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Caterina Rispoli.
    Rocco left the room and went to meet the two of them.
    DERUTA WAS ALREADY IN THE FRONT HALL, SWEATY and panting. Caterina Rispoli, on the other hand, was still out on the landing. She was talking to Italo Pierron and twisting her police-issued gloves.
    â€œDid you come up the stairs, Deruta?”
    â€œNo, I took the elevator.”
    â€œThen why are you out of breath?”
    Deruta ignored the question. “Dottore, I was just thinking—”
    â€œAnd that right there is a wonderful piece of news, Deruta.”
    â€œI was thinking . . . don’t you feel the sight of all this is a little too harsh?”
    â€œFor who?”
    â€œFor Inspector Rispoli?”
    â€œThe sight of what, Deruta? The sight of you at work?”
    Deruta grimaced in annoyance. “Of course not! The sight of the dead body in there!”
    Rocco looked at him. “Deruta, Inspector Rispoli is a police officer.”
    â€œBut Rispoli’s a woman!”
    â€œWell, she can’t help that,” said the deputy police chief as he walked out onto the landing.
    The minute he walked out the door, Caterina took a look at him. “Deputy Police Chief . . .”
    â€œGo on in, Rispoli. Don’t leave me alone with Deruta; next thing you know, he’ll hang himself too.” Caterina smiled and walked into the apartment. “Ah, Dottore?”
    â€œWhat is it, Rispoli?”
    â€œI did come up with an idea for that gift.”
    â€œPerfect. Let’s talk in ten minutes.” As Caterina disappeared into the living room, Rocco turned to look at Italo. “Let’s go get ourselves a cup of coffee.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind, Dottore,” said Italo, moving from a first-name basis to a more official term of respect, “I’d just as soon stay right here. My stomach’s kind of doing belly flops.”
    Shaking his head, Rocco Schiavone went down the stairs.
    VIA BROCHEREL WAS CROWDED WITH PEOPLE. PEOPLE looking out their windows, people rubbernecking outside the front door. There was a muttering of conversation that sounded like a kettle on the boil. “A corpse? . . . There weren’t any burglars? Who is it? The Baudos . . .”
    There was a brief moment of silence when the front door swung open and Rocco Schiavone, wrapped in his loden green overcoat, emerged. Officer Casella alone was keeping the rubberneckers at bay. “Commissario,” he said, saluting.
    â€œIt’s deputy police chief, Casella, deputy police chief, Jesus fucking Christ! You at least, seeing that you’re on the police force, ought to try to remember these things, no?”
    He looked around but there was no sign of a café or a shop anywhere in sight. He went over to the retired warrant officer. “Excuse me! Could you tell me if there’s a café anywhere around here?”
    â€œSay what?” asked the old man, adjusting his hearing aid.
    â€œCafé. Near here. Where.”
    â€œAround the corner. Take Via Monte Emilus and go about a hundred yards, and you’ll see the Bar Alpi. Do you have any news, Dottore? Is it true that they found the lady hanging by a rope?”
    Irina too stood gazing at him apprehensively.
    â€œCan you keep a secret?” Rocco asked in an undertone.
    â€œCertainly!” Paolo Rastelli replied, puffing his chest out proudly.
    â€œI can too!” Irina chimed in.
    â€œSo what do you think, I can’t?” Rocco retorted and walked away, leaving them both openmouthed.
    As was to be expected, the retired warrant officer’s dog, Flipper, promptly began barking again, this time at the NO PARKING sign. The former noncommissioned officer glared down at the yappy little mutt and brusquelyswitched off his hearing aid. At last, the world turned silent, muffled and cottony once again. A giant aquarium he could gaze at with detachment. With a smile and a slight forward tilt of the head, he bade farewell to Irina and