“Yeah, it’s completely insane.” Arms folded, he stood in front of the windows and jerked his chin toward the holes in the lawn next to the swimming pool. “Those bloody Asian red-bellied squirrels are taking over the place. They chewed through the wires to the pump, can you imagine?”

I focused on the article.

“That money would have been stashed back there when you were still dean,” I said.

“Maybe. I don’t know,” he said, frowning but not turning toward me. “Did you notice we’ve had to cut down one of the palm trees? Red palm weevils—”

“I don’t suppose you know who owned the bag?”

“What bag?”

“The bag the money was found in.”

“How would I know?” Richard bridled. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

“A journalist told me that the cops found two sets of fingerprints. One set belonged to Vinca Rockwell. Remember her?”

At the mention of Vinca’s name, Richard turned back to me and sat down in a battered leather armchair.

“Of course. The girl who disappeared. She had…the freshness of a rose.”

He screwed up his eyes, and, to my great surprise, the former French teacher began reciting François de Malherbe:

But she was of this earth, where all great beauty knows

a fate so forlorn;

And Rose, she did live as live the wild roses,

the space of a morn.

He was silent for a moment. Then, for the first time, he asked a question.

“You said something about two sets of fingerprints?”

“The cops don’t know who the other set belongs to yet. But I’d stake my life on them being yours, Dad.”

“How dare you,” he said, startled.

I sat facing him and showed him the screenshots of the bag that Pianelli had sent me.

“Remember this bag? It’s the one you always had when we played tennis together. You loved the calfskin leather and the dark greenish patina.”

He picked up his glasses again and peered at the phone. “I can’t really see anything. The screen’s too small.”

He grabbed the remote control on the coffee table and turned on the TV as though saying the conversation was at an end. He flipped through the sports channels, watched a few seconds of the Giro d’Italia, then turned back to the Madrid Open semifinal between Nadal and Djokovic. “It’s not the same without Federer.”

I was not about to give up.

“Maybe you could take a look at these. Don’t worry, this time they’re all close-ups.”

I handed him the brown envelope. He took out the photographs and studied them, keeping one eye on the tennis match. I expected him to be unnerved, but he simply shook his head and sighed.

“Who gave you these?”

“What does it matter? Tell me what they mean!”

“You’ve seen the photos. Do you really need me to draw you a diagram?”