“Goddamn it to fucking hell! There’s no time. You come straight over to the court building.”

“What’s happening?”

“We need to rush straight over to Varallo prison. Is there any hope of tracking down Schiavone?”

“I’ll do everything I can. At the very outside, I can deliver him to you tomorrow.”

“You’re on your way up, Pierron.”

“Dottore, why are we going to Varallo prison?”

“Someone murdered Mimmo Cuntrera!”

STEFANIA ZACCARIA WAS A PATIENT IN THE TRAUMATOLOGY ward at Rome’s Santo Spirito hospital. She was resting on a bed in a single room, her right leg elevated in traction, one arm in a plaster cast, the other leg in a brace, and a bandage covering her left eye. Her lips, reconstructed by some completely incompetent plastic surgeon, were swollen and covered with scabs. At the foot of the bed was an elderly woman intent at her crocheting. Sunlight poured in through the window, brightening the bureaucratic pistachio-green paint on the walls, a hue that always seemed to give its utmost in settings like hospitals or prisons. Stefania Zaccaria had built up a small prostitution empire all her own. She’d bought dozens of one-room basement apartments in a variety of Roman neighborhoods and had parked Slavic and South American girls in them. A nice little revenue stream that, even in a year when business was lean, still brought in several hundred thousand euros. Rocco had put her behind bars not once but twice, and yet she’d always managed to wriggle out and back onto the streets somehow. The power of money and skilled lawyers, many of whom were also happy customers of her ring of girls. When Rocco entered the room, the old woman who kept Zaccaria company put down her crocheting and lifted her index finger to the tip of her nose. “Shhh . . .” she told Rocco. “She’s sleeping.”

The deputy chief walked over to the bed. Stefania Zaccaria had her one good eye closed. But her eyelid was quivering just a little too much. Rocco decided to go along with the game. “How is she?”

“So-so,” the old woman replied. “And who are you? A friend?”

“A close friend. How did she get hurt so badly?”

“She crashed her car in Casalotti. She slammed right into a highway-department cement truck.”

“It’s just a lucky thing she’s alive,” said Rocco. Then he edged closer. Stefania was covered with scratches on her forehead and cheekbones. “How long has she been like this?”

“Counting today, it’s been three days.”

“What do her doctors say? Can I take her with me down to police headquarters?”

“To police headquarters?” the woman repeated, dropping her crochet hook on the bed cover.

“No, huh? Well then, I can always come in with the judge. Stefà, here we go again. I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to come in and spend some time behind bars.”

Stefania continued to keep her unbandaged eye closed.