SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 5:30 P.M.

SVEVA ROMAGNOLO’S MOTHER’S house was in EUR, a Fascist-era development of linear, white marble-clad monumental buildings to the south of Rome, built in the 1930s to impress international visitors who never came to a Universal Exposition that never was.

By the time they arrived, Blume felt as if he had been in a Turkish bath in a woolen coat. D’Amico parked the car, stepped out and stretched. His armpits were perfectly dry, as was the back of his shirt. His forehead shone, but did not glisten. This had to be a racial thing, Blume decided. Blume had now sweated so much that his entire shirt had simply become a darker shade of blue.

The courtyard contained five short umbrella pines and a circle of squat date trees reaching no higher than the lowest balconies of the four-floor buildings around them. The buildings were new. D’Amico nudged him and pointed to the modern security cameras, then nodded approvingly.

After being challenged by a sober and shaved porter in a tinted-glass cabin at the front gate and displaying their credentials, they followed a pathway that traced a figure eight across the well-tended grass. At the midway point, an automated sprinkler emerged from beneath the ground and squirted a jet of water at them across the path, wetting their trousers and shoes.

Examining the names on the intercoms and the brass letter-slots, he realized that each house hold had an entire floor to itself. Thinking of the thirty intercom buttons on the front door of his six-floor building in San Giovanni, Blume reckoned that the apartments here had to be around five times larger than his own. The name tags showed that the Romagnolos lived in Apartment four, at the top.

“Who is it?” challenged a male voice from behind the intercom. It reminded him of someone.

“Commissioners Blume and D’Amico,” announced Blume in his most officious manner. “Open, please.”

Whoever was there was either having difficulty in finding the open button, or had gone away. In either case, the door remained closed. Blume closed his eyes and listened to his empty stomach gurgle. He would count to thirty before putting his finger on the buzzer and leaving it there while he counted to thirty again.

He had got to fifteen when, without further communication from the intercom, the door clicked. D’Amico pushed and Blume stepped in ahead of him.

When they had stepped into the courtyard, the brightness of the morning, which had been trying Blume very much, became suffused with the green of the garden and the cool shadow of the buildings around. Now, as they stepped into the atrium, the intensity of the light dimmed so much that they both immediately took off their sunglasses. Through flat tinted glass windows, the garden outside was dulled to deep brown. The air was cool, deionized and dry, like the inside of an airplane.

D’Amico, who was softly whistling “Il Fannullone,” called the elevator, which turned out to be surprisingly small, like an upended zinc coffin. They squeezed in together.

As they came out of the elevator on the top floor, Blume mopped his forehead and D’Amico patted his cheeks. There was just one apartment, and the hallway was filled with plants. An expensive bicycle, unlocked, was parked behind a small ficus tree.

Blume reached out and pressed the doorbell. Instead of a ding-dong, it made a soft cooing and cheeping sound like a jungle bird.

“What’s with the bell that makes zoo sounds?” said Blume.

The door opened, and he found himself standing in front of Gallone.

“Vicequestore,” said D’Amico, stepping forward into the space left by Blume, who had fallen back a pace. D’Amico extracted a large-screen mobile phone from his pocket.

“This belongs to Romagnolo, sir. You specifically asked for it to be returned to her, I remember.”

“That’s her phone?” Gallone sounded suspicious. “Where was it?”

“In the apartment, after all. It had not been logged properly. They’ve cloned the SIM and whatever else they do with it, so we can give it back.”

Gallone nodded slightly, but then his face darkened as he reregistered Blume’s presence. “I specifically told you to leave Sveva alone.”

Blume said, “Sveva? You mean Senator Romagnolo?”

“Franco?” It was a woman’s voice. “Who’s there? Why don’t they come in?”

“Just a minute,” said Gallone, but the woman had already appeared behind him.

“Oh, colleagues.” She sounded disappointed, and sounded tired. “I suppose this is funny in its own way. Franco was just promising me that I wouldn’t have to face too much questioning, yet here you are.”

“They are not here to question you,” said Gallone. “They are returning the phone you left behind in the apartment.”

“I do not mind being questioned if it helps the case,” said Romagnolo. “Well, come on in. Don’t stand there at the door all three of you.”

“I shall monitor the interrogation, Sveva,” said Gallone.

“No, Franco, I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”

“In that case . . .”

“You’re quite right,” said Romagnolo. “In that case there is no need for you to spend any more time with me here. I really appreciate what you have done.” Lightly, she placed her hand on the small of Gallone’s back, murmured something polite to him, and ushered him out the front door and closed it behind her.

Blume felt like clapping.

She turned to him and said, “Do you always smile so widely when interviewing the recently bereaved?”

Blume straightened his face. “I am sorry,” he said. He felt like his favorite teacher had just scolded him, and he felt irritated at the effect she was having on him.

The contrast with Clemente’s mistress was striking. It was partly a question of class and looks, but it was not just that. Where Manuela Innocenzi had been red, raw, angry, talkative, and corrosive, Romagnolo just seemed downcast, but composed and reticent.

Sveva Romagnolo made a gesture with her hand that Blume took to be an unenthusiastic invitation into the spacious apartment. Blume had always thought the minimum age for the Senate was forty, but the woman in front of him could hardly have been more than thirty-five.

She had a high oval forehead, and long, straight brown hair fell down on either side of a dead-straight parting, giving her the look, Blume thought, of a 1960s university radical. Her nose was slightly upturned and, compared with her wide mouth, a little too small, perhaps the result of plastic surgery. She wore a thin, flat silver necklace and a raw silk blouse. When she moved, the silk rustled against her breasts and seemed to change color from green to blue and back. Admiring her long legs and the light, loose-fitting black pants that ended just above the ankles, Blume noticed she was wearing a pair of simple Birkenstock-style sandals. It went fine with her image, but it still felt strange to be meeting a senator of the Republic in sandals.

She led them across a large open-plan room, as large as Blume’s entire apartment, and out through a sliding door onto a large terrace overlooking the garden they had just walked through. The high trellises covered with shiny Chinese privet leaves interlaced with jasmine formed an effective barrier twice as high as the original wall on which they rested. Potted orange and lemon trees did sentry duty along the outer wall, and ivy climbed up the wall of the house. In the middle of the terrace was a small but fully functioning fountain made of four stone turtles supporting a basin, from the center of which three smaller basins rose, like stacked champagne glasses.

It would be fun to play football up here, Blume thought.

“Please, do sit down,” she was saying, indicating a circle of wicker chairs with brightly colored maroon and purple cushions. What happened when it rained? Not that it ever did anymore.

Even in the act of sitting, he asked his first question: “How long have you known our vicequestore aggiunto?”

“I have known him for . . .” She scrunched up her face, thinking, and finally Blume saw the creases of age in her face, “Twenty- five years? He was at La Sapienza with me. Class of seventy-six.”

“Old friends?”

“And nothing else. Absolutely nothing else.” Romagnolo gave her shoulders a small shudder as if shaking off a repellent image of Gallone touching her. “We grew apart. Met again sometimes. There was a group of us. It’s also where I met my husband.”

The woman did not look her age. In 1976, he had been a child in Seattle; she had been a political activist at university. He suddenly felt babyish in front of her. To compensate he added gruffness to his tone.

“So Gallone also knew your husband?”

“Not really. When they were younger their paths crossed a few times.”

D’Amico said, “Excuse me interrupting. We found this in the apartment.” He handed Romagnolo the mobile phone. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes, thanks. I need this.” She immediately started thumbing at the buttons, consulting the menus.

Blume reached into his leather bag, pulled out a pad of paper and opened it. “First of all,” he began, “may I express my deepest condolences for your loss. It must be a terrible shock.”

It was a stock phrase and he had used it or variants of it many times before, but it was not bereft of meaning. It was terrible losing a loved one. It went beyond words, which is why he had reconciled himself to using more or less the same phrase repeatedly. He also liked the covert accusation it contained. It must have been a terrible shock; it better have been a terrible shock.

Romagnolo finally laid her phone aside. Blume found himself looking hard at the widow’s hands, which were long-fingered and, he noted, showed the early wrinkles and spots of middle age that her face had yet to acquire. Whenever he was meeting the first of kin after a murder, he checked out the hands and wondered if they could have struck the fatal blows, pulled the trigger. Often they had, but so far the hands had belonged to men only.

Sveva Romagnolo thanked him for his kind words, and lapsed into silence. D’Amico had taken out a notebook, too, and was staring at it sullenly as if he had forgotten how to read or write.

As they sat in momentary silence, Blume became aware of the irritating trickle of the fountain behind him. Far in the distance, someone was trying to start a motor scooter, or a lawn mower. Blume was wondering about the child. Should he ask? He decided he shouldn’t, but his mouth betrayed him: “How old is your son?”

“Nine.” Romagnolo enunciated the number very clearly, to underscore its pathetic smallness and warn him away. She fixed her eyes hard on him as she said it. They were dark brown, almost black, and, he realized, a little too small. She didn’t have such nice eyes.

“How is he?” inquired Blume.

“Traumatized. Destroyed. Inconsolable. He’s been so hard to deal with. I’ve hardly had a chance to take it in myself.”

Blume nodded sympathetically. He was calculating her probable age when she had the child. She must have been at the very limit.

“When you entered the house, did you notice if the door to your son’s bedroom was open or closed?”

“No.”

“No which?”

“No, I didn’t notice. How the hell would I notice something like that with Arturo lying in . . .”

She brought her hand to her throat.

“You didn’t maybe close it yourself, then. You know, sort of protectively.”

“No! Is this normal, for the questions to be so irrelevant?” Romagnolo directed this question at D’Amico, who gave her his most fetching helpless smile.

“Do you eat peanut butter?” asked Blume.

“Are you serious?”

“Well, do you?”

“No. That was my husband. For the protein. He doesn’t eat meat. Didn’t eat meat.”

“Did your husband have a bag?”

“A bag, like a handbag?”

“Any bag.”

“A backpack. He usually went around with a gray backpack. He rode his bicycle a lot.”

“We didn’t find your husband’s wallet. The killer probably took it, but just in case, do you have any idea where it might be?”

“He usually kept it lying around the house, or in his pocket. No, I have no idea where else it might be.”

“His secretary says he didn’t have a cell phone.”

“He thought they were bad for his health.”

Blume allowed a few beats of silence to pass.

Romagnolo said, “Franco was talking about a man called Alleva. He tortures animals. My husband and a friend were making a documentary about this. I would have thought this Alleva would be in custody by now.”

“He will be, soon,” said Blume. “Apart from Alleva, did your husband have enemies?”

“Arturo campaigned really hard against illegal dog fighting. And that earned him a lot of enemies from the criminal underworld. People like this Alleva, I presume. He was responsible for Rome and the Lazio region. I remember he said there were three different gangs in the business, Gypsies—sorry, Roma—Albanians and Italians. He said he was dealing with the Italians, because he felt he had some chance of success, but . . .” she opened her palms to display her ignorance of the details.

“Can you tell us where these places were?”

“I can probably remember a few of them. But, given that my husband reported every encounter he discovered, the police should have detailed records. Unless, that is, they got trashed as soon as he made them.”

Blume ignored the barb, which applied more to the Carabinieri anyhow, and not the state police. What interested him was how little interest Romagnolo had had in her husband’s activities.

“Did you receive any strange phone calls recently?”

She glanced upward and leftward as she sought to remember.

“No.”

“Anyone new arrive at the house?”

She hesitated. “Not that I know of.”

“Did your husband mention any new friends?”

“My husband would not mention his latest friends to me.”

There. He had hit something. “What do you mean?”

“By what?”

Blume said, “He wouldn’t mention his latest friends. Are you talking about girlfriends?”

To her credit, she did not waste time on pretences. She said: “You can’t say girls. They were older women. They fell for what they thought was his big soft heart. A man who likes animals that much can’t be bad.”

“And was he—bad, I mean?”

“He knew you knew?”

“I guess he must have. We never talked about that side of things. Could one of these . . . women have anything to do with what happened?”

Seeing no point in pretending otherwise, Blume said: “That’s just what I was wondering.” Then he added, “Did you notice any change in his daily schedules?”

“I told you, Commissioner, he did not have a regular working day like other people. And I’m so busy myself I could hardly notice. I am often in Padua.”

“Your electoral district.”

“Yes.”

“So you are often away from home?”

“I would go so far as to say I am mostly away from home. I spend far more time in Padua than in Rome.”

“I see,” said Blume. But he didn’t see. If you were married to someone, he reckoned, you should live with them. If you weren’t willing to live with them, then it was going nowhere.

Blume was not sure what to make of the woman he was talking to, and he had a feeling he would not have been too keen on Arturo, either. She cared for politics and the environment, he for animals, neither of them for the other. That left the child as their common moral center: the child with the books in alphabetical order and the image of his stabbed father in the middle of his home.

“So you wouldn’t notice if he, say, had been coming in later than usual?”

“Not immediately, but I would probably have heard about it from Angelica or Tommaso.”

“Who’s Angelica?”

“Our babysitter—nanny, I suppose. She’s there most days.” Sveva Romagnolo allowed a note of bitterness to creep into her tone. “Or was. She seems to have been scared off. At any rate, she’s vanished.”

Blume glanced quickly at D’Amico. This could be significant.

“Vanished? The babysitter has vanished?”

“Well, no. Not vanished exactly. She phoned this morning, as a matter of fact,” said Romagnolo. “She said she needed time off to recover from the shock. As if I don’t—oh, never mind.” She brushed invisible dust from her arm, and thus dismissed the useless Nanny Angelica from the conversation.

“And what age is Angelica?” Blume wasn’t so sure he wanted the subject dropped so quickly.

“Oh, let me see . . . sixty-five, seventy. It’s rather hard to tell with those fat southerners.”

Nando broke his silence. “I am a southerner,” he announced.

“Indeed?” said Romagnolo. Blume had rarely heard a word that conveyed less interest.

D’Amico crossed his arms and relapsed into silence.

Blume continued to ask her about new friends, changes to schedule, strange phone calls, and she continued to tell him that she had nothing to report.

“You were in Padua with your son.”

“Yes.”

“And the idea was to spend the weekend there?”

“Yes, but I got called back for an emergency vote to be held on Monday. Berlusconi is threatening to use a confidence motion— you read the papers.”

Blume did not. He hated politics. “So you came back on Friday afternoon. Why not Saturday?”

“My son was getting bored. He’s still too young.”

“Arturo was not expecting you?”

“I made sure to phone ahead, tell him I was on my way back.”

“At what time did you phone?”

“Half past ten from Padua station.”

“OK,” said Blume. “Now, this nanny person who looks after the house. When does she come?”

“Every other day.”

“And she does all the cooking, cleaning . . .”

“Sometimes she cooks, but Arturo did his own cooking, too. She cleaned, looked after Tommaso.”

“She did the washing? Made the beds, changed sheets, that sort of thing?”

“Yes. She did that sort of thing.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

Blume looked back over his notes, and started asking the same questions again. When he asked her again about Arturo’s enemies, she said, “What? Weren’t you listening before? I’ve already told you all I remember.”

“Just in case you forgot someone.”

“I’m not going to repeat myself. If you weren’t listening, maybe your colleague was.” She nodded at D’Amico, who bowed his head slightly lower.

Blume stood up. D’Amico did the same and, a moment later, so did Romagnolo.

“Frankly, the political aspects are outside my competence,” said Blume.

“All I can say is that I shall be vigilant and keep you completely informed.”

Blume stuck out his hand, which she took very lightly and briefly. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

She accompanied them back in silence through the spacious living room, empty of grieving relatives and friends.