On the other side of that window, in the silence of the abandoned house, a shadow sat observing Flavio’s face. That shadow was silently smoking. Safe in the darkness, he knew that sooner or later the annoyance would turn and leave. He only had to wait there, like a spider in ambush. And if Flavio did try to enter the house, the 6.35 mm pistol that he held ready on his thighs would do its job once again. The shadow smiled at the thought that, if he so much as tugged on that trigger, the pistol would kill none other than the man who had sold it to him in the first place.

Flavio stepped away from the window. He looked around. The grass was crushed underfoot, but maybe that had been him. “Enzo!” he shouted. “Enzo, are you here? It’s me, Flavio! I need to talk to you!”

There was no answer. He retraced his steps, with another circuit of the house. He slipped back out through the metal gate that stood half open and got in his car. He took one last look at that teetering ruin and took off.

Enzo Baiocchi crushed his cigarette under the heel of his shoe. He lay back on the old mattress that had belonged to his aunt, picked up the Peroni, and drained off the last of the beer in a single gulp. He hurled the bottle against the wall and it shattered into a thousand pieces.

“WELCOME BACK, ROCCO!”

“Ring the church bells! Let rivers of champagne run! Mark this date on all the calendars as a red-letter day!” shouted the deputy chief. “Caterina Rispoli has learned to call me by my first name!”

Caterina blushed and almost wished she could take those words back and stuff them in her mouth. “Heh . . . heh heh . . .” she managed to say.

“Well, Caterina, what are you doing in my office at lunchtime?”

“You have visitors waiting for you. A married couple . . .”

“A couple?”

“It’s the Berguets. They just want to say hello and thank you.”

“What the fuck? No! What is this? Did I get married to them?” Rocco shouted.

“Sshhttt,” said Caterina, lifting her forefinger to her nose. “Hush, or they’ll hear you.”

“I don’t want to see them. I can’t stand them anymore! First of all the wife has problems with her husband, then there’s the daughter, then there’s the husband, who’s flipped out completely . . . What do they take me for, some sort of psychological counselor? Let them go to the national health clinic! Tell them . . . tell them you couldn’t find me, that I’m dead, that I’ve come down with some sort of contagious disease, invent whatever bullshit you can think of and get them out from underfoot!”

“I can’t. They know that you’re here!”