the men in blue. It wasn’t clear to him yet what they were trying to communicate with the green and yellow highlighters. Rocco made a mental note to ask the next time he saw them. Antonio Scipioni and Italo were in his office. Rocco opened the drawer that was normally locked. Inside he found the Ruger, still there, along with the four prerolled joints. But this wasn’t the time for that. He was looking for Scipioni’s photos from the restaurant. “Where are they?”

“I put them in the middle drawer. I never touch the locked drawer, you know that!” Scipioni replied.

“Right you are!”

He reached in and picked them up. Four people sitting around a table. Very first thing, he recognized Walter Cremonesi and Amelia. The others, with their backs to the camera, were unrecognizable. “Who are these two?” And he flipped the photo over to Antonio.

“I don’t know. I never saw them before. One of them has blue eyes . . .”

“Does he look like an Alaskan husky?”

Antonio thought it over. “One of those sled dogs? Yes, I’d say so.”

“Then he’s Luca Grange. What about the other guy?”

“He’s a little short man, kind of rough-looking.”

“Wrinkled as hell?”

“Yes . . . wrinkled as hell, and he walks with his legs all bent, like this.” Antonio tried to bend out his thighs so that they looked like twin parentheses. “Oh, heck, it’s not quite right, but you sort of see what I mean . . .”

“Like a soccer player?” asked Italo.

“Yeah, like a guy who used to play soccer . . . but with Sandro Mazzola, because he’s at least seventy years old.”

Rocco gazed at Scipioni with a serious expression. “Are you mocking Sandro Mazzola?”

“Me, never, I wouldn’t dream of it. Why?”

“Because Sandro Mazzola is as close as you can get to the pure essence of soccer as anything this country has ever had. Mark these words clearly in your brain, scratch them into the walls of your bedroom, buy a poster of the champion and venerate it every blessed day of your life.”

“He played for Inter, though,” Italo objected, “not for Roma!”

“Imbecile! When you’re talking about a champion of this level, the color of the jersey is an insignificant detail. He’s a part of the heritage of all humanity, understand?” He went back to look at the photo. “But in your opinion, why would someone take a groom to dinner?”