“You know what I say? I say that I’m not sure if I want to go on like this.”

Rocco interrupted him brusquely. “If you take a look at the chart that you yourself hung up outside my door, you’ll notice that advice to the lovelorn, if I’m not mistaken, ranks up there at the ninth level of pains in the ass. So do your best to appreciate just how hard I’m trying here. Now I’m going to ask the question that ought to constitute the acid test so that you can resolve this matter once and for all: Can you imagine a life without her?”

Italo thought it over. He looked at his hands. “A life without her?”

“Exactly!”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, when you have the answer, come on back and we’ll finish the conversation. But it has to be an honest answer. Considered and reconsidered. Is that clear?”

“That’s clear . . .”

He knew that it created a certain awkwardness just to ask the question. Few males would know how to answer that question with any certainty. And he could see that Italo Pierron’s uncertainty was, for him, tantamount to opening a big clear highway straight to Deputy Inspector Caterina Rispoli.

“Now listen. Do you have anything to do tonight?”

Italo threw his arms wide.

“Fine. Then you and I have a date. Make sure you’re wearing plainclothes. Black, if you can manage it.”

A gleam of excitement appeared in Italo’s eyes. “Are we going to make some money?”

“No. We’re going to find something out. This is work, my friend.”

“Too bad. There’s not going to be a shot at any more money, is there?”

“You picked up several thousand euros not even a week ago! Or have you already forgotten that bucket full of cash that we found behind Mimmo Cuntrera’s restaurant? Try to be patient. And remember not to be too greedy.”

Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” suddenly rang out, making Rocco’s cell phone vibrate on his desktop. “Where the hell is it?” as he searched under the sheets of paper Deruta and D’Intino had brought him. “Where the fucking hell is it?” And at last he extracted it from the tangled mess of paper. “Schiavone here . . .”

“Ciao, Rocco, it’s me, Furio!”

“Hey, my friend . . .” And the deputy chief waved Italo out of the office. He waited until the officer had shut the door behind him. “What’s happening?”

“Listen up. Seba and Brizio have managed to track down the pistol that shot Adele.”

“That’s good news. So . . . ?”

“Paoletto Buglioni had used it. Then apparently he gave it to his brother.”

“Flavio?”

“Exactly. There’s just one thing. Flavio seems to have disappeared. It’s clear that he gave it to Adele’s killer. But now he’s holed up somewhere. And if you ask me, we’re not going to be able to find him.”