“Fucking dickhead . . .” he murmured as he looked down at that cocooned body sprawled out at his feet. Then he picked it up. Luckily, Corrado Pizzuti didn’t weigh much. At least he wouldn’t sweat. With his burden of horror he went over to the window. He opened it and peered out into the street. Empty. No cars in sight. Only the sound of the waves behind the changing booths along the beach, now locked up for winter. He tumbled the dead body out the window. It dropped with a dull thump onto the dark sidewalk next to Corrado’s car, a green Fiat Multipla. All he needed to do now was take him far away from there. He took the house keys and went out. He’d dump the corpse somewhere in the countryside, on the gravel riverbanks, deep in the canes and mud where no one would ever think to go looking for it.

Saturday

The first rush of breakfast customers had come and gone, leaving the counter strewn with crumbs and stacked espresso and cappuccino cups and saucers in the sink. Decaf espressos, caffè macchiatos, cappuccinos, pastries without custard filling or filled with marmalade, elephant ears, strudels, a surging river of requests that Tatiana had managed to satisfy by leaping madly back and forth from the Faema espresso machine to the cash register to take payment and give change. By nine in the morning Corrado still hadn’t shown up. His cell phone was turned off. Such a thing had never happened in all the time they’d run the bar together. If he was going to be late, he’d always let her know, if only with a text message. He only lived a ten-minute walk away from the café.

What’s happened to him? Tatiana kept wondering as she leaned against the sink, sipping her third espresso and staring at a random point on the floor, next to the ice cream freezer.

She didn’t notice that Barbara had come in. “Buongiorno, Tatiana!”

The Russian returned to earth and smiled. “Ciao, Barbara. Buongiorno.”

The bookseller walked up to the counter. “Where’s Corrado?”

“Exactly. Where is he? Espresso?” The customer nodded, and Tatiana swiveled around to make an espresso for her friend. “Nobody’s seen him.”

“What do you mean, nobody’s seen him? Did you call his cell phone?”

“He’s turned it off.” She emptied the portafilter and then filled it again. “Not a text, nothing at all.”

“He must have been out late last night and he’s probably just still sleeping.”

“Sure.” A rivulet of frothy hot espresso started dripping into the demitasse. “It’s like you say.” She picked up the demitasse and turned toward Barbara. “Do you want a pastry? A lemon braid?”

Barbara didn’t answer. She poured half a packet of cane sugar into her espresso and started stirring it. “Listen . . . I need to talk to you.”

“Go on.”