Standing before him was Officer D’Intino, looking at him out of empty eyes, holding his uniform cap in one hand. D’Intino, a native of the far-flung lands of Abruzzo, was the worst punishment that Aosta had held in store for him since his arrival at police headquarters. Worse than the snow, worse than the cold.

“Why are you here? What do you want? Didn’t you hear me shouting?”

“But I used the secret knock.” And he smiled.

“The secret knock?”

The officer raised his fist and gave three sharp raps on the wood, all the while smiling at the deputy chief.

“What are you talking about?”

“Our secret knock, no?”

“No. You and I don’t have any secret knock. Plus, three knocks on the door, what kind of damned secret knock is that? D’Intino, for fuck’s sake, you have to learn that when you knock on a door and someone yells out ‘Who is it?’ you’re supposed to answer them!”

Lupa barked as if to emphasize the absolutely linear logic of the point.

“What a handsome boy,” said D’Intino.

“What a pretty girl,” Rocco corrected him. “She’s a she!”

“Oh. What breed is she?”

“She’s a Saint-Rhémy-en-Ardennes.”

“A . . . ?”

“Saint-Rhémy-en-Ardennes. An extremely rare breed created by Baron Gaston de Veilleuse in the eighteenth century. Originally from the city of Sedan, it’s not very well-known because it’s a breed full of contradictions, but it’s also excellent company. It alternates moments of enormous affection with outbursts of ferocity and an estrangement from the well-known instincts for fraternity and friendship normally found in the canine species. Therefore, I’d advise you not to venture too close, she might lick you or she might take your hand off at the wrist . . . Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a Saint-Rhémy-en-Ardennes, D’Intino!”

“No, no, now that I think about it, yes . . . Saint-Rhémy . . .”

“. . . en-Ardennes. Now, would you care to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“There’s a thing . . . a bad thing . . . that happened at the prison in Varallo.”

“All right. And now do you want to tell me what happened at the prison in Varallo?”

“A dead man!”

Rocco nodded. “You know something, D’Intino? At police headquarters, if you search carefully, there’s a man. Easy to find, because he must weigh about 265 pounds. He has an agreeable face, cheerful, and very, very intelligent . . .”

“Deruta?”

“Didn’t I say very intelligent? Do you think I just described Deruta?”

D’Intino said nothing.

“Fine. This man answers to the name of Carlo Pietra. He is the deputy chief of the Turin mobile squad. For the time being, you’re going to have to speak to him because yours truly is on obligatory leave until he feels like coming back. Have I made myself clear?”