SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 8:15 P.M.

WHAT SEEMED TO be bothering Paoloni most were the flies.

“The flies, maggots, the heat, the smell. You have no idea.” Paoloni paused, then hammered out the syllables as if to a simpleton to get his point across. “You. Have. No. Fucking. Idea.”

Alleva was dead, Massoni was dead, and Blume could hear exhilaration in Paoloni’s tone. Revenge and reprieve all at once.

“Have you called the forensic team?”

“Sure.”

“How long have the bodies been there?” asked Blume.

“I don’t know. I’m not a medical examiner, thank Christ. With this heat. Maybe four, five days, a week.”

“Wait, I’m putting you on hands-free.” Paoloni had no right to feel exonerated, but Blume still felt it fair to warn him: “Prosecutor Principe is here with me.”

Blume set his telephone on the desk and pressed the loudspeaker. “. . . appreciate it,” Paoloni was saying.

“This is Prosecuting Magistrate Filippo Principe. Have you made a positive identification?”

“Yes, Giudice,” said Paoloni. “Alleva and Massoni. Not so as you’d recognize them, but they had their wallets.”

“What killed them?”

“It looks like gunshots. Both have gunshot wounds to the head. I didn’t notice wounds anywhere else on the body.” Paoloni paused. “They may have shot each other. That’s what it’s supposed to look like. Each has a pistol in his hand.”

“But you don’t think they shot each other?”

“No, I don’t. The forensic pathologists will say for sure.”

“What’s wrong with the scene?” asked Principe.

“Two people killing each other at exactly the same time with head-shots? Two simultaneous lethal shots? They pulled their triggers at exactly the same moment? I don’t think so.”

Principe nodded at Blume, who nodded back as if to say, yes, Paoloni was a good investigator.

“What else?” asked Principe.

“One cadaver—Alleva—has this cute little baby belt holster, but the gun in his hand, a Glock, is too big for it. The place is cleaned out. There’s nothing here, like someone else lifted it all. Also, one of the casings was in the wrong place in the room. I saw two near the table, which is fine, but Zambotto found one near the wall. It could have bounced or something, but it’s a strange place for it to end up. The number of shots fired seems wrong, too. You’d need to be here to see. By the way, there’s a bedroom with a closed floor safe. Maybe there’s something there. But we had to get out so as not to contaminate the scene.”

Blume asked him what sort of place he was in, whether there were neighbors.

“The last house we passed on the way was about three kilometers away, though maybe there’s another house on the other side. But the place is isolated. You can’t see it from the road. Also, a car is sitting in the driveway. A big Beamer. Model X5. Nice car. We haven’t looked inside, thought we’d leave that to the technicians.”

“Good,” said Blume. “Any signs of other cars, other traffic having been there?”

“You mean tracks on the ground and stuff? The forensics are arriving, along with patrol cars. Looks like it’s about to get very busy. Carabinieri, too, from the looks of it.”

Principe said, “Inspector Paoloni, if the killer wanted it to look like a suicide or reciprocal killing, let’s make sure we are seen to be thinking along those lines. Make sure no one mentions the possibility of a third person.”

“Vicequestore Gallone might,” said Paoloni.

“You’ll have to stop him,” said Principe. “I’ll talk to him myself later.”

“OK.” Paoloni hesitated, as if waiting to hear from Blume. Then he hung up.

Principe looked at Blume and said, “Well?”

“The first thing to say is it does not make sense for Innocenzi to kill them and then tip me off.”

“Agreed.”

“And if he sent someone to make it look like a suicide pact or a simultaneous murder, he’d have sent someone who knows how to do it right,” said Blume.

“Agreed.”

“And if the setup is amateurish, well, you know where I’m going with this.”

“You can go there, but I’m not sure I’ll follow,” said Principe. “You want me to believe Pernazzo is responsible for this, too?”

“Yes,” said Blume. “We know Pernazzo killed Brocca and Clemente. Right?”

“Know is a strong word,” said Principe, “but let’s assume it.”

“So we know Pernazzo can kill. Clemente campaigned against Alleva and Massoni, and Pernazzo attended their dog fights. Then we have a sighting of Massoni and Pernazzo together when Brocca got killed.”

“We do?”

“We will,” said Blume. “Once I talk to Giulia again. And if we start looking more closely, I’m sure we’ll find more connections.”

“But you are not accusing Pernazzo of killing Ferrucci?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would Alleva and Massoni reveal their hideout to someone like Pernazzo?”

“Maybe he did computer work for them. We’ll find out. Pernazzo has no record. That’s all it takes. No record. If everyone was DNA-fingerprinted at birth it would be a different story.”

Principe looked doubtful. “DNA fingerprinting? That’s a bit—you know. Infringes personal freedom.”

“No such thing,” said Blume, moving briskly toward the door. “Let’s go catch ourselves a killer.”

Blume turned around to see Principe still leaning against the desk. “You won’t help?”

“Remember Article fifty-five of the Code of Criminal Procedure, Alec? As a policeman, you can act preventatively. I don’t have the same scope, especially in this case. At the risk of sounding like a lawyer, I’d prefer not to know exactly in advance what you’re going to do. Do you trust your own judgment?”

“Not always.”

Principe clicked his tongue like a teacher who had received a wrong answer. “I mean in this case, do you really trust your own judgment?”

“Yes. Angelo Pernazzo is our man. I am sure of it. It’s time I brought him in. It’s way past time.”

Principe straightened up, walked over to Blume, gave him a friendly half slap on the cheek. “Then trust your own judgment on this.”

He opened the door and, before Blume could reply, was gone.