“He wished to be a race car driver but that was a dream, of course; driving is not in his blood.”

Unlike Amelia Sachs’s, he thought ruefully, and reminded himself once more to take the Mégane in for a checkup. The gearbox did not sound healthy.

Beatrice said, “He merely dabbled at the sport, Arci did. But he was a handsome man.”

“Was? Did he die in an accident?”

“No. By ‘was’ I mean that he is in the past tense to Daniela. As a handsome driver, however mediocre, he had plenty of opportunities for bunga-bunga.”

The expression, popularized by a former Italian prime minister, defied exact definition but, then, a likely meaning could be easily ascribed.

Beatrice looked at the bags and set them on examination tables. She noted the chain-of-evidence cards (his name only, not Amelia’s) and placed her signature below his. “He worked for a racing team in Modena. Doing basic things, assisting mechanics, shepherding cars here and there. What happened was that he and Daniela returned from Eurovision—”

“She went to Eurovision?”

“That’s right.” Beatrice gave a dismissing laugh, nearly a snort, and had to reseat her complicated glasses. “If you can believe that.”

“You don’t care for it?” Ercole asked her, after a thoughtful pause.

“Who on earth would? It’s juvenile.”

“Some feel that way, yes,” he said quickly.

Based on an Italian festival that started six decades ago, Sanremo, Eurovision was a televised songwriting and -performing contest, countries competing against one another in a theatrical show that was lavishly and gaudily produced. The music was criticized as being bubblegum, with a patriotic topping and political bias. Still, Ercole loved it. He had been six times. He had tickets for the next Grand Final. Two tickets.

Ever hopeful, Ercole Benelli.

“They returned from the show and found police waiting at his flat. He had been selling fuel-system secrets to a competing team. The charges resulted in a fine only but in Italy, of course, people take driving very seriously. I myself was personally offended.”

“You like car races?”

She said fervently, “I go to Formula One whenever I can. One day I will own a Maserati, the coupe. Used, of course. It will have to be. A Ferrari…well, that is beyond my dreams, on a Police of State salary. Do you attend?”

“Not often. I can’t find the time.” In fact, auto racing held no interest for him whatsoever. “I enjoyed the movie Rush.” He couldn’t remember the drivers’ names. And one was Italian.

“Ah, brilliant, wasn’t it? Niki Lauda, an artist! He drove for Ferrari, of course. I own the DVD. I attend races quite a lot. But they aren’t for everybody. You must wear sound protection, if you go. I take my earmuffs, the ones I use on the police pistol range. They also help me get good seats. People see Police of State printed on the cups and they make way for me.”

For some reason he said, “I race pigeons.”

“The birds?”