Saddles. Hanging off hooks screwed into the wall, made variously of black and brown leather; the odor of greased leather predominated. On a table sat horse girths, sheepskin saddle pads, gel saddle pads, saddlecloths. On either side were two large trunks. They bore labels with the names of the owners: Max and Laura Turrini. Rocco opened them. Jars, brushes, and grease for the horses’ hooves, a riding helmet, a couple of riding crops, gym shoes, riding boots, an empty document case, a dark-blue jacket with a coat of arms stitched onto the chest. “Nothing!” They switched off the light and left the room. They were back in the dark corridor, which took its illumination from the outdoor lighting and from the moonlight coming in through the higher windows. A little bird flew from one rafter to another. Once again, Pierron started in fright. “What the fuck, Italo, you’re just a jittery cream puff! Man up!” Rocco went over to the second door. This one wasn’t locked. That room, too, had no windows, and once again, they turned on the light. Harnesses, reins, manila ropes, carabiners, and riding crops. On another wall, there were martingales, headpieces, fetlock boots, and bell boots. A set of shelves packed with jars of hoof grease. Horseshoes piled up in a corner. Two folding lounge chairs and three rakes with stalks of hay caught in the tines. “Not a fucking thing in here, either.”

“That depends how you look at it,” said Italo. “I see lots of things.” Rocco’s only response was to turn out the light.

They were back out in the long corridor lined with stalls. There was also a third room without a door, but it was merely a place to park two wheelbarrows and a lawn mower. They headed back. Another horse poked his head out. This one was gray with black spots. As if he had caught his fellow horses’ attention, three other horses followed suit. “We’ve woken them up . . . now they think it’s time to eat. Hush, be good boys and go back to sleep,” Rocco said, tapping them lightly on the nose. At the center of the corridor was a larger stall than all of the others. Outside was a nameplate that read “Winning Mood.”

“This one seems to be a champion. A horse worth many hundreds of thousands of euros.” And Rocco glanced inside to get a look at the horse.

“Would stealing him be out of the question?” asked Italo.

The horse was on its side. It had been sleeping. Eyes wide-open, it was looking at the face of that intruder, come to disturb its nightly sleep.

Rocco noticed that the next stall was empty. After the sliding gate, they had built a wall complete with an armor-plated door.

“And what about this?” The deputy chief pulled open the sliding gate and went in. He touched the wall. He looked at the door a little closer. “Take a look at this lock!”