And that’s what they did. The only problem was that Sebastiano was forced to brush away a tear. “Jesus fucking . . .” he muttered, and with his hairy oversized hand he reached out and grabbed the pastry, bit into it, and tore off half, sprinkling his beard and his jacket with flaky crumbs. Then the sounds from Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere broke into their reverie. They looked around at the Sinhalese street vendors peddling trinkets, the young people sitting on the steps and smoking. Rocco was reminded of that afternoon so many years earlier when he had spotted Marina for the very first time, on those very same steps, and decided, as the sun kissed the golden mosaics on the facade of the Basilica of Santa Maria in Trastevere, that he was going to make her his wife.

THE JOURNEY BACK FROM ROME WAS A NIGHTMARE. MORE than an hour’s delay at Fiumicino. And when he landed at Turin he discovered that someone had locked his car in the parking lot. He’d had to call a tow truck to get his Volvo and leave Caselle Airport. Only when he was in his car heading back to Aosta did he finally turn his cell phone back on. A burst of sounds announced the presence of dozens of messages. He didn’t waste time checking to see who they were from. He knew. His office, the prosecutor’s office, and Anna. He called Officer De Silvestri.

“De Silvestri, I need you again.”

“Tell me what you need, Dottore . . .” the old Roman officer replied.

“The guy I’m looking for is someone who couldn’t put his nose out on the street.”

“You’re thinking about someone who was behind bars?”

“Or maybe who was just afraid to show his face. Which means there’s something I need you to do . . .”

“A serious search. Find out who’s just been released, who’s escaped . . .”

“Have you ever seen a case where you cross-reference the information and you come up with something?”

“I sure hope so, Dottore. Just don’t make the same mistake you just made.”

“Which would be?”

“You came to Rome and you didn’t even swing by to say hello.”

“You’re right, Alfrè, you’re absolutely right.”

CATERINA WAS WAITING FOR HIM ON PIAZZA CHANOUX, IN front of the bar. As soon as Lupa saw him emerge from Via di Porta Pretoria, she came galloping to meet him and leapt at him as if she hadn’t seen him in a lifetime. Dogs have no sense of time. Whether their owner is away for five minutes or twenty years, like Ulysses in the Odyssey, it’s the same to them. Especially for dogs like Lupa, who no longer really trust people.

“Thanks, Caterina. Was she a good girl?”