Rocco pulled out a cigarette. He lit it. “No, Italo. Not right away. It’s too hot right now. Later, maybe, when the waters have subsided, he’ll give it another try. But I’m going to catch him before he gets a second chance.” He took a puff and exhaled the smoke in a plume toward the ceiling. “Instead, why don’t you tell me something. How are we going to catalogue this new case in Varallo? This is a tenth degree, because it means I still have to investigate the Mimmo Cuntrera murder, but it’s something more. Because it’s inside a prison.”

“A ten, summa cum laude?”

“We’ve used that before. Let’s try a ten, ne plus ultra, this time. Add it to the chart.”

“I’ll make sure I do. By the way . . . there’s a person waiting for you, out in the hall.”

Rocco rolled his eyes. “Who is it?”

“Giuliana Berguet, remember her?”

“Of course I remember her. What does she want now? Her daughter’s back home, isn’t she? Please, I just don’t have the strength. Tell her I’m not here. Tell her I imploded, that I tumbled into a space-time wormhole, that—”

“Rocco, do you want some advice? Talk to her for a few minutes. It’s worth it.”

“Why?”

Italo smiled slyly. “Judge Baldi really wants you to.” And he left the room without closing the door behind him. Sure enough, just a few seconds later, Giuliana Berguet came through it. Rocco stood up and walked toward her to shake hands with her. “Signora Berguet, I’m delighted to see you!”

The woman’s face was more relaxed than the last time he had seen her; the bags under her eyes were gone now, but a dark light poured from her veiled eyes. She smiled only with her mouth, and she blinked slowly as she did. “Dottor Schiavone, please forgive me . . . I hope you’ll forgive me for intruding upon you in your office.”

“What can I do for you, Signora?”

“You’ve already done so much.” Giuliana Berguet sat down across the desk from him. Rocco sniffed the air quickly. The cigarette had covered the penetrating odor of grass that so often wafted through the air between those walls. “I just came to thank you. You’ve given me back my daughter.”

“How is Francesca?” Rocco asked, taking a seat.

“Chiara,” the woman corrected him.

“Excuse me, of course, Chiara. How is she?”

“I don’t really know . . .” she said, drawing a deep sorrowful breath and emitting a groan, the kind that only a mother thinking of her children’s fate can expel. “She won’t go back to school, she hardly speaks, she eats even less. She doesn’t want any psychological counseling. My husband claims that time is the best medicine.”

“Don’t believe him,” retorted the deputy chief. “All time will do for you is make you get older.”