WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 10 A.M.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Blume, finally off duty, gave himself the luxury of a lie-in until ten. He had breakfast in his local bar, running down some of the credit left by Sveva. He phoned Paoloni and got no reply. Here we go again, he thought.

So he phoned Kristin in the embassy and was surprised when she invited him to her place for dinner. Seven o’clock. Blume figured he should arrange to meet Paoloni at around four. The pain of the meeting would be lessened by the prospect of seeing Kristin immediately afterward. But first, he had two other important appointments.

After breakfast, he walked down to Via Tuscolana to the vet and asked about the dog he had brought in the day before. The receptionist, whom Blume couldn’t help thinking of as a nurse, told him to wait. He sat beside an elderly woman with a cat in a cage. The cat had three legs. The woman narrated events as they happened.

“And here is a nice man come to sit beside us, Melchior,” she told the cat. “He’s hurt his arm, just like you hurt your leg. Though of course, his arm is still attached, isn’t it?”

Luckily, he did not have long to wait.

Blume looked in dismay at the animal that stood in front of him. Somehow, being cleaned up made its head and shoulders seem even larger than it had last night when, with the dire warnings of the ASL unit, he had transported it back in his car.

“He’s unusually small for that breed,” said the vet. “A bit of a failure as a Cane Corso, really. When I first saw him, I thought he was young and had more to grow. But he’s fully mature. You can see that from his teeth. Some are loose, by the way. Let’s hope he doesn’t lose them. He is undernourished, and suffered dehydration. But he must have got food from somewhere. Perhaps there was some available in the place you found him?”

“There seemed to be some scraps of meat near the cages,” said Blume.

“I hope that’s what he was eating. I do not like the idea that he might have eaten other dogs.”

“Not this guy,” said the vet. “Look at him. Does he look like a cannibal to you?”

Blume said he could not tell.

“Exactly,” said the vet. He touched the animal on the side. “Bruising on the flank shows that some bastard gave the poor thing a kicking very recently, and he cows easily, which suggests he was regularly beaten in the past. But basically, he’s in good shape. Probably got worms from polluted water sources, though. He seems to be good-tempered. Definitely a quiet dog. Don’t leave him unattended with children, though. In fact, don’t let him off a leash, and just be careful. He could change. You need to feed him small meals four times a day for the next month. Plenty of phosphorous, potassium. Let me see . . . magnesium, Omega-3 and-6 fatty acid supplements. You look bewildered.”

“I’m supposed to do all this?”

“Someone has to do it. Big dog, big responsibility. Don’t worry about the diet, I’ll write it all down for you. You’ll need to walk him a lot, too. Make a return appointment for next week, then every two weeks after that for the next two months. You can pay by check if you like.”

Blume had planned to leave the creature there for a few days, but when he learned that the vet charged more for overnight stays than the hotels Blume went to on holiday, he changed his mind.

The dog sat in the back, its breath on Blume’s neck, eyeing his driving.

Blume made a visit to a pet shop for a collar, a retractable leash, a food bowl, vitamin supplements, cereal, assorted cans, and antiparasite powders. It came to €112.15. He was shocked at the total. The store owner asked him if he had €2.15 in change, and Blume conducted an awkward one-handed search through the coins in his wallet. Sitting in the middle of them was the tiny memory card Innocenzi had given him. He had still not watched the video.

His computer didn’t have the right kind of reader, anyhow. He balanced it on his finger, almost flicked it away, then returned it to his wallet.

When he got back to the car, an attractive young woman seemed to be waiting for him, hands on hips.

“What sort of a monster are you?” she demanded.

Blume felt this was a bit strong. “Sorry. I don’t usually double-park.”

“What are you talking about? Open the windows of that car immediately. That creature could die in there. Have you any idea how hot it gets inside a car? An animal that size uses up all the oxygen. Open, damn it!”

Blume did as he was told. He explained to her that he was new to this, that it wasn’t his dog. She gave him a lecture on animal welfare and let him go on to his second appointment.

Blume drove over to the Brocca house hold. He put the collar on the dog, which seemed none the worse for having been baked in the car, then spent a while fitting the leash to it. Then they both got out and went up to the apartment.

Giulia’s mother answered. She looked better than before, and managed a weak smile, which vanished when she saw the dog. She seemed to be on the point of saying something when her daughter appeared behind her.

“Alec! You have a dog,” said the girl. “What’s his name?” Her mother stood aside to let them in.

“He doesn’t have a name, Giulia, and he’s not my dog,” said Blume. “It’s a temporary thing. Look, he hasn’t even got a tag.”

Blume looked around the living room. It was tidier than when he had been there last. Giulia’s mother sat down in an armchair and motioned Blume to sit on the sofa opposite. He sat down without relinquishing the leash. Giulia sat near Blume on the sofa. The dog stood between them, and blocked their view. He yanked on the lead a few times, but the dog tautened its neck and threw him a bored-walrus look.

“Is your son here, Mrs. Brocca?” inquired Blume, leaning his head back to see over the dog.

“No, he’s with his grandmother. I don’t want him to have to listen to this, even if nothing will be worse than what he saw.”

“Did forensics send your car back?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sit!” shouted Giulia suddenly, but the dog remained where he was. She stood up and walked over to it, and Blume tightened his hold on the leash. The girl was only a little taller than the animal. Her whole head could fit in its mouth. “Lie down!” She pointed to the floor. The dog lay down.

Blume showed them pictures of Pernazzo, whom they identified immediately. He showed them pictures of Alleva and Massoni. Giulia remembered Massoni, her mother did not. Then he began by telling them that the man who had killed their father and husband was dead. They nodded. They knew this already.

He stumbled over a few condolences, not sure where to begin the narrative they were waiting for because it really began the day he walked into Pernazzo’s apartment and failed to arrest him.

Not only had he not arrested Pernazzo, he had insulted and goaded him, then rushed off to meet Kristin, leaving Pernazzo to reassert his virility by killing Enrico Brocca and ruining this family. He quickly glossed over the details.

But Giulia was ready for him. She pulled up her legs onto the cushion, turned to face him better, and said, “When you first saw Pernazzo, did you get a bad feeling about him?”

“Yes.” He would not lie to her.

“But you couldn’t arrest him then? You can’t arrest people just because you don’t like them. Right?”

“Right,” said Blume. “I can’t do that.” He noticed the dog was drooling on the carpet.

Twenty minutes later, Blume concluded his version of events with the news that Pernazzo had been assassinated in a house in the country and that inquiries were continuing, but again Giulia was waiting for him.

“Who killed Pernazzo?”

“We don’t know.”

“Liar,” said Giulia. “When you tell the truth you say ‘I’ and when you’re lying, you try to spread the blame and say ‘we.’ ”

“Giulia, you mustn’t,” said her mother, but her voice lacked all conviction.

“We have a right to know,” said Giulia, looking straight at Blume.

“I think it was a woman called Manuela Innocenzi, but it is not likely to be proved.” Blume realized he was going to have to explain who Manuela was, which meant filling in more details.

When he had finished again, Giulia said, “So my father was Pernazzo’s second victim after Clemente? I think that was important enough for you to tell me right away.”

“It didn’t seem relevant to your case,” said Blume. “Also, I suspect he might have killed his mother, too. It was probably what set him off, but none of that can be proved now. So your father would have been the third.”

They sat there in silence for a while. The dog seemed to have fallen asleep.

Finally, Giulia said, “I don’t feel anything. No, that’s not right. I don’t feel any different now that I know who did it and that he’s dead.”

“I think I do,” said her mother. They both turned to look at her. Tears were flowing freely from her eyes, but her face seemed strangely composed, as if she was unaware that she was crying.

“I think I feel better,” she said. “I have something to tell myself. I can say this thing to myself now, and . . . I can’t explain. It’s like I haven’t been talking to myself. But this is something I can say to myself. You mustn’t mind me, Giulia, when I say this, but I wish I had killed him. I wish I had strangled him with these hands.” She held up her hands, which were small and finely shaped.

As Blume and his dog took their leave, Giulia followed them to the door and said, “Are you coming back?”

“Do I need to?”

“No. I don’t think so.” She held out her hand, but Blume brushed his hand over her hair instead.

“Bye, Giulia. Look after your mother and brother, but don’t get trapped. You are still a child. Make sure you get looked after, too.”

On the way back to the car, Blume sent a text message to Paoloni asking to meet. The dog whined and looked at him.

“You’re hungry? That must be it. Are you planning on being hungry often?”

Blume went home to feed the dog. Paoloni had yet to reply to the text. The longer he took to reply, thought Blume, the easier it would be to withhold sympathy.

When he opened a can of meat and cereal and put them in the new bowl, the dog barked, nearly causing Blume to hurl something at it.

“Your bark is far too large for my apartment,” he told the dog, which barked again, hurting his ears. Blume put the bowl on the floor. He had forgotten to buy a water bowl, so he filled up a shallow saucepan. When he bent down to put the water next to the food, the food was gone. The dog then lapped up the water in twenty seconds. Blume filled it twice more before the dog had enough.

He left the house at five, far too early for his date with Kristin. It would be his first visit to her place, and she was cooking. Blume had a strong suspicion that she would not be much good, but he was not visiting for the food.

There was no question of leaving the dog at home. It was just too big and too strange, and it had somehow sensed that he was leaving and placed itself by the door.

No sooner were they down in the street than the dog squatted and relieved itself, right in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said Blume, revolted. He remembered again how much he hated dogs.

“Hey!”

Blume turned around. Another outraged woman, older this time. She pointed to the mess. Blume apologized, but it wasn’t good enough. After a while, he lost patience. “This entire city is covered in dog crap, litter, and graffiti. You Romans are the dirtiest people on the planet. So don’t come on to me like we’re living in Switzerland or something. You live here, deal with it.”

He walked away, feeling bad. The woman was right, of course. There should be more like her. And what was all that about “you Romans”? It must be the prospect of meeting Kristin that was making him feel like an outsider again.

“As for you,” he told the dog, “clean up your act.”