In May, Trastevere was full of tourists and the Piazza Trilussa steps were already teeming with young people sipping beers and licking gelati. They crossed Ponte Sisto and headed for Via dei Giubbonari. The Tiber was a slow-flowing stream of liquid sewage. Seagulls glided between plane trees and the roofs of the apartment buildings. Two kids raced after each other on bicycles.

“Rocco, from the names you gave me . . . I hear Walter Cremonesi is supposed to be in Paris.”

“So?”

“I say ‘supposed to be’ because they’ve lost trace of him. But why would you think he has it in for you?”

“Don’t you remember? The armed robbery on Piazza Bologna?”

“Fuck, though, Rocco, that dates back to 1999!”

“True, but I still sent him to prison.”

“Do you really think that thirteen years later . . . No, I’d rule that out. And after all, Cremonesi isn’t a psychotic. He’s a piece of shit, but what good is a vendetta to him? He’s always been connected with major hitters.”

Rocco nodded, none too convinced. “What do you know about Zaccaria?”

“Stefania Zaccaria? Two days ago she had a head-on collision on the Rome beltway. Now she’s at Santo Spirito hospital. She has more plaster on her than skin. If she comes out of there alive, she’ll go make a pilgrimage to Medjugorje.”

“Two days ago . . . isn’t an alibi. What’s more, she could always have sent someone up to do the job. What about Antonio Biga? What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t been seen around much. People say that he’d teamed up with the Casamonica clan. But I don’t know about that. He’s too much of an asshole.”

“Does he live in Garbatella?”

“No. His mother’s there. He lives right around the corner from Piazza della Chiesa Nuova.”

“Is that where you’re taking me?”

“All right with you?”

IN THE LITTLE PIAZZA SURROUNDED BY THE NARROW LANES, there was an enormous fig tree, twisted and gnarly. Rocco and Brizio walked into the café across from the building where Biga lived. The deputy chief smiled at the sight of trays of tramezzini under damp cloths. “Bring me two. Tuna and baby artichokes for one and, let’s see, chicken salad for the other. And a mineral water,” he said cheerfully to the young woman serving at the counter.

Then they went and sat down at the open-air tables outside.

“Are you sure he’s not home?”

“For sure,” Brizio replied. “The neighbor told me that he’s gone out. But he’ll be back soon.”

The tramezzini came, along with an espresso for Brizio. Rocco bit into one of the tramezzini immediately. “Ahhh. That’s right . . . This is what I’ve been missing.”

“Why, what are you saying, don’t they have tramezzini in Aosta?”

“No.”

“That’s crazy . . .” said Brizio, sipping his espresso.