TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 9 P.M.

DID YOU FIND the dogs?” asked Sveva Romagnolo as she answered the door to Blume later that evening.

“Yes.” He was not sure he liked doing this woman’s bidding, but being here postponed his meeting with Paoloni to another day.

“They were all dead, as you said they would be, weren’t they?”

“Mostly.”

“Not all of them? I suppose they had to be put down immediately. Fighting dogs can’t live in human society. All they know how to do is kill. Arturo always said that, you know. Everyone thinks that loving dogs is an unconditional thing, but he was tough, too. He would have banned certain breeds entirely. It is an act of gross irresponsibility to keep certain types of dog in the company of humans. You may have noticed he had no dog of his own. Anyhow, thank you for coming.”

Blume stepped into the apartment. The doors to the terrace were open, and a warm night breeze was blowing in.

“Let’s go out on the terrace,” she said.

Blume sat in the same wickerwork chair as last time and described his meeting with Pernazzo. He told her about the computer games, the gambling, the connection with Alleva, the murder of Enrico Brocca outside the pizzeria.

Sometimes she winced, more often she nodded as he spoke. At no point did she display much anger, though her features were indistinct in the half darkness.

When he had finished, she said, “And do you have any idea who killed Pernazzo? Your boss Gallone will only tell me investigations are ongoing, and none of my other contacts seem to have any idea . . . or interest, really. The important thing was for me to react well, which I did. The case itself is unimportant to them.”

“If I tell you who I think killed Pernazzo, you won’t insist on my going public with it?”

“No. Of course not.”

“And you won’t advance the hypothesis in my name, even when you see the investigation peter out without anyone being brought to justice?”

“I won’t use your name. I may make a fuss, though.”

“It was probably Manuela Innocenzi. Eventually you’ll hear this from other sources, too.”

“That . . . woman?” Now he could hear anger and disgust in her voice. “Have you any evidence?”

“More likely, she asked for it to be done. I don’t have direct evidence, but I got a call from Benedetto Innocenzi the other day that points in that direction. He called a few other people, too, to give the same message, which was not to think of importuning his daughter or there would be reprisals, and, above all, compromising revelations.”

“I will insist on a proper investigation.”

“You are within your rights,” said Blume, then instinctively ducked as an orange-and-white football bounced off the back of his chair. He turned around to see a child with long hair and a babyish face scowling at him.

“Tommaso!” said his mother. “This is Alec Blume. He’s a policeman.”

The child continued to stare at Blume. It was a hostile stare, but it contained no real malice.

“You play football?” said Blume. There, that was precisely the sort of inane thing that grown-ups said. Quite rightly, the boy ignored the question and went to retrieve his ball, then began slapping it on the tiles directly behind Blume, canceling out any hopes of conversation, while his mother smiled apologetically not at Blume but at the child. Time to go.

Blume stood up and watched as the boy bounced the ball too high and lost control of it again.

“You’re not very good at that yet,” said Blume.

Sveva Romagnolo stared at him in outrage.

The child retrieved the ball, tucked it under his arm and said, “I am good.”

“Not yet. I think maybe it’s because of your hair. It’s too long. It gets in your eyes.”

“Tommaso has beautiful hair,” said Sveva. “You were leaving, Commissioner?”

Tommaso bounced the ball five times in succession, then said, “You believe I can do it faster than that?”

“I do. I think you might be a natural, but you need to practice. A lot. And when you can bounce it all day using your hands, then you have to learn to do the same with your feet. It takes ages, but, like I said, you look like a natural to me. Get someone to cut your hair, see if I’m right.”

“Commissioner Blume! Tommaso, say bye-bye to the policeman.”

“Bye, Tommy,” said Blume.

“Tommaso. Not Tommy,” said Sveva.

She strode across the living room, thumping her bare heels against the floor.

Tommaso followed as far as the French window, and called out, “If I learn to do more than a hundred will you come back and watch?”

“Sure, I will,” said Blume.

Sveva stopped dead in her tracks and looked at her son, standing framed in the doorway, holding the ball above his head. Then she looked at Blume.

“That is grossly irresponsible of you. Suppose he really does want you to come and watch him. What then?”

“Call me, and I’ll come over,” said Blume. “And cut his hair. He’s not a girl.”

“I realize my son is not a girl. But he’s never had his hair cut since he was a baby,” said Sveva.

“That’s why you should do it now. Don’t pretend nothing has changed for him.”