"The question is, badly for whom?" said Colomba.

16.

De Angelis had subjected Santiago to the regulation first interview the night of his arrest and then grilled him again the following evening. The suspect had refused to answer all questions, and the magistrate had had a hard time maintaining control of his temper. Now, as he returned to his office in the district attorney's office, he threw a full-blown tantrum for a good solid five minutes, until Santini knocked at the door and walked in, accompanied by a man De Angelis had never met.

"Here he is, the genius," De Angelis said sarcastically. "Any news?"

"None, Judge," Santini replied.

"If you'd conducted the operation the way you should've, we wouldn't be here playing hide-and-seek right now." Then he suddenly seemed to remember the man who had entered with Santini and who was waiting patiently. He was in his early sixties, with a thick reddish mustache speckled with gray and hair the same color. The judge held out his hand. "De Angelis."

"Maurizio Curcio," said the other man.

"I'm sorry, I thought you'd already met," Santini broke in. "Maurizio Curcio is the new chief of the Mobile Squad. He was the chief of the marshals service, in Reggio Calabria."

"Congratulations on your promotion," said De Angelis. "Though it certainly came about in unfortunate circumstances."

Curcio sat down. He was a calm man who chose his words carefully. "That's why I've ventured to bother you, to ask for some updates on the investigation now under way."

De Angelis looked at Santini; then he cleared his throat.

"Torre made an ATM withdrawal two hours after Caselli's flight from the building in Via del Redentore, in the Tor Bella Monaca quarter, where we believe that both she and Torre were being harbored by the ex-convict Santiago Hurtado," said Santini. "We believe the cash withdrawal was used to finance their illegal flight from the law."

"Hurtado is a member of some sort of South American gang, if I'm not mistaken?" asked Curcio.

"Yes," Santini replied. "He used to belong to the Cuchillos, but now he's gone out on his own."

"And just why would this person help Caselli? It's hard to imagine they have any shared interests."

"That we can't say," De Angelis said brusquely, cutting off that line of inquiry. "But maybe Caselli can tell us that when we catch her."

"Her relationship with Torre is a mystery, too. At least according to what I've read."

Santini and De Angelis exchanged a glance. "As far as we know, Caselli has involved Torre in some kind of unauthorized investigation of the kidnapping of Luca Maugeri."

"Is the boy's father still under arrest?" Curcio asked.

"Yes," De Angelis replied. "Because we think he's the guilty party."

"But Caselli doesn't agree."

"Frankly, it's hard to figure out what Caselli thinks."

Curcio stroked his mustache; a gesture that for some reason grated on De Angelis's nerves.

"Unless there's something else . . ." said the judge. "I've had a grueling day, and it's time for dinner."

"I was just wondering why you're so sure that Deputy Captain Caselli is guilty."

"Have you forgotten about the traces of explosive in her apartment?" De Angelis asked.

"I haven't forgotten and I don't have any explanation, but I remain puzzled. She was a good cop until the bombing in Paris. Did she suddenly turn into a terrorist?"

De Angelis slid back in his chair and stared at him hard, eyes narrowed. "Have you read the psychiatric report on her hospital stay?"

Curcio nodded. "Yes. PTSD, pretty normal after what happened to her."

"Did you know that she stopped her psychotherapy sessions after she was released from the hospital?"

"That happens."

"A person in her condition, with no medical attention . . . Who can say what goes on inside her head?" De Angelis tapped his temple.

"I had two encounters with her after her stay in the hospital," said Santini. "The first time she attacked me verbally for trivial reasons. The second time she hit me, without the slightest provocation. I filed a report on the incident."

"In my opinion," De Angelis continued, "she should have been dismissed from the service, not just given extended leave. I'm sorry to say this, but Rovere is partly responsible for what's happened. He was protecting her."

"Undoubtedly," said Curcio, but De Angelis understood that he meant the exact opposite. "And how does the man who tried to kill Caselli fit into the picture? Ferrari."

De Angelis arched an eyebrow. "That he tried to kill her is what she told a colleague over the phone. We don't know what actually happened."

"It's hard to imagine that it was Caselli who lured Ferrari to the hospital so she could kill him by injecting him with poison."

"According to the forensic squad, it wasn't ordinary poison," explained Santini, "but rather a mix of pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride. Substances that cause immediate paralysis and cardiac arrest. And that are very easy to get your hands on in a hospital."

"And just how do you think Caselli was planning to dispose of the corpse?" asked Curcio in an exaggeratedly courteous tone. "Or do you think that going on the run was part of her plan?"

De Angelis concealed his annoyance by fiddling with his cuff links. "We still don't have all the answers," he said. "But she might have been forced to act in order to keep Ferrari from reporting what he knew to the police."

"We believe that Ferrari was her accomplice in the bombing," Santini broke in. "Ferrari had no prior convictions, but no one seems to know how he made his living. Especially given that he had no visible means of support, no job, and his parents were dirt poor. We are therefore looking for any connections he might have had in the criminal underworld."

"Did you know about Ferrari's links to Bellomo?" Curcio asked.

De Angelis and Santini both stared at him.

"There's a report from the carabinieri dated October 1998," Curcio went on. "From what we know, Bellomo seems to have used a car registered under Ferrari's ownership to make his escape. Ferrari was questioned, but he stated that the car had been stolen, and all charges were subsequently dismissed."

"Did you happen to know anything about that?" De Angelis asked Santini, glaring daggers at him.

"It's the first I've heard of it," Santini replied.

"I've only just received the report from the cousins," said Curcio with an apologetic smile. "I haven't had time to pass it on to the Central Investigative Service. Certainly, it might just be a coincidence, but there's a good chance that Bellomo and Ferrari were in contact."

"For what purpose?" De Angelis asked.

"I don't know," Curcio candidly admitted. "It's as if this whole case has too many pieces that don't fit together. It doesn't add up to me."

De Angelis gave him a hard look. "I don't like having to remind you, but it doesn't have to add up to you. I hope I've made myself clear."

"Why of course, Judge, your honor," Curcio replied, standing up and shaking De Angelis's hand. "Thanks for the time you've taken."

Curcio turned to shake Santini's hand and then left.

"This one's going to turn out to be a pain in the ass, I can just tell," De Angelis told Santini. "He's going to be a royal pain in the ass."

"He's just trying to prove he's the first in the class. Do you have any instructions for me?"

De Angelis nodded. "Let's investigate Torre's friends and relatives, too. If Colomba's with him, he might be helping her to hide. Nut jobs tend to get along."

Santini nodded. "What about Hurtado? Did he let anything slip during the interview?"

De Angelis shook his head. "He clammed up. In part thanks to that dickhead lawyer of his, who gives him such excellent legal counsel. And who also just happens to be Torre's lawyer, by amazing coincidence."

"Minutillo," Santini said. "What about Hurtado's other friends?"

"Unfortunately the preliminary investigating judge refused to confirm the arrests, due to a lack of solid evidence of a crime," De Angelis repeated.

"Are we still arguing about solid evidence?" Santini asked. "With people like this?"

"That's right," said De Angelis. "I had to order their release."

One of Hurtado's other friends was Jorge, who at that moment was walking down the streets of Rome with a song in his heart and wings on his feet. He wouldn't have bet a bent penny on his chances of getting out of jail this easily, not with the mess that had gone down in Torbella, even though he hadn't resisted arrest when they'd finally run him down in the cellars. Instead, he'd spent just a single night behind bars, enough time to say so long to Santiago, who was resigned to the fact that he was going to spend a good long stretch in there. When he'd called Anita with his last remaining ounce of battery, she'd burst into tears of joy. She'd already been making up the package to send him behind bars, with several changes of underwear.

"I told you I always land on my feet, didn't I?" he'd pointed out to her, boasting of his unfailing good luck.

"You're coming home, aren't you?" she'd asked. "I want to see you."

And he'd sworn he would. He loved her, after all, plus where was he going to find another sweet setup like this one, with a girlfriend who never busted his balls even if he stayed out all night or brought a bunch of friends home, the guys from his posse? And she never objected, though every time they left the apartment was littered with garbage. She wasn't even jealous; all she cared about was not having to actually watch him fooling around with other girls.

Jorge and his girlfriend lived in the San Basilio quarter, in one of the nearly three hundred apartments of a public housing project that looked from overhead like a gigantic and horrible letter U, with a dirty pink facade. The complex was a filthy mess: the stairs always stank, and there were little kids crying first thing in the morning-you could hear everything because the walls were made of tissue paper-but the rent was nothing. The original tenant had been Jorge's grandmother, but when she'd died he'd moved in. In spite of the fact that the housing authority sent him letters every now and then warning of an impending eviction, Jorge knew they'd never actually take action. He couldn't even begin to count how many others there were just like him, with no right to live there, in that building, and even more in the neighboring buildings. What was the city going to do, toss them all out to live in the streets?

When he got out his keys and opened the apartment door, he expected Anita to come running to hug him, but nothing happened. "We-e-endy, I'm home!" he said, imitating Jack Nicholson's cavernous voice in The Shining, the way he did when he was kidding around. But still, nothing happened. "Anita?" he called. Could she have gone out to buy him something to eat? Or maybe she was just in the shower. As he was opening the bathroom door to see, he noticed a drop of red on the hallway floor, almost perfectly circular. He brushed his finger over it; it was sticky.

Blood. A drop of blood that had splattered onto the floor but still hadn't congealed. Jorge noticed another drop not far away, and then another and another. Anita must have cut her finger or something like that, but it was strange that she hadn't run into the bathroom to medicate the cut, because the line of drops led straight into the bedroom. There was one drop in the middle of the hallway where he was standing, as if Anita had cut herself in front of the door.

Somewhat apprehensively, Jorge called her name again, then stepped into the room.

Anita lay sprawled on the floor like a bundle of rags, and beneath her spread a puddle of blood so big that Jorge understood immediately that there couldn't be a drop left inside her. On the bed, cleaning the blade of a knife with a piece of paper, was an old man with eyes so pale and blue they seemed transparent.

"You and I have a little talking to do," said the man whom Dante called the Father.

Jorge tried to yell, but nothing came out.

17.

Augusto Stanchetti, Pinna's old brother in arms, lived not far from the cathedral. Colomba parked Valle's pickup close to the pedestrian area surrounding the baptistry, across from the stone lions that stood guarding the portal. Dante looked at the lions, trying to place them in his childhood, but he came up empty. No matter what he laid eyes on, his mind drew a blank, with the exception of brief flashes from the period following his liberation. Had he ever climbed on those lions as a child? Had he ever attended Mass in the cathedral? He had no idea. Cremona was insubstantial to him, though he liked what little of it he had seen, especially in the center of town, which still preserved its ancient Roman grid.

Colomba shook him out of his thoughts. "Who's going to make the call?"

"A woman has a better chance of getting him to listen than a man does," said Dante. "Especially a woman with a pretty voice."

"Do I have a pretty voice?"

"When you're not giving orders."

"But you're a better liar. You do it."

"Any suggestions?"

"Don't make him run. Don't scare him. Try to find some excuse to meet in person."

"Okay."

Dante picked up Wanda's cell phone and punched in Stanchetti's number, putting him on speaker. "Stankfoot?" he said when the man answered.

Colomba started: she hadn't expected such a brutal opening.

Stanchetti hesitated for a moment. "Yes. Who's this?" he asked cautiously.

"My name is Dante Pinna. My dad was Fabrizio Pinna."

She jerked again in shock; Colomba reached out to try to grab the phone out of Dante's hand, but he turned his back on her to prevent that.

"Ah. I'm so sorry about your dad. My condolences. How can I . . ."

"I'd like to see you," Dante interrupted him. "I urgently need to talk to you. Can I come by your place in ten minutes? I'm with a friend; she'll come, too."

"Excuse me, but I'm eating dinner with my family. I can't just-"

"You'd better try to make up some excuse."

"Why, exactly, would I do that?"