“One more thing . . . I’d have liked to arrest Cremonesi myself. Showing up after the party is over doesn’t sit well with me, not one little bit.”

Baldi smiled. “If you like, he’s in there. He’s waiting for his lawyer, that Ferretti. Messina and I are going to start grilling him. Would you care to have a little chat with him? Be my guest. It’s a favor I’m glad to do you in the name of our friendship.”

“Are you saying that we’re friends?”

“Yes, at least for today.”

HE WALKED DOWNSTAIRS WITH BALDI, FOLLOWED A COUPLE of hallways he’d never seen before, and came up to a door where a carabiniere was standing guard. The police officer snapped to attention the minute he saw the judge. “Is my colleague Messina in there?” asked Baldi.

“No, Dottore. Just Cremonesi.”

“All by himself?”

“Yes, but we left his handcuffs on.”

Baldi opened the door and invited Rocco to go in. “I’ll wait for you upstairs . . .”

In the room, there were just three chairs and a metal table. Cremonesi was sitting down, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned; he no longer had the same arrogant demeanor as the last time they’d met. Only his eyes were still sharp and jet-black. His square head, reminiscent of the darting head of a venomous serpent, had snapped suddenly toward the door, impatient and on edge. “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said. The chain to the handcuffs that bound him to the table clinked. Rocco took a couple steps toward him. Then he leaned against the wall. He didn’t want to sit down at the same table with that man. He wanted to observe him from a distance. “How’s it going, Schiavone?”

“I’m fine. I told you that I was going to screw you over again . . .”

“Let the cyclone tear through, and after the dust settles, everyone will have forgotten about me and I’ll be out again in no time, footloose and fancy-free. Do you want to know a secret? Prisons are literally leaky as sieves. They won’t be able to keep someone like me under lock and key.” And he flashed a smile that highlighted the scar on his chin. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Why have you come to see me?”

“Do you have anything to do with the Cuntrera murder?”

“Again? Do you seriously think that I would bother lifting a finger for a microbe like Mimmo Cuntrera?”

“Who just happened to have documents in hand that nail you? You, that is, and your fine friends.”

Cremonesi spat on the floor. “Bullshit! Like I told you, two years, three tops, and I’ll be back out on the street.”