Drawn closer like a moth to a flame, he didn’t even realize that he’d come within a few yards of the man, who stood almost six feet tall, skinny and lithe. All that remained of his dangerous years was a small scar under his square jaw. There was no need to expend any effort to give him the appearance of a specific animal. He’d always known it: Walter Cremonesi was a Dendroaspis polylepis, better known as a black mamba. His eyes were lively and wide-set, his mouth was lipless, and his lean body seemed ready to dart forward from one moment to the next. But the thing that he most had in common with the reptile was the shape of his head. Like a coffin. Walter swiveled his small dark eyes toward Rocco, and a barely perceptible light seemed to flash in his irises. The close-shaven top of his head reflected the halogen spotlights illuminating the little corner bar. Rocco furrowed his brow.

“Rocco Schiavone! I’m delighted to see you again.”

Rocco drew even closer. The two women who were chatting with Cremonesi had lost their smiles. They seemed embarrassed. They ventured only the slightest nods of the head to greet the new arrival.

“I’m much less delighted than you are, Walter Cremonesi. Much less delighted. And I don’t remember that we were ever on a first-name basis.”

Walter nodded, maintaining a half-hearted smile. His upper lip pulled back, briefly displaying a mouthful of teeth as small and sharp and straight as knife blades.

“May I introduce my friends?”

“If they’re friends of yours, I’ll have to decline the honor.”

“Oaf!” said the taller of the two women, who then left the little group. The shorter one, a few years younger, seemed amused.

“That’s just the way our friend the policeman is. A little brusque, but he’s always been tons of fun, you know that, Amelia?”

“Ah, so you’re a policeman?” asked the young woman. “Pleasure to know you, my name is Amelia.” And she extended a handful of inch-long Ferrari-red fingernails. She’d had some work done on her mouth by a plastic surgeon, while a tattoo artist had put a small bee on her neck. But Rocco didn’t shake hands; he just threw back the glassful of wine.

“Do you like my tattoo?” the young woman asked.

“No. I like bees, though.”

“So do I. And do you know why? Because they flit from flower to flower.” And with a faint smile she took her leave of that individual with a two-day growth of whiskers and a corduroy suit, so completely out of place at such a chic gathering. “See you around, Dottor Schiavone . . .” said the young woman as she brushed by, just inches from Rocco’s nose.

The scent of tuberose flowers. Too much of it, thought the deputy chief.