“Pretty, isn’t she? Do you want to take her out for a spin, Schiavò? A girl like Amelia, though, might be a little much for a deputy chief. Or maybe not. Are you still rounding out your salary these days?”

“You know something? Seeing you a free man out on the street is worse than a curse word in church.”

Walter turned serious. “I’ve paid my debt to society.”

“I doubt that very much. I think you had a couple of centuries to serve, if my memory doesn’t deceive me.”

“What about good conduct? I served ten years. Doesn’t that seem long enough?”

“Go tell that to the bank teller you murdered on Via Nomentana.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“And I’m just waiting for my invitation to play tournament tennis at Wimbledon.”

“Anyway, I’m a free man now, no different from you.”

“You may well be a free man, but you’re not even fucking remotely like me. What are you doing in Aosta?”

“I live in Val d’Aosta, Deputy Chief. I make wine. In fact, what do you think of it?” And he pointed to the glass that Rocco was still holding in one hand. “I make it. I have a vineyard. What you just tasted is my Primot red. A wine that’s holding up its end of the bargain. Do you have any other questions for me? Because my concept of an enjoyable evening isn’t being subjected to the third degree.”

“I’d very much like to know where you were on the evening of Thursday, May 10.”

This time Walter burst out laughing. “I can’t believe it. Is this seriously an interrogation? Here? Now? At a party?”

“Do you remember, yes or no?”

Walter rolled his beady eyes, merrily and mockingly. “May 10, May 10 . . . No, I don’t remember. I might have been at home. I might have been at the club, or I might have been overseas, I’m just not sure. I might have been fucking your wife.”

Rocco stared him in the eyes. Then with a quick swipe of his tongue, he cleaned the wine off his lips. “This is good wine. All things considered, I’m happy they let you back out on the street again, Cremonesi. Fucking you over another time will be a real pleasure.”

“If you want, you can talk to my lawyer. In fact, just look!” And he pointed to a sofa in the living room. “He’s that guy, the little short one with the mustache, talking to Judge Messina. His name is Ferretti. Counselor Stefano Ferretti. Maybe you even know the judge, he works at the Aosta courthouse. You could ask him!” And he walked off, shaking his head.