SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 1:15 A.M.

ZAMBOTTO WAS WAITING, leaning against a curving white marble wall smoking a cigarette. Even from twenty meters away, the smoke found its way into Blume’s sinuses and made him feel sick, but from somewhere near the pit of his stomach, he also felt a craving. As Blume walked over, Zambotto ground his cigarette out on the wall.

“That was a long three minutes,” said Zambotto.

“I needed to talk to D’Amico.”

“Clemente’s office is on the second floor,” said Zambotto.

“What will I find there?”

“Nothing much.”

“Did it look like D’Amico had been there long when you arrived?”

Zambotto did not seem to understand the question.

“You know, was he finishing off, or did he continue looking around when you arrived? That sort of thing.”

“He arrived twenty minutes before me,” said Zambotto.

“How do you know that?”

“I asked the patrolmen who brought him.”

“Well done.”

“Sure.”

Blume sat down on the doorstep. It was dirty, but pleasantly chilly against his bare legs.

“What time is it?”

“One fifteen.”

“You can go home if you want, Cristian. Get some sleep. There’s a meeting tomorrow morning at eight.”

“You want the keys?”

Blume held out his hand, and Zambotto handed him a ring with two heavy and one light key on it before ambling off, like an incurious ox.

Blume took out his phone and called Paoloni. This time he got an answer.

“I got nothing,” said Paoloni picking up on the second ring.

“Were we expecting anything?”

“No. I was ninety percent sure it was no gangland slaying, now I’m one hundred percent sure. No one knew what I was talking about.”

“Make that ninety-nine percent,” said Blume. “There is nothing certain in life, except death and taxes.”

“I’ve heard you say that before. I don’t get the bit about the taxes.”

“Who did you ask?”

“I used an Albanian guy I know as my main source,” said Paoloni. “He owes me a lot. Owes me more than a man should be able to live with. But I got nothing. Not even a suspicious blink. The other people I met this evening either know nothing at all about this Clemente or they’re keeping very quiet. I’ll talk to some more people tomorrow, but I don’t see this going anywhere.”

Blume said, “Either they know something but are scared of speaking, which suggests professional gang involvement, or this was a haphazard event from someone outside the loop, and they really know nothing.”

“Weren’t you listening? They know nothing. Tomorrow I’m going to meet more know-nothings. This is a dead end.”

“OK,” said Blume. “You know what you’re doing. You saw the apartment. Give me an adjective for the crime scene.”

“An adjective?”

“Just the one, mind you.”

“Haphazard,” said Paoloni.

“I just used that,” said Blume, “but it’s a very good adjective. By the way, did you know anything about D’Amico visiting Clemente’s office?”

“How should I know what he gets up to nowadays? Is that where you are now? Clemente’s office?”

“Yes.”

“With D’Amico?”

“No, D’Amico’s gone now.”

“Want me to come around?”

Blume considered. “No,” he said at last. “I’ll do this myself.”

Blume hung up and looked at the clock on his phone. It was nearing two in the morning.

There was nothing to do but wait. Blume fished in his shorts pocket and pulled out his badly dented Transcend MP3 player. The headphones were in the other pocket, and they took a while to disentangle. He had been planning a soft run, and had loaded the player with precise but sleek and laid-back music, the stuff his father used to listen to, a frictionless quality sound that no one in Italy knew anything about.

The first track was “I.G.Y.” by Donald Fagen. Clear, forward-looking optimistic music. His mother, from the East Coast, never quite got it.

She had bent down over his bed, early on a Friday morning, when he was half-awake, kissed him and told him to behave while they were gone.

She left a scent of Marseille soap and oranges, her European smell, as she straightened up. There was an art historians’ conference in Spoleto. They were staying overnight. His father had stroked his forehead. All he had to do was open his eyes and sit up, smile and bid them a proper goodbye. They could have exchanged an embrace, if he had still been doing that. But he lay there, a stinking, useless, lazy teenager, irritated at having been woken.

Fagen segued into Boston, who told Blume to lose himself in a familiar song, close his eyes and slip away, and from Boston to Clapton, to “Horse with No Name,” Creedence Clearwater Revival, the Doobie Brothers, Kansas, “Dust in the Wind,” Van Morrison (whom his father knew all about before they discovered him in Europe), Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor, Neil Young, and “Blinded by the Light,” which he never understood.

His parents never made it out of the city. Both were shot dead, along with a third customer, during a heist on the Banca Nazionale del Lavoro on Via Cristoforo Colombo. They had not even mentioned they were going to the bank. One of the bank robbers had been shot dead, too. The one who didn’t do the shooting.

The police came to his school to find him, but he had skipped out with five friends and spent the afternoon smoking weed on an embankment in Villa Borghese, flicking butts and roaches on the cars passing below on Viale del Muro Torto. The police went to his apartment building and left word with the neighbors to call when they heard Blume return. They posted a policeman outside his apartment to wait, but pulled him out to deal with a reported assault.

When Blume and his loud friends came back at nine in the evening, nobody was there waiting for him. It was the woman in the apartment below who called.

When the police came, Blume and his buddies were crammed into the apartment, getting buzzed, listening to the Clash. He opened the door and saw them there, a policeman and a policewoman. Some of his friends lounging on the couch saw the uniforms.

-Wooo! Heavy!

-Pigs on the loose!

-Fascists!

Blume played it punky and hard, and started closing the door on them before they had even spoken, saying yeah, yeah, the music would be turned down.

“Fuck this,” the policeman had said, and stuck his foot inside the door, bouncing it back open, almost slamming the edge against Blume’s temple.

Blume looked up in surprise and straight into the policewoman’s dark eyes brimming with pity.

It was past two when the patrol car returned. D’Amico was not in it. He had evidently got himself a lift home while Blume sat waiting.

One of the patrolmen waved to Blume before opening the back door to deposit a young woman in the middle of the road. Then he drove off.

Blume stood up. “Over here.”

She hesitated, then turned in his direction and walked over.

She was young, with thick glasses. Blume might have found her attractive had she been a little older.

“When they arrived the first time, they didn’t tell me what happened,” she said. “Then they came back.”

“I know. I sent them.”

“I refused to cooperate till they told me,” she paused and looked at him. “Is it true?”

“What did they say?”

“That Arturo has been killed.”

“Yes. It is true.”

“I need time to process this.”

“I’m sorry, but there isn’t time. We have to move as quickly as we can. There will be follow-ups. For now, I want you to lead me into the office, and tell me what if anything is out of place to you. If nothing is out of place, then I want you just to show me around. Do you think you can do that?” Blume held out the keys.

The office was on the second floor. They used the broad, winding staircase instead of the elevator, almost as if they had silently agreed not to make more noise than necessary.

“Who else is here?”

“All offices. Lawyers, a museum ticketing company, a travel agency, and, on the top floor, an accountant.”

They walked into the office. She switched on fluorescent lights, which cast a fizzy whiteness that Blume found unpleasant after the dark street.

The office was matte gray and characterless. Some of the IKEA-style furniture was garishly colored to give a faux ethnic or northern European bohemian look, but the room they were in was dominated by an outsized photocopying machine whose wheels and multiple paper trays made it look like a robot with fins. The wall behind contained white shelves lined with green Oxford binders.

On top of a white desk sat a graceless Apple computer made with see-through plastic.

“Is this where you work?”

She nodded.

“Anything out of place?”

She shook her head.

Blume took one long step into a truncated corridor with two doors on the right.

“Clemente’s office is behind one of those doors?”

She nodded again.

“And the other?”

“Bathroom.”

“Right.” He walked down, opened the first door. The bathroom was long and narrow. It looked unused. To the left was a shower. Blume imagined the plea sure of stepping under it.

“Boot up your computer, then show me his office.”

“You haven’t even asked my name.”

“I’m sorry. I must be more tired than I thought. I am Commissioner Alec Blume. I already know your name. It’s Federica. Right?”

“I didn’t even ask to see your identification.”

“Want to see it now?”

“No, it’s OK. I trust you. You look . . .”

“Tired. I look tired.”

Clemente’s office was small and almost entirely blank. In the daytime, he would have had a nice view of plane trees and a stretch of parkland. In each of the four corners sat piles of white cardboard boxes.

“Anything out of place here?”

“Not that I can see.”

“What about those cardboard boxes?”

“Posters, flyers. Animal rights. To help change the laws on animal mistreatment, strays, dog fighting,” explained Federica.

Blume picked up a beige folder lying on Clemente’s desk and opened it. It contained flyers, a few typewritten sheets, some handwritten notes.

“This folder on his desk?”

Federica frowned. “I don’t know. Usually he leaves his desk clean, but not always.”

Blume picked up a few sheets and read them. They seemed to be notes for a campaign against the idea of giving children puppies for Christmas. If he were dictator, Blume would ban all dogs from the city. Big ones that bit children and fouled the streets, small ones that yapped at him from the arms of childless women, and every type in between.

One neatly handwritten page had some names, numbers. In the middle of the small pile of papers were several sheets with the name “Alleva” handwritten in block capitals on top.

“Come here a minute, Federica.”

Blume sat down and started reading, handing each sheet over to the secretary as he did so. Some sheets were typed, others handwritten. It took twenty minutes. He waited for her to finish looking at them, for she did not seem to be reading them, then asked, “What do you make of it?”

“It’s a description of a dog-fighting ring. The breeds, what he saw, the number of dogs killed—it was our main campaign recently. After the campaign against Christmas puppies, which is annual. I thought you would know that.”

“No, I know very little so far.” Blume picked up the file folder.

“Let’s go back into reception, your room, and you can fill me in a bit. Sit down there, in the chair you usually use, in front of the computer. Like that. Good.”

Blume discovered that Federica had seen Clemente leave the office at four o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He had not said where he was going.

Home, she supposed. She could not believe she would never see him again.

Her chin wobbled.

Blume gave her some weep time. He watched her shoulders judder and her head shake, and decided to ask, “Did you ever sleep with him?”

She stopped crying and flashed him a look of disgust.

“Lousy question. It’s my job,” said Blume. “But seeing as we’re on the subject, what about other women? Do you think he might have had other women, or another woman?”

She looked at him as if not understanding.

“Other than his wife,” he added, just to be clear. He watched her lips tighten, her arms fold over her chest.

“You’re not betraying him if you talk, only helping us catch whoever killed him.”

She shook her head, but it was a gesture of defiance rather than negation. Blume now felt she might have an idea, after all. He thought of the bed sheets in the dead man’s apartment, and ran a small risk.

“We already know there was a woman. What I need from you now is a bit of confirmation. Can you give me her name?”

This time she stooped a little as if to hide behind her computer.

“OK. Not her name. But you need to help me here. Did she visit this office frequently?”

Federica crumpled a perfectly good blank sheet of paper on the desk, turned away from him as she dropped it into the wastepaper basket, then shifted the basket with her foot to a slightly different location. Blume gave her time to complete the operation. As she looked back up at him, he caught a hint of a nod.

“Great.” He still needed a name, but he wanted to give her space. “Tell me, who’s the record-keeper here? You?”

“Yes.”

“Names of members, subscriptions, mailing lists, that kind of thing?”

“Yes.”

“What else do you do?”

“Campaign news, press relations, arrangements with printers for publication of posters and flyers.”

“Are you responsible for the money side of things?”

“No, that was Arturo. And Chiara.”

“Chiara’s your colleague. Right? I’m betting she’s been here longer than you. Bet she’s older than you, too. Am I right?”

Old enough to know better than to come running into the office first thing in the morning to get questioned aggressively by police, he thought.

“Yes. She and Arturo handled the money. She’s in London now, at a conference for the RSPCA. She left on Wednesday.”

“What’s the RSPCA?”

Federica scrunched up her face as if she had difficulty remembering, but it turned out she was trying to get her English pronunciation right: “The Real Society for the Preventing of Animals Cruelty,” she said.

“Got you,” said Blume. “You’ve no complaints about the way you’re treated?”

“We believe in what we do here. They were completely honest with me about everything. At least, everything to do with money.”

“Where do you keep the files?”

She pointed to her computer.

“All of them in there?”

“We upload to the computer in Milan. Some stuff gets printed out, but we never use the printed-out stuff.”

“Where is it?”

She got up, walked over to a wall, and pulled open a white sliding door to reveal yet more fat green Oxford binders, neatly arranged alphabetically.

“Member lists, invoices, utilities, campaigns, press cuttings,” she explained. “But it’s better organized on the computer.”

“What did Clemente use his office for?”

“Working.”

“Working means different things to different people. Did he file, type on the computer, write with a pen, make calls, meet people, drink coffee, play Internet games?”

“Arturo was hopeless with computers. He never used his. He didn’t even have a mobile phone.”

“So what did he do all day?”

“He wasn’t here all that much. Especially since he started that documentary thing. He’d write out campaign projects, get me to put them into flow-charts, PowerPoint, that sort of thing. He made phone calls, received visitors.”

“What documentary?”

“On TV. Against dog fights.”

“OK,” said Blume. “What sort of visitors?”

“Usually people who wanted to donate, become members, offer voluntary work.”

“Including the woman we were talking about?”

She looked at him almost with a pout, as if he had no right to return to the same uncomfortable theme of a few minutes ago.

“Well?”

“Yes.”

“I know this is hard for you, but you won’t have to talk about this to anyone other than me,” said Blume.

It was a lie. If her evidence turned out to be important, she’d find herself telling it several times to the investigating magistrate, the preliminary judge, about ten more policemen, a court judge, and finally the press. “How do you know they were having an affair?”

“I never said they were.”

“But we already know it. Don’t worry about what you said, just tell me how you knew.”

She stared at the desk.

“This is nothing to do with you,” said Blume. “I just need to know how you could tell, just so . . .” He searched for a convincing bluff, but came up empty-handed. “Just so we can be sure,” he said briskly.

She stared at her desk, and spoke to it accusingly, “The way they moved, looked at each other. Also, she was pretty open about it.”

“Did you like her?”

“No.” This time she made no silent head movements.

“Is her name on the records here?” Blume leaned forward and patted the computer monitor.

“Yes. She was a big donor.”

“Find the name in there, will you?” Blume stood up and went behind her to look at the screen. It showed a spreadsheet scrolled down to the last few names. The cursor was blinking beside a name. Manuela Innocenzi, she had joined LAV six months previously.

“That her?”

A sad nod.

Blume found a piece of paper and pen and took down the address and telephone number.

“Great. You’ve been a lot of help. I think you should just close up and go home now.”

“The office opens in about three hours. I may as well stay.”

“I don’t think you’ll be opening it today, will you?”

“Animals continue to suffer,” she said. “Our office will stay open.”

“Humans suffer more,” said Blume. “And this is a secondary scene, so the investigating magistrate will probably have it sealed off.”

He saw he was beginning to antagonize her, which he did not want. Not yet.

“These files on the dog fighting,” he tapped the folder in his hand. “Did you prepare them, collate them, whatever?”

“No. Not those ones.”

“Did the other girl, Chiara, do it?”

“No. They’re not from here. They have no reference number. All our files have LAV reference numbers. Nothing gets filed till it has a number, and we get the number from the computer. That way the computer has at least a trace of all hard copies.”

“So what are these?”

“They must just be his own files. Just notes.”

“But they’re not from this office?” Blume turned the beige folder in his hands. It was the same kind magistrates used, the same kind Clemente had had in his study.

“Maybe he wrote them here. They’re not in the system yet, that’s all. He’d have to give me them first, then I’d organize, assign numbers to them.”

“You’d copy out his long hand?”

“Only if he asked me to. Sometimes I’d just scan handwritten notes, but not often. Usually he’d do most of it on the computer, even though he found it hard. He isn’t like a boss who expects his secretary to do everything.”

“I see. So these were his personal notes? They were a draft or something?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe he did them at home?”

“Maybe. He does a lot of stuff at home.”

“Can you remember seeing them on his desk? On Thursday, before he left?”

She thought for a while, then said, “No. I don’t think they were there. Like I said, he keeps his desk clean. He brings stuff back and forth from his house. He goes around with a backpack all the time. I mean he used to.”

“A backpack?”

“A gray one. He bicycles to work. It is the best way to carry things.”

Cycling in Rome, thought Blume. Another good way to get killed.