“I heard that you’re back in the office. That makes me happy. But at the same time, I’m saddened by the knowledge that you didn’t come upstairs to see me. And yet you know that I was trying to get in touch with you. Have you seen the newspapers?”

“I’d say so.”

Costa straightened the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be offended by the things they say about you.”

“Are you referring to Buccellato? She’s going a little heavy-handed, don’t you think!”

Costa grunted. His hatred for those news vendors, as he called them, showed no sign of abating, still as strong as when he originally conceived it, after his wife left him for a reporter in Turin. Then Costa shook his head to clear it of the columns, the fonts, the articles above and below the fold, the jump lines, the editorials, and the bylines that danced before his eyes, mocking not only him but also his office and his efforts. He gave Rocco a level look. “How are you, Schiavone? Do you feel like you’re up to coming back to work?”

“No, Dottor Costa. I’d say that I’m not.”

“I understand. Are you going to bring me the son of a bitch who broke into your apartment?”

“I certainly hope so,” Rocco said, thinking back to the muttered promise he’d made to his friend Sebastiano that if he ever found Adele’s murderer, he’d turn him over to his friend so that Sebastiano could put an end to that matter with his own bare hands. So Sebastiano could avenge his girlfriend’s death in cold blood.

“I’m relying on you.” Costa recovered his smile. “Well then, are you going to take the apartment on Via Laurent Cerise?” the police chief asked. “It’s eight hundred fifty square feet, the rent is eminently affordable. If you like, it’s already furnished. It’s on the fourth floor, and it has a burglar alarm and grates on the windows.”

“It only has one shortcoming, but it’s as big as the Matterhorn.”

“And what’s that?”

“It’s right around the corner from the prosecutor’s office.”

Costa looked at Schiavone. “If anything, that strikes me as a feature.”

“I know. That’s why we’ll stay friends. We have two very different views of life.”

Costa nodded. “You can bet on that. Speaking of views and visions, what do you have to say about what happened in prison?”

“I don’t know yet. In any case, it was certainly a murder; Cuntrera, the Mafioso who was blackmailing the Berguet family, was murdered.”

“An ugly story, in that case. Oh, and speaking of the Berguets, look over there . . .”