“THIS ISN’T SOMETHING WE CAN CRACK IN TWO SECONDS . . .” said Furio, lighting a cigarette. Sebastiano was busy making sure that the cocoa powder didn’t sink into the foamed milk. As always, Brizio was looking around. Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere at that hour of the morning was already full of people, young women for the most part.

Rocco grabbed the demitasse of espresso. “Antonio Biga won’t talk. Zaccaria has nothing to do with it. And Paoletto is just a megaphone.”

“So much so that here in Rome everybody knows about it,” Furio threw in.

“That’s what I told you,” said Brizio. “Huh, beats me, I’ve got to say. No one else comes to mind for the moment.”

“What about this Walter Cremonesi?” asked Furio.

Rocco finished his espresso and slumped against the backrest of his chair. “I don’t know. It’s an old thing . . . so why now? He could have done it a long time ago, when I was still in Rome.”

“He was just waiting for the right time?”

Brizio turned to look at his friends. “No. Cremonesi is a guy who works at the highest levels. He was up to his elbows in government-issued contracts, public works, zoning and regulations. Why take a risk when you’re riding high like that? And after all, Rocco didn’t put him behind bars all by himself.”

“That’s true,” Furio agreed. “He’d have to have taken down that deputy inspector of the special task force . . . what’s-his-name . . . I can’t quite . . .”

“Nardella,” Rocco said.

“Exactly. No, Walter Cremonesi doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“I go over it and over it again, but I just can’t figure out who it could be. And I don’t like that,” Rocco replied.

“This is a rat that’s come back out of its rat hole,” decreed Sebastiano, without once taking his eyes off his cappuccino and the pastry that he still hadn’t touched. “Someone who hasn’t been out on the streets for some time.” He finally looked up, turning his glistening eyes from one friend to the other.

“I agree,” said Rocco. “I was thinking the same thing. We need to go find someone who was doing time and just got out.”

“Right!” Sebastiano added. “I’d bet my life that the guy who shot Adele is a prison rat, and now he’s hiding out somewhere.”

At the sound of the dead woman’s name the other three looked down at the café table. But instead, Sebastiano smiled. “No, that’s not right. Let’s do this, anytime we hear Adele’s name, why don’t we just smile?”