AMELIA LIVED ON THE FOURTH FLOOR OF AN APARTMENT house on Via Laurent Cerise, right where the police chief had found a place for him to live, at least in theory. Rocco had already prepared his Swiss Army knife and his credit card to open the door, but a man in his early sixties came to his aid. He was the building’s doorman, and at the sight of that badge and ID from police headquarters, he’d hurried to get the extra keys to the apartment. “She’s a good girl,” he’d told the deputy chief, unlocking the door, which had been triple-locked. “She works for a construction company . . . Why on earth do the police need to come take a look at where she lives?”

Rocco laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Your name is Paolo, right?”

“Paolo Chinoux,” the doorman proudly stated.

“Well, Signor Chinoux, I’m afraid that somebody’s trying to get Amelia into trouble. And I’ll need a few documents to get her off the hook.”

Paolo shook his head. “Eh, I hear you. These days, with the public works contracts and all these other stories we hear, you need to keep your eyes wide-open.”

“That’s for sure.”

Schiavone entered the apartment. The first thing that struck him was the extremely modern furniture and decorations. The rather spacious living room was lit by two windows overlooking the street. All the furniture was upholstered in light-colored leather, the same shade as the walls. The scent of tuberose flowers dominated over all else. “You can go, Paolo. I’ll alert you as soon as I’m done.”

Signor Chinoux backed out of the apartment like an English butler, shutting the door behind him. The policeman gazed around the place with a sinking heart. There were dozens of places to look—who could say how long this was going to take? For starters, he checked to make sure there wasn’t a safe installed in one of the walls. He looked behind the paintings, in the bedroom, in the built-in armoires. He checked the bathroom and the kitchen. He even checked all the wall switches, well aware that the latest models of safes were built to mimic in every detail those switch panels. The whole search took more than half an hour. He took off his loden overcoat, tossed it onto the sofa, and got ready to look in all the drawers. He started in the bedroom. And this time his lucky star gave him a hand. In the nightstand, next to a little jewelry box, he found a small picture album with a leather cover. The third picture put a smile of joy on his face. He slowly drew it out of its plastic holder and slid it into his pocket. That piece of evidence would be more than enough.

“All done, Signor Paolo,” he said as he walked out the apartment building’s front door.