“Been better.”

There was a strange light in her eyes, and Rocco couldn’t tell whether it was a gleam of anger or profound sadness. She was dressed in black. The sweater over which a handsome silver pendant hung was black. The knee-length skirt was black. The ankle-high shoes were black. She wore no socks. She reached up and brushed her hair back. “I’ve been waiting for you for days.”

“I know. I only went back to the office today.”

“Are you free this evening?”

“I’m always free.”

“We’re having a party. Will you come?”

“I’m not in the right mood for a party.”

“You’ll like this one. The crème de la crème of Aosta’s high society will be there.”

“Will your lover be there, too?”

“You’re my lover.”

“No, I mean your official lover. That architect Bucci Something-or-Other.”

Anna smiled. “Bucci Rivolta, is it really possible that you can’t get that name into your head? I don’t know if he’ll be there. But you need to relax. He’s not my lover anymore.”

“You know what? I’m starting to get a little tired of people who want to shoot me!”

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t even have a permit to carry a gun. Eight o’clock at my place?”

Rocco nodded.

“Do you have a black suit?”

“What, are we going to a memorial service?”

“No, it’s just that it’s formal, and black is elegant.”

“Black isn’t elegant. Black is funereal. I’ll come dressed as nicely as I know how.” Then he pushed the button on the remote and the running lights on the Volvo blinked on and off.

“And with that the conversation is officially over,” Anna said to herself. “One thing, please, if you’re going to run late or not come at all, will you call me?”

“Of course, of course.” Rocco climbed into the car. Anna knocked on the window. Rocco opened it. “Yes . . . ?”

“Would it be out of line to ask you for a kiss?”

Rocco leaned out, barely brushed his lips over hers, and put the car into reverse.

“I’ve kissed warmer gravestones,” Anna murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” the woman said as she turned on her heel and headed for home.

“But why? Why!” shouted the deputy chief as he slammed his hand down hard onto the steering wheel.

THE ONLY TELEVISION SET WORKING AT POLICE HEADQUARTERS was the one in the waiting room. Rocco chased out two officers who were resting up after a twenty-four-hour shift. While Italo was working with the cables around the video equipment, Antonio Scipioni walked in with a packet of DVDs in one hand.

“All right.” Rocco walked to meet him. “Are these all of them?”

“These are the recordings made by security cameras numbers four, five, and six out in the courtyard.”

“Excellent. Are you done, Italo?”

Pierron turned to look at the deputy chief. “All done.”