FRIDAY, AUGUST 27, 11:40 P.M.

BLUME SAT IN his car in the underground garage and couldn’t sleep.

He had climbed into it with the intention of driving home, napping ninety minutes, and changing into proper clothes before going to Clemente’s office to join Zambotto. But he didn’t feel comfortable going home while Paoloni was still working his contacts.

He decided to put his phone on the dashboard and try to fall into a doze while he waited for it to ring. The oily smell of the dark garage and the soft seat of the police Lancia, which he had pushed back into maximum recline, seemed to invite sleep. But Blume stayed awake.

Again he checked the signal strength bars on his cell phone, even though he had received and made calls from the basement countless times in the past. The phone was showing a signal at full strength, but he could not rid himself of the idea that the tufa walls and concrete pillars were somehow blocking his communications with the outside world.

After half an hour, Blume drove the car up the ramp, out through the electric gates and into the piazza. He got out, breathed in the warm night air and phoned Paoloni, but got no reply. He was not surprised. Paoloni often went offline when he was doing his thing. Incoming calls made confidential informers and potential witnesses nervous. Fine. Time to join Zambotto.

He pictured the bulky policeman with his drooping eyelids waiting without acting.

Clemente’s office was located near the zoo, or the Biopark, as it liked to call itself now that almost all the large animals in it had died or been poisoned by disgruntled keepers. Blume double-checked the address in his pocket and turned on the engine.

The traffic on the northbound quays was still heavy. Small cars with young people weaved in and out, cutting him off over and over. Blume did his best to keep calm and drive carefully, but he still found himself doing more than a hundred as he came out of the tunnel leading to Ponte Risorgimento. As he slowed down to turn right, his phone rang. He was surprised to see Zambotto’s name on the screen. Zambotto did not usually take the initiative of placing a call.

“The office was being searched already,” said Zambotto without even checking to make sure the right person had answered.

“Clemente’s?”

“Yeah, that one. Your colleague D’Amico was here with two uniforms. They’ve just left.”

“Stay there. I’ll be there in three minutes.”

Blume ran the traffic light and headed down Viale delle Belle Arti at high speed. He raced up Via delle Tre Madonne, and almost lost control as the wheels lost their grip on tram tracks, before turning onto Via Mercandante. A police car was coming up in the opposite direction and Blume bore down on it. The police car whooped its siren, and swerved across the road to block Blume. An officer jumped out of the passenger side, pistol already in his hand. Blume got out, his police ID held high.

Nando D’Amico, wearing a white shirt, stepped carefully out of the backseat of the car and unfurled a dark jacket.

He put on the jacket and became less visible. “Alec! What’s going on?”

Slowly, the policeman lowered his weapon.

“That’s what I want to know, Nando. What’s going on?”

“I don’t follow.”

“What were you doing at Clemente’s office?”

D’Amico ran his hand over his chin, then stooped a little as if to examine his stubble in the car wing mirror. “Who says that’s where I was?”

“What were you doing there?”

“Helping. It’s not as if you’ve got so much manpower you can do without help, is it?”

“You are not a judicially appointed investigator.”

“This attention to rules, Alec. Is it something new? Because I don’t remember you being averse to closing an eye now and again.”

“If it helped a case to progress, sometimes. This is different.”

“No. It’s not. Anyhow, your grunt Zambotto was there. He seemed surprised to see me. I can tell you right now, there’s no point in considering the place a secondary crime scene. Nothing there.”

“How did you get in?”

“We picked up the keys from Clemente’s secretary on the way. Ferrucci found her address for us.”

“Is she still there?”

“No.”

“Where is she?”

D’Amico consulted his wrist. “In bed I suppose. It’s almost one in the morning. We brought the keys, not her. We’ll question her tomorrow.”

“We?”

“You, then,” said D’Amico.

Blume pulled out his mobile and called Ferrucci.

“Who are you calling?” said D’Amico.

“Shut up.” Blume let it ring until the young man’s voice came on the line. “You gave D’Amico the address of Clemente’s secretary?”

There was a pause as Ferrucci worked out the tone of the question.

Blume repeated it.

“I shouldn’t have?”

“Answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About half an hour after you left.”

“And why didn’t you tell me?”

“Commissioner D’Amico told me not to.”

“And you did what D’Amico said?”

“He’s a superior officer . . .” Ferrucci’s voice trailed off.

“Did he say why you weren’t to tell me?”

“He said you had enough on your plate already. He wanted to do you a favor, not force you halfway across town.”

“That was thoughtful. From now on, Ferrucci, everything, and I mean everything, filters through me first. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you now?”

“Almost home.”

“Get to bed before you do any more damage. Give me her name.”

Ferrucci did so, and Blume hung up.

“Satisfied?” said D’Amico.

“No. I am the opposite of satisfied.”

“That is part of your character. Now I think we should be going.”

“You will go when I say.”

“Alec, I think you’re forgetting I am not your junior partner anymore. You can’t order me. If anything . . .”

“Shut up, Nando. I want you to go and get that secretary. Go back to wherever she lives, drag her out of bed, bring her straight here. If she protests, threaten her. Just get her here. Then I want you to promise me you’ll keep out of my investigation.”

“I’m sorry, Alec. Really. But I can’t keep out . . . I see you haven’t changed yet.”

“You’re still dressed for jogging.”

“Oh, that.”

“You should bring a change of clothes into the station. Almost everyone else does. Come here.”

D’Amico hooked his elbow under Blume’s arm. Blume felt his entire body stiffen in response. Italians touched too much. Especially southerners like Nando.

D’Amico led him out of earshot of the two uniformed policemen.

“It comes all the way from the top. I have to monitor the case. I was just hoping I could be useful to you while I did it.”

“Was taking the wife’s mobile phone your way of being helpful?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact it was.” D’Amico’s handsome profile went from black to blue and back again as the light bars on the police car flashed. “You know why they sent me?”

“Because you are my former partner and I’m supposed to trust you?”

“You can trust me, but that’s not what I meant,” said D’Amico.

One of the policemen came over to ask D’Amico permission to move the cars off the middle of the road.

“Fine,” said Blume. “And turn off the flashing blue on your vehicle, too. It’s pointless.”

The uniformed officer hesitated, awaiting a nod from D’Amico.

“Move it, for God’s sake,” ordered Blume.

D’Amico gave a quick nod of sanction. When the policeman had left them, he said, “I didn’t mean why they sent me in par ticu lar. Why do you think they assigned someone to monitor the case?”

“The wife is a politician. She’s got contacts,” said Blume. “She’s applying pressure to some important people.”

The flashing lights went off. D’Amico spoke into the darkness. “I was worried you hadn’t grasped that fact.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“No, it’s not, but sometimes you act as if you didn’t know how things work here.”

“Here where?”

“Here in Italy.”

Blume laughed. “Like I haven’t lived here?” I’ve been on the force for longer than some of the recruits have lived. Or almost. People who vote weren’t even born when I came here.”

“The Ministry doesn’t want talk about a proper investigation not being done into the murder of an opposition MP’s husband. She has friends everywhere. Did you know her father was an MP, too?”

“No.”

“Christian Democrats. And she’s got an uncle who helped found Forza Italia, and a cousin who’s something big in local politics in Mantua. It doesn’t matter that her own partic ular political party is small. She’ll change when it suits.”

“So she is piling the pressure on,” said Blume. “What does she want?”

“We’re not sure. For now, it looks like she wants as little publicity as possible. She was estranged from her husband. At least that’s what I heard.”

“Sounds to me like she could have something to do with it.”

“I doubt it, but that’s why I took her phone. To check the records on it, see who she called, what numbers she has, what numbers she deleted.”

“That was my work.”

“Or Principe’s. Anyhow, the work has been done for you. The Ministry has to know if there is any likelihood of her turning out an embarrassment. Nobody wants to be found out doing favors for someone who had her husband killed.”

“The phone isn’t evidence enough,” said Blume.

“No, but she was a pretty damned unlikely suspect to begin with. Her husband didn’t even have any money of his own.”

“She doesn’t want publicity. Is that all?” asked Blume.

“Far as we can tell. Thing is, she’s calling in favors. It’s important to find out anything compromising about her in case she calls in too many. Or starts threatening scandal.”

“She was having an affair, you said.”

“Maybe. It was rumored. A young PR man in Padua. It’s not much, especially since she’s a liberated leftist feminist who shouldn’t be too worried about a story getting out. But it’s something.”

“And what about the victim, Clemente? What do you know about him?”

“Nothing. That’s up to you.”

“I don’t believe you know nothing.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that.”

“Nando, go get that secretary. Bring her here.”

“It could take an hour, maybe more,” said D’Amico.

“I’ll wait.”

“OK,” said D’Amico.

“Give me the keys to the office.”

“I left them with Zambotto.”

Blume had almost forgotten about him.

“OK. One other thing, Nando.”

“What?”

“Don’t try to brief her about what to say. I’ll know if you do. I taught you, remember?”

“I remember,” said Nando, disappearing into the darkness.