Baldi paid him no mind. “Then you discovered that no fewer than seven of this Cuntrera’s victims, all of them small businessmen who owed him money, had one thing in common: namely, a bank account with the Vallée Savings Bank. Are we on the same page so far?”

The deputy chief did no more than nod.

“And so I started digging into the papers of this bank, whose director, Laura Turrini, you’ve already met. And here’s the second puzzle piece: Dottoressa Turrini . . . Well, she’s no longer employed by the bank. Fired, given her pink slip in the course of a single afternoon.”

“That sounds odd.”

“And now let’s move on to the third detail, which is the most concerning one. Specifically, Carlo Cutrì. Who is supposed to have been the accomplice of the late Cuntrera.”

“Right. A resident of Lugano, no?”

“Carlo Cutrì doesn’t exist.”

Rocco’s eyes opened wide.

“No,” Baldi specified. “No such person. At his address, there is a French family, and there isn’t the faintest shade of any Carlo Cutrì in the lists of Lugano residents.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. It means that Carlo Cutrì is a fake name for someone else who controlled Mimmo Cuntrera and who organized the kidnapping of poor Chiara Berguet.”

Rocco lit a cigarette. “Or else it’s a real name, but now he’s hiding behind a fake one.”

“Right.”

“A fine mess, Dottore.”

“I have the distinct sensation that we’re always several steps behind.”

“Behind who?”

“That’s what I don’t know, Schiavone! If I did know, I would have solved the case by now, don’t you think? The sensation I have is that we’re closing the stable door—”

“—after the horse has bolted. Yes, and it’s a nasty sensation.”

“And put out that cigarette. Who told you that you could smoke in here?” Rocco obeyed with a grimace as the judge went back to his desk. He noticed that the photo of the judge’s wife had fallen facedown. The judge picked it up, and for the first time since Schiavone had set foot in that office, he turned it to face his interlocutor. He made the introductions: “My wife . . .” Rocco smiled. Maybe the judge’s marriage was intact after all. After all the back-and-forth since September with the photograph traveling from drawer to trash can and then back onto the desktop, but only facedown, after months and months, peace and serenity seemed to have returned to the judge’s little family. Baldi leaned over to make sure the dog wasn’t doing any damage to the furnishings of his office.

“What breed is it?”

“She’s a Saint-Rhémy-en-Ardennes.”

“A what?”

“A very rare breed. And bipolar, into the mix. They can be extremely accommodating or else terribly aggressive. It all depends on the owner’s personality.”