The two shadowy shapes slowly began making their way across the roof. One step after the other, balancing carefully, gingerly trying not to slip or knock anything off, for fear of waking up everyone in the house. After a few minutes they came to a halt. “There you go, right here,” said Rocco, bending over a skylight. “You see? It’s open!” Inside, the outbuilding was dark. Italo turned to look at the villa. Even the light in the little tower was switched off by then. A dog barked in the distance. Schiavone already had his Swiss Army knife out and was undoing the screws that fastened the plastic skylight to its fixtures. “Done!” he said, and pulled off the plexiglass cover. Now they could get into the house. Rocco was the first to lower himself inside.

He found himself in a small room with a washing machine, a sink, and a set of shelves packed with detergents and dirty clothing. He gestured for Italo to lower himself after him. His partner obeyed. Slowly he helped him to set his police boot on the lid of the washing machine, holding him by the waist until the officer set foot on the floor. The deputy chief opened the door to the little room. They entered a small living room with a fireplace; there were embers still glowing.

“What are we looking for?” asked Italo in a low voice.

“Keys . . .”

From the adjoining bedroom came a slow and regular snoring. Dodò was sleeping. Luckily, the task proved very simple. Next to the front door, on a wooden panel covered with hooks, there were six bunches of keys. Three sets of car keys, the others unidentified. Rocco immediately recognized the key to the armored door in the stables. Gently, he slid it off the hook. He showed it to his partner, who gave him a wink. One object struck Italo’s attention. On the table by the front door, lying in plain view, there was a wallet. Italo grabbed it. Rocco noticed and tore it from his hands. “I wasn’t going to steal it,” said the officer.

“I know. But I wasn’t trying to keep you from doing it. There’s just something I need to see.” He opened the wallet. Only a little cash but, more importantly, the thing that Rocco was looking for. The Swiss driver’s license belonging to the groom, who continued to snore in the adjoining room. He read the name. “Dodò, my ass!” he said. “You want to see what our little friend is named?”

Italo squinted and managed to read in the dim light from the fireplace: “Carlo . . .”

“Cutrì!” And the deputy chief looked the officer in the eyes. “Do you get it now?”

Italo nodded. “Fucking . . .”

“Right.” And Rocco put the wallet back where it had been. He opened the front door of the little house and left.

“Come on, let’s get moving.”

“Are we going to leave everything like this?”