“I still don’t know . . . Maybe Rodrigo . . .”

“Nice, isn’t he?” a woman said to Rocco, trying to engage him.

“Fantastic,” replied the deputy chief.

“He’s the grandson of Chandelier!” said the woman.

“Fantastic,” said Rocco again.

“He’ll win plenty of national races, even if he’s only three years old!”

“Fantastic!”

Anna leaned over and whispered into Rocco’s ear: “Don’t you know how to say anything else?”

“It’s like the old joke . . .” Rocco whispered back. “‘Fantastic’ is just a nice way of saying ‘Who gives a flying fuck!’” The deputy chief turned around and realized that they weren’t in the very last row. Behind them was Luca Grange, glass in hand, laughing softly.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said.

From up close he looked even more like a sled dog.

“I didn’t mean to be offensive.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. I don’t know anything about horses, either. They’re like a fever: you either have it or you don’t.” He extended his hand. “Luca Grange.”

“Rocco Schiavone. This is Anna . . .”

“Cherubini!” She filled in the name that he had clearly forgotten as she shook Luca’s hand. Rocco was ashamed of himself. Forgetting a woman’s last name was an unforgivable slight. And Anna made that clear to him, glaring fire at him. “Shall we go in?” Rocco suggested to Anna.

“You go ahead. I want to stay here to look at Chandelier’s grandson.”

“Fantastic!” said Rocco, but Anna didn’t laugh.

THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT FOR HIM TO DO BUT TO WANDER through the house all on his lonesome. He was suddenly reminded of the film where Peter Sellers, mistakenly admitted to the party of a wealthy movie producer, bumbles into an endless succession of embarrassing gaffes. Rocco had one of the servers pour him a glass of red wine, and then he grabbed an hors d’oeuvre off a tray, a small tart of a vague color, hard to pin down exactly. “What is this?” he asked the server.

“Salt-cod paste with a corn polenta purée and . . .”

He gulped it down in a single mouthful. It was exquisite. He had just managed to swallow the food when his throat locked tight. At the far end of the room, standing and talking with two smiling ladies, was Walter Cremonesi, an old acquaintance of his. The right-wing terrorist, an extremist who’d been in Italian prisons since 1976, had a criminal record as long as his arm, featuring burglaries, armed robberies, and a couple of murders. The deputy chief hadn’t seen him in years. He was pushing sixty, but he looked hale and healthy.

What’s he doing in Aosta? Rocco wondered. And his mind flew straight to the thought of Adele murdered in his bed.