“Intrusion upon other people’s existential perimeter. I know that to you, it’s an incomprehensible concept, but put it at the eighth level. No, wait, make it ninth.”

“Intrusion upon . . . ?”

“. . . other people’s existential perimeter. You know what I’m talking about? Everyone has their own spaces, their personal times . . .”

“That’s the same thing that Caterina says.” Italo got up. He had a sad expression on his face. He actually scratched Lupa between the ears.

“Is that why you were here? To suffocate me with your love story?”

“No. I was here to tell you that the judge called. Daniele Abela has been arrested in Sanremo. He had twenty-five thousand euros in cash in his backpack.”

“Was he planning to gamble them away?”

“Got me . . . but the other guy, Tolotta, not a sign of him yet.”

“Well, where do you expect he’s going to get away to?”

“I just happened to be looking at this photo . . .” And he held it up for Rocco to see. It was the picture of Amelia with her arm around Carlo Cutrì.

“What about it?”

“I’ve seen this girl before.”

“On the Internet. She’s an escort.”

“But I don’t look for that sort of thing on the Internet.”

“What do you want from me, Italo? You must have met her just walking around Aosta. She’s a good-looking girl, she struck your imagination. Or wait, no! Now that I think about it. Of course you’ve seen her before. The other night when we went to pay a call at the Turrini home, you remember?”

“Do you think I could forget it?”

“She was there. She came out of the house with all the other guests.”

“You think?”

“I do. It’s nine o’clock now, so if you don’t mind, could you let me have the room?”

“What do you need to do?” Rocco was about to reply, but Italo beat him to it: “Your own fucking business. Understood, sorry . . .”

The officer left the room with his head low.

The young man needed a vacation, Rocco decided. He sprawled in his chair. The time had come. He pulled out the key and opened the locked drawer. He grabbed a joint and lit it. Before he even had a chance to exhale the first puff, the sound of the telephone clawed into his ears. He picked up the receiver. “Schiavone here . . .”

“Come upstairs!” It was the police chief.

“What’s going on, Dottore?”

“I said come upstairs!”

HE FOUND COSTA SITTING AT HIS DESK. SERIOUS EXPRESSION on his face, which was gray in spite of the sunny day.

“Sit down!” And he pointed Rocco to the chair in front of his desk. Costa handed him a newspaper. “Read!”

Rocco opened it. On the page was a headline that hit him like a punch in the eye:

IS THIS HOW THEY SPEND TAXPAYERS’ MONEY?