“Unless experience misleads me, Dottore, you’re not going to get much out of a guy like that . . . and in any case I’ve already requested and obtained a transfer order for him,” Martinelli said.

“Fine.” Baldi sighed. “One last thing. Do you have the video footage from the security cameras?”

“Certainly. Do you want it?”

Baldi said nothing. He just nodded. Then he looked at Italo Pierron, who had remained silent throughout the questioning. “Pierron, arrange to take delivery of the material from Dottor Martinelli.”

“Ah, Dottore,” Pietra said. “Tomorrow I’m going to have to head back to Turin.”

Baldi nodded. “Pierron, any news concerning the mental defective?”

Italo threw both arms wide, disconsolate.

“Officer, just remember that you promised to deliver him to me.”

“Of course, Dottor Baldi! Don’t worry!”

“ARE YOU LOOKING FOR SOMEONE WHO WAS BEHIND BARS?” Seated at her little writing desk in front of the window, Marina is doodling on a sheet of paper, random meaningless patterns. She doesn’t like it here at the residence. Not much room—she feels confined. She’d like to go back to a normal living situation, I know that.

“Maybe . . .” I answer her. “Otherwise, why would they have waited so long to lash out at me?”

“Maybe they were just out of the country.”

“Good point. That’s another suggestion I’ll have to give to De Silvestri.”

“You never talk to me about your work.”

“Because that’s not my work. I’m talking about a son of a bitch who shot Adele to death when he was actually trying to kill me. It’s called survival.”

“Obfuscate,” she says to me, pulling out her usual notepad. “Isn’t that a lovely word? ‘Obfuscate.’ It gives the idea of someone scowling like a guard dog.”

“But what does it mean?”

“You don’t know? It’s important, Rocco. Very important.”