Rocco smiled. “You’re up to your neck in shit, Amelia. Think it over. It’s like in baseball. Do you know how baseball works?”

“No.”

“If the batter makes it to base before the ball, then he’s safe, but if the fielder catches the ball before he can slide to base, then the batter is out! It’s the same thing with investigating magistrates. Get to base before they do. And you just might be safe.” Rocco stood up, dragging the chair across the old cement floor. “You’ve got time to think it over. Take care of yourself!”

FOR DINNER, THEY’D CHOSEN THE ENOTECA CROIX DE VILLE. Rocco and Alberto Fumagalli were sitting at their table, sipping a Fumin while waiting for dessert, two chocolate gateaus that made their mouths water at the very sight of them. The two men had mopped their plates clean, and in fact, Alberto had even ordered a second helping of chicken piccata.

“This is the first time we’ve eaten dinner together,” said Alberto.

“Are you feeling emotional?”

“‘Disgusted’ is the adjective I’d actually been thinking of.” Then he raised his glass—“A toast to you, for having found Cuntrera’s killer”—and they both drained their glasses in a single gulp. Alberto filled the glasses again. “And now let’s drink to the death of the guy who broke into your apartment!” They drained their glasses again. “Any news on that?”

“Maybe something’s starting to move, but the only thing I can be sure of is that the guy was in prison. Otherwise he would have struck sooner.”

“Or maybe out of the country?”

“Or maybe out of the country.”

A young woman brought the desserts. Alberto didn’t even give her time to set down his plate before attacking the gateau. “It looks like you haven’t eaten in a lifetime.”

“Am I paying or not?” said the doctor through a mouthful of cake. “So, if you don’t mind . . .”

The gateau melted in his mouth.

“Can you tell me something?” the medical examiner inquired. “Why do you look so sad?”

“Really? I do?”

“Yes, you do . . .”

“It happens to me all the time.”

“But you look sadder than usual.”

“It’s hormonal, if you ask me. When I get to the end of a trudge through shit like this, it hits me hard.”

“But you ought to be happy about it, actually. You caught them, you threw them into prison . . . Oh, well . . . just don’t think about it and focus on the gateau.”

“Anyway, I have a bad feeling.”

“About what?”

“The murder in the prison. I have a feeling that things didn’t go exactly as we think they did. It doesn’t add up, I can’t quite see that group of upright citizens as masterminding the murder of that poor wretch Cuntrera. I’m certain that there’s something I’m missing.”

“Sleep on it. Things will look clearer tomorrow morning.”