Getting a meeting with Antonio Biga and tracking down Stefania Zaccaria. No simple matter, either one. And most likely he would come up empty-handed. But he had to try, at least, look those people in the eye and get a whiff of their stench. Rocco felt things directly on his skin, first and foremost, and then he processed them in his res cogitans. There are vibrations and waves between people that are sometimes worth more than a hundred thoughts. It reminded him of his uncle’s unfailing advice whenever they played cards together: “Rocco, never forget Signor Chitarrella’s rule: a glance with your own eyes is always better than a hundred thoughts in your mind!”

The road from Fiumicino to Rome was jammed solid. The driver took a shortcut that would run through the Magliana quarter and take them to the Via Portuense. Filth everywhere. And colossal potholes that made the taxi lurch and jolt. It felt as if they were driving through a neighborhood in Beirut during the Lebanese civil war. He was reminded of a song by a Roman singer-songwriter who compared Rome to a bitch surrounded by swine.

“DOTTOR SCHIAVONE!” THE SHOUT OF SURPRISE ECHOED IN the stairwell. “How nice to see you again!”

“How’s it going?”

“Fine. And you?”

“How do you think it’s going? Tell me, though, has anyone come to see me in the past few days?”

The concierge on Via Poerio furrowed her brow and gave it a moment’s thought. “No, Dottore. Aside from the usual bills, and I just always send those up to you in Aosta.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll find the apartment a little dirtier than usual. This week the cleaning lady didn’t come. Her daughter’s having a baby.”

“Not a problem.”

He stepped into the elevator and rode up to the top floor. To the penthouse. His home.

There was a stale, shut-up smell in the air, as he’d expected, and the furniture was draped in plastic sheeting. He didn’t even glance at his apartment. He went straight to the bathroom, took a quick rinse, changed his shirt, and went back out.

BRIZIO WAS WAITING FOR HIM AT THE USUAL BAR, ON PIAZZA Santa Maria in Trastevere. They hadn’t laid eyes on each other in nine months. Brizio had shaved his mustache and combed his hair with a part on one side. He could still turn women’s heads, and just as reliably, Brizio turned his own head to look at them. Since he’d turned sixteen, this was the only pursuit that Brizio had ever undertaken with even a modicum of serious intent. Then he’d met Stella, and he’d calmed down somewhat.

“You’ve aged, Rocco.”

“So have you . . .”

They hugged. “How much time do you have?”

“As much as it takes.”

“How is Seba?”

“We’ll see him later, with Furio. Shall we take a walk?”

“So let’s take this walk.”