IT WAS ALMOST FOUR IN THE AFTERNOON WHEN ROCCO FINALLY pulled up in front of the barracks of the constables of Francavilla al Mare, practically next door to Pescara but technically in the province of Chieti. He’d spent longer than he’d expected taking Lupa out for various walks and poops and pees. It seemed as if there were some kind of curfew in effect in the little town. Except for the fact that there were some stores still open, not a living soul could be seen out on the streets. Just a few sickly-looking trees, tested by the winter and not yet recovered, withered palm trees on a narrow waterfront embarcadero, as lifeless as the apartment houses, all of them clearly vacation homes locked up tight until the sun came out and the weather warmed up. Breakers were smashing down heavily against the rocks and the sand.

Ciro Iannuzzi, bored and tired, was leafing through a motorcycle magazine and not bothering to look up at the person in front of him. “Go ahead . . .”

“I need some information,” said Rocco, leaning closer to the glass partition.

“There’s a tourist office,” Ciro replied, chewing his gum. The sound of someone talking while snapping a cud of chewing gum was one of the things that turned Rocco Schiavone’s blood jet-black. He held his breath and then asked again. “This has nothing to do with tourism. It’s a sensitive matter, so if you don’t mind, I’d like—”

The constable looked up at Rocco. He smiled. “Is this about your wife?”

“What, do they make you learn stand-up comedy before you can work as a constable around here?”

“Listen here, my good man, unless you have something urgent, you can just hightail it out of here . . .” And he pointed him to the door.

“Shall we start over from scratch? All right, then, buonasera. Now, Mr. Constable, sir, it’s your turn to say buonasera.”

“So you’ve studied stand-up, too, haven’t you?”

“That’s right. At the police academy.” Rocco looked at the constable, who narrowed his eyes, uncomprehending. “I’m a deputy chief of the state police, my name is Rocco Schiavone, and you can just thank the good Lord above that there’s a pane of glass between us, otherwise by now you’d be picking your teeth up off the asphalt. Did you think that was funny?”

The constable turned serious. He stood up. “Couldn’t you have said so right away?”

“Why, you fucking stupid dickhead? There isn’t supposed to be any difference between me and someone who isn’t a member of the police, as far as you’re concerned, asshole! Do the job they pay you for. So do I have your full and undivided attention, now? Do you think you can answer my questions?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Corrado Pizzuti.”

“Certainly, Corrado! When was it, Saturday? Tatiana reported him as lost!”

“What is he, an umbrella?”