He looked down at his notepad. He’d only marked down two names: Antonio Biga and Stefania Zaccaria. He underlined them three times.

The time had come to catch a plane to the capital.

“Caterina? It’s me, Rocco . . .”

“Dottore! How nice to hear your voice, sir. We’ve been missing you!”

“Don’t tell lies. You’re no good at it. Listen, I need a favor . . .”

“I imagine it has something to do with Lupa, am I right?”

“Exactly. Will you keep her for me?”

“I’ll swing by to pick her up tomorrow morning.”

Too bad, thought Rocco. He would have preferred that same evening.

“Thanks, Caterì. Till tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Dottore.”

“Caterì, help me remember something. Weren’t we on a first-name basis now?”

There was a brief pause. Then Caterina smiled, or at least that’s what Rocco imagined. “Till tomorrow, Rocco.”

The deputy chief felt a stirring in his loins.

Maybe he was coming back to life.

Wednesday

Taxi . . . taxi . . . do you need a taxi?”

At the arrivals level at Fiumicino Airport, there was a crowd of men with prominent bellies approaching passengers and whispering that magic word: “Taxi . . .”

Rocco said nothing. He was striding briskly toward the parking lot for medallion taxis. It wasn’t the act of a law-abiding citizen. It was just that the medallion cabbies had paid more than the price of an apartment for that permit, and it seemed offensive to rely on these unlicensed interlopers.

“Taxi, Dotto’? Can I take you into the city?”

“What taxi are you talking about!” snapped the deputy chief.

“Then how are you going to get home?”

Rocco planted both feet on the ground and surveyed the illegal driver. “I’m going home in my department-issued car. I’m a deputy chief of police. Now are you going to get the fuck out from underfoot, or do I have to lose my temper?”

The unlicensed interloper took two steps back, shooting glances at his colleagues, who all looked down at the ground and stopped pestering passengers for a moment. “Now you don’t have to snarl at us, strictly speaking, Dotto’ . . . We need to make a living, too, you know!”

“That’s a matter of opinion!”

The sun was shining, but the exhaust fumes stripped away all poetry from that blue and cloudless sky. Rocco climbed into the first cab available.

“Via Poerio, please . . . number 12.”

“On my way,” said the cabbie, switching on his meter. “Beautiful day, eh?”

“Right. But now, all the way to Monteverde, I’d appreciate a little silence. Nothing about soccer, A.S. Roma, S.S. Lazio, thieving politicians, the collapse of the city, it’s all the Communists’ fault, and all that bullshit. Thank you!”

“You don’t have to add the vinegar, Dotto’. I’ll be silent as a graveyard.”