“What do you mean?” asked Selva from the desk where he was reading through the file of the now ex-inmate of his prison.

“Baiocchi was from Rome. Like his family, am I right?”

“You are right.”

“So why would someone named Enzo keep a holy card of Saint Franco Hermit? Does your file tell you what his father’s name was?”

Selva leafed through the pages. “His father’s name was Giovanni, his mother’s name was Concetta, a brother named Luigi, and a sister named Clara. No Franco, no Francis.”

Rocco turned the pages of the encyclopedia. “In fact, a religious man named Enzo, which is short for Vincenzo, would have a Saint Vincent holy card, wouldn’t he? Instead, Saint Franco Hermit. Who’s not even a saint anyone’s ever heard of.”

“So why do you say that it adds up?”

Rocco shut the encyclopedia. “It’s a message that he received from who knows who. He was trying to track down Corrado Pizzuti, obviously, and someone informed him where he could find him. So he’s the one who killed him.”

“Enzo Baiocchi killed . . . ?”

“He killed Corrado Pizzuti, a two-bit hoodlum. And he killed Adele Talamonti, a dear friend of mine.” Rocco set the encyclopedia aside. “I have to catch this guy.”

IT WAS A MAY NIGHT IN ROME, THE KIND THAT GRABS YOU BY the stomach and takes your breath away, when the scent of the linden trees finally overwhelms the smell of exhaust fumes, and the Tiber was no longer a slow ooze of slime moving lazily down to the sea but a ribbon of gold wrapped around a gift-wrapped present. The stars were all out, and so was the moon. From Furio’s terrace overlooking the Tiber Island, you could see the line of traffic along the Lungotevere and the pedestrians slaloming between the cars stopped at the red light. A girl was leading a balloon along on a string tied to her wrist. Furio came out with a tray and, on it, four mojitos. “Here you are . . .” And he distributed the glasses to his friends, then sat down. He lit a cigarette and listened. Seba was looking Rocco in the eye, while Brizio had his legs stretched out and was toying with a nail clipper. The wind was tossing the sago palms in their terra-cotta vases.

“All right, Rocco, we’re ready,” said Seba.

“I found out who it was. And unlike what you and Brizio have done, I share the information I obtain.”

Sebastiano sniffed. Brizio went on toying with the nail clipper.

“What can I tell you, Rocco? We figured out who had committed the armed robbery and—”

“I know everything. Luckily I have at least one friend who tells me things!”

Seba glared daggers at Furio, whose only response was to give him the finger.

“And what did you find out?”

“Enzo Baiocchi.”

Brizio and Furio leapt in their chairs. Sebastiano instead remained impassive.