“We’re talking about the pistol that was fired in your apartment. The 6.35 mm. I’ve done some cross-referencing and you know what? That pistol was used three years ago, in an armed robbery in a bank in Cinecittà, and someone was shot to death. The victim was called Ugo Ferri, a retiree. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, his bad luck. Caught in the crossfire.”

“Go on.”

“Two bank robbers. One was arrested, the other one got away, and that pistol was never recovered. And now here it is again, in the hands of the mysterious murderer of your poor late friend Adele.”

“Do you know the name of the bank robber who was arrested?”

“Hold on, I’ve got it right here . . .” Rocco heard the sound of shuffling sheets of paper. “Now, where the fuck . . . Ah, here it is! Now then . . . Pasquale Scifù . . . he died in prison a few years later.”

“And the other one . . .”

“Nothing. Scifù never talked.”

“Were there any witnesses, anything that might help me?”

“Not much to speak of. The only thing is that while Scifù was of relatively normal stature, we hear that the other guy was a giant. He’s the one who fired.”

“Thanks. You’ve been invaluable.”

“Useful?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“At last! He’s finally starting to see the glass half full!”

“What glass?”

ANTONIO SCIPIONI AND ITALO PIERRON WERE GAZING AT THE television set, and had been for three hours now. Their eyes were starting to blur, as lines and colors merged together.

Rocco Schiavone strode into the room like a gust of wind.

“How are we doing?”

“Ah, thanks for the pastries . . . they were excellent,” said Antonio.

“Rocco, we can’t take it much longer. We’ve been looking at the same things for hours . . .” Italo replied, rubbing his face.

“And do you mind telling me what you’ve seen?”

“Let’s do this, sir. We’ll show you the images on fast-forward, and while we watch we can give you a running commentary.”

“Antonio, but weren’t you on a first-name basis with me, just like Italo?”

“Ah . . . yes . . . it’s just that in the office . . .”

“If there’s no one else, then what do you care?”

“You’re right, Dottore. So, shall I go ahead, sir?”

“Go on.”

Antonio pushed a button on the remote control, and the black-and-white images started up.

“This is video camera one.”

Sped up like this, it was like watching a Soviet formalist film.

“All right. So here’s the brawl. You can see the three convicts here at the left of the screen attacking the Moroccan.”

“Tunisian,” Italo corrected him.

“Right. Then these two other North Africans come running to help the Tunisian, you see? One of them jumps onto the back of the scarface . . .”

“Erik,” Italo specified.

“And then the other assumes karate stances as he tries to hit the negro.”