“Take care of yourself, Schiavone!” Baldi ended the call without saying good-bye. Rocco put his phone back in his pocket. Leaning out the window, a yard above him, was Deputy Inspector Caterina Rispoli, looking down on him as he lay flat on the roof. “You’re not a well man, Rocco. It might be best if you came back in before the police chief looks out his window.”

“Yes. Might be best . . .” Rocco got up and climbed back over the windowsill, with the deputy inspector’s assistance.

“What did the Berguets say?”

“They seemed disappointed. But they wanted to make sure I thanked you . . .”

“Fine. What time is it now?”

“One thirty.”

“Shall we go get something to eat?”

“Actually, I ate lunch an hour ago!”

Rocco heaved a sigh. “This bad habit you people have up here of scheduling your meals as if you were in a hospital!”

“Here he is! Mr. Deputy Chief!” A shout echoed through the office. Lupa barked. It was D’Intino. He was carrying an enormous sheaf of paper. “All done!”

“What?”

“The list of the foreigners. Now we highlighted everything nice and clear. And we’re done with the hotels, too. What should Deruta and I do?”

“What should you do? I told you, didn’t I? You need to draw me up a list of all the guests of all the hotels who came from Rome. Okay?”

D’Intino’s eyes opened wide. “All of them?”

“Don’t you feel up to it? Would you rather I left this very important and grueling task to Caterina?”

D’Intino glared at the deputy inspector with hatred and, stung in his pride, almost snapped to attention. “I couldn’t let that happen, Dotto’! We started the job, now we’re going to finish it!” And he turned on his heel with a smart about-face and left the office.

“Don’t you have any more useful work for them to do?” asked Caterina.

“No. Plus what do you know? It might turn out to be very useful!”

“You asked me for Amelia Abela’s address in Aosta.”

“That’s right, the address where she lives, not the one where she receives clients.”

Caterina looked at him, slightly bewildered. “What do you know about where she receives clients?”

“I’m a policeman, Caterì, and there are certain things that policemen just know.”

“Then why don’t you know where she lives and you have to ask me for it?”

Rocco threw both arms wide.

“Huh . . . anyway, Amelia Abela lives on Via Laurent Cerise, right behind the courthouse.”

“I’m going to go take a look at her apartment.”