“Italo!” he called after him.

“What is it?”

“At the Hotel Pavone in Nus, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“But wasn’t that with Pietro Berguet?”

“Exactly. You remember? I told you that his wife had been right when she said that her husband was stepping out on her.”

Rocco nodded. “Where’s Caterina?”

“Her?” Italo said contemptuously. “She was up in the police chief’s office. Do you need to talk to her?”

“Yes, and right now!”

ROCCO SCHIAVONE AND DEPUTY INSPECTOR CATERINA RISPOLI got out of the car and started walking up Via Aubert.

“Let me understand . . . Lupa is at your apartment, right?”

“Right,” Caterina replied sarcastically. “And I’ll give her back to you when I’m good and ready!”

“Are you mad at me?”

“You bet I am! You took off and left me standing there like a complete fool. I was supposed to come with you to Rome! At least tell me who it is!”

“Not now. When you bring me back my dog.”

“If you want her, you have to come get her. I’m not at your beck and call. I’m a police inspector, not a dog sitter!”

Rocco sped up his pace. “You really resort to some ignoble extortion.”

“But at least I keep my word.”

“Are you sure that this perfume store is well stocked?”

“It’s the best one in the city, trust me. What did you say the perfume was called again?”

“Carnal Flower.”

“Never heard of it . . .”

“INDUBITABLY, SIR, YOU HAVE EXCELLENT TASTE.” THE woman behind the counter in the perfumery shop, slightly zaftig, dressed in an elegant knee-length navy-blue skirt-and-jacket ensemble, raised her finger to her lips accompanying the gesture with a complicit little smile. “I’ll get it for you right away . . .” Swaying dizzyingly down the row of shelves, she pulled out a drawer in a briar-wood cabinet. The dozens of mirrors in the shop echoed the same image of Rocco in a rumpled corduroy suit and a pair of Clarks desert boots of an undefined blackish hue and the deputy inspector’s uniform, which hung on her body with all the elegance of a burlap bag draped over a Bernini statue.

“It’s an exclusive perfume for a special niche market . . . very, very commendable.” The woman came back to the counter with a box in hand. Black and red. “It’s a perfume by Frédéric Malle,” she whispered, as if they were discussing a shipment of heroin to be peddled on the streets of the city.

“Forgive my ignorance, I don’t know who that is,” said Rocco. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“No,” Caterina replied.

The shopkeeper’s eyes opened wide. “He’s the grandson of Serge Heftler-Louiche, one of the founders of the maison de parfums Christian Dior!” And as she shifted into a distinctly French pronunciation, she pursed her lips like a chicken butt.

“Mon dieu!” exclaimed Rocco.