“Grazie!” the two officers replied happily.

“But first, give me back the yellow highlighters!” and the deputy chief held out his hand.

With a grimace of annoyance, D’Intino pulled them out of his jacket pocket and handed them over to Schiavone. “Here you are, Dotto’ . . .” he said, gazing down at the two highlighters like a mother watching her son leave forever.

“Then we’re all good. Get to work, now!”

“Ciao, Lupa!” D’Intino sadly bade the dog farewell, and together the two men left the office.

That was a nice little assignment that would keep them occupied for at least another couple of days.

Now the desk was free of the papers of the De Rege brothers, the official nickname of the D’Intino–Deruta duo. Rocco saw a note from Caterina: “De Silvestri from Rome. It’s important!”

Rocco looked at the clock. It was too early to call the Cristoforo Colombo police station in the EUR district. And Rocco didn’t have the Roman officer’s home number. The fax was blinking: he only noticed it at that instant. Rocco got up. He went over to the machine and tore loose the sheet of paper.

Dear Dottor Schiavone,

This may not amount to anything, or perhaps it actually may prove useful. A report came in about a missing person. The name made me sit up in my chair. I hope it can be of some use to you. Corrado Pizzuti. He seems to have disappeared last Saturday from his home in Francavilla al Mare, in the province of Chieti. I remember this man very clearly, as I feel sure you do. In the meantime, I’m continuing my search for people who may have escaped or been recently released from prison and who might have anything to do with you. I’ll get back in touch as soon as I have news.

Yours, Alfredo De Silvestri.

Rocco crumpled up the sheet of paper. Corrado Pizzuti! Of course that name meant something to him. It was the seventh of July 2007. And he’d been driving the car.

It would take him almost eight hours to get to Francavilla al Mare. There was no time to waste.

FLAVIO BUGLIONI HAD BEEN RINGING THE BELL FOR HALF AN hour. Luckily a woman walked out the front door and warned him: “Listen, that intercom doesn’t work.”

“I have to go to Roberta Morini’s place . . . Is she in?”

“How would I know?” she replied. “I’m not her damned mother!” But then, with unexpected courtesy, she left the front door open. “She’s on the third floor!”

“Grazie.”