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pink flannel pajamas.
    The woman’s face was a terrible sight. She couldn’t be much over forty, and she was skinny, her chestnut hair gathered in an elastic band; her face was collapsing into a silent scream, her mouth wide open, a streamer of drool at either side, eyes staring wide in immense pain and sorrow, her neck straining in a spasm. She was emitting no sound at all, except for a faint hiss. Lojacono couldn’t take his eyes off that face, the very picture of madness, of a one-way journey into the abyss. With a stab of grief, he felt as if he’d plunged back into the dream he was having when the call came in, and he understood without a shadow of a doubt that this was the boy’s mother.
    The drizzle had ceased, there was a little watery mud on the sidewalk that the rain had washed out of the construction site. Lojacono made his way over to the prone body, careful not to step on any potential evidence. He squatted down next to the corpse.
    He saw the bullet hole in the back of the neck, at the base of the hairline, recently trimmed and shaved in keeping with the latest style. It was a small, sharply defined hole; some very small caliber, in his opinion. The boy’s hand still held the scooter keys: he hadn’t even had a chance to lock the chain. The padlock dangled from the rear wheel. The inspector looked up and noticed that there was a narrow gap next to the street door, a dark opening left over from some renovation work done decades ago. His gaze returned to the ground and he saw the bullet casing. Just one. He pulled out his handkerchief and picked it up.
    The sound of sirens split the night, and a second police car arrived, closely followed by a third. Suddenly the courtyard was full of cops.

CHAPTER 14
    Lojacono had had only one conversation with Di Vincenzo, the captain of the San Gaetano police station, on the day he arrived. He remembered a man who was ill at ease, who kept tapping his fingers on a closed binder on the paper-piled desk in front of him. Marked on the cover was one word: “Lojacono.”
    The man he saw now was a completely different person, collar unbuttoned, tie askew. His brow was furrowed, his voice was deep and confident, and he had the imperious air of someone who’s used to handling situations with unruffled competence.
    He waved the three cops following him towards the two women, the corpse, and the entrance into the courtyard. Then he walked over to the inspector.
    “Lojacono, what are you doing here? Explain yourself. I thought we had an understanding that you wouldn’t get involved in any investigations.”
    “Captain, I was on duty. If you want to get mad at somebody, how about the guys who aren’t willing to work the night shift? It’s certainly not my idea of fun.”
    Di Vincenzo blinked rapidly. He wasn’t used to that kind of answer, but he had to admit that the logic was flawless. Just as he was trying to come up with a retort, a young woman walked up to him and spoke to him abruptly.
    “All right, Di Vincenzo, what do we know? Who’s the deceased? And who was the first person on the scene?”
    She’d asked the last question with her eyes focused on Lojacono, who was a good eight inches taller than her; but the woman’s face, fine-drawn features, and especially her large dark eyes, emanated absolute authority.
    Di Vincenzo hissed, “Assistant District Attorney Piras. Dottoressa, this is Inspector Lojacono. He took the call, but we got here immediately after him, so I was ordering him to head back to the police station.”
    The woman never took her eyes off Lojacono’s face. “Not before he tells us exactly what he saw. I think we can all agree that the first responder has the most important information. Who’s the deceased?”
    Lojacono registered the Sardinian accent and the impeccable business suit that sheathed the assistant DA’s svelte, petite body. Either she was still awake when the call came in or else she was the world’s fastest woman at getting