Under that headline, a photograph depicted Rocco hunkered down on the roof of the canopy over the front entrance to police headquarters. There followed an article, frothy and ironic, about the activity of the state police in the city, and of course the usual sharp asides about the Rue Piave case, still shrouded in the most absolute mystery. And, no surprise, the byline of Sandra Buccellato.

“I’m certain that you must have a million different explanations to offer me, Schiavone. But I only want one. The real one. What were you doing out there?”

“I was running away.”

“From what, if I might ask?”

“From the Berguets, man and wife. They’d come in to thank me. I’ve had to sit through three sessions of psychoanalysis with mother, father, and daughter. I’m sick and tired of them, I’ve got them pouring out of my eyes.”

“And in order to avoid them, you climb out of the window of my police headquarters?”

“It was a hasty, reckless act, I recognize that, but dictated by desperation more than any other—”

Costa burst out laughing. “I swear to you, Schiavone, this goes right up there with the video clip of the De Rege brothers taking on the narcotics peddlers. I’m going to have it framed!”

Rocco didn’t know whether he should laugh, too. One thing was certain: in that instant the entire city, including the prosecutor’s office, was looking at that photo. Including, perhaps, Signore and Signora Berguet. “You look like a colossal ass, Schiavone. The kind of thing that might merit a transfer to the far end of the peninsula.”

“I’ll happily accept the offer!”

Suddenly, Costa stood up. “Instead, what I wanted was to congratulate you. You’ve done an excellent job. And don’t worry, I can wrap these print-media journalists around my finger, I have a press conference at noon. This time, as you’ll understand, I’m not going to invite you to attend. What is the official version of your exceedingly . . . feline, shall we say? . . . presence atop that canopy?”

“I was fixing a leak?”

“No.”

“A safety check?”

“What are you, a fireman?”

“Why don’t you give me a suggestion?”

“You were on the roof to get your wedding ring, which you’d carelessly dropped.”

“My wedding ring?”

“That way we insist on the fact that you’re a family man, that you care about maintaining a commitment, and we conjure up a romantic aura around your person.”

“My wife is dead, Dottor Costa.”

“That’s a trivial detail.”

“Not really, not to me . . .”

“I know that. But desperate times call for desperate measures . . . You know what these news vendors are like, don’t you?”

“Speaking of which, do you know this Sandra Buccellato?”

Costa nodded like a wise old man. “Do you want the truth?”

“We’re talking with our hands on our hearts, Dottore.”