“It is for me. But not for you.” And he took a long generous puff. “Don’t make me drag out the old standby line of how, if you cooperate, they’ll go easier on you, but the fact is: if you cooperate, they’ll go easier on you. You didn’t know Mimmo Cuntrera, so why did you drag your brother into it? For money, I’d have to guess . . . The people who paid you are behind bars just like you are, and it’s only a matter of time before they talk. You see? Aside from Cremonesi, who’s used to being in jail, they don’t have the slightest idea. Doctors, bank directors, architects, half-assed politicians. Prison’s going to have a bad effect on them all. All I can tell you is this: beat them to the punch. You could get off easy if you admit that all you did was put them in touch with your brother.”

“Is my brother really in such bad shape?”

Uh-oh, missed the target, thought Rocco. “Your brother is screwed, and he’s dragging you down with him. He says that he doesn’t know why he was supposed to eliminate Cuntrera, he just obeyed orders that you gave him.” Rocco dropped his cigarette on the floor and crushed it out.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Amè, do as you please. But you knew that that guy was named Carlo Cutrì, not Dodò, the whole time!”

“Who? Dodò? Who’s that?”

“All right, then, let me show you these nice pictures that an eager young officer of mine took at the Ristorante Santalmasso a few days ago.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket. He chose the first photo and showed it to Amelia. “You see? It’s you with Cremonesi, and right here, with his back to the camera, is old Dodò, who wasn’t Turrini’s stable boy, but actually Carlo Cutrì . . .”

“This photo doesn’t prove a thing!” And she handed it back to the policeman.

“Which is why I brought this one, too!” And now he extracted from the same envelope a second photo that depicted Amelia and Carlo Cutrì, arms around each other and broad smiles on their faces. In the background, two horses were grazing in a meadow. “You recognize this picture? Look at the back!”

Amelia turned it over. On the back was written: “Winning Mood—May 2nd, 2012.”

“Where did you get this?”

“At your house. Not where you receive your clients, the one on Via Laurent Cerise. It takes some nerve for you to live right around the corner from the courthouse. But given your current situation, it might prove convenient for your lawyer. You know what? Someone found me an apartment on that same street, but I turned it down.”

“I had a hundred thousand euros riding on that horse, Winning Mood,” Amelia said with a bitter smile. “He’s a born champion, you know that?”