whose jet black hair showed white roots appeared in front of him, blocking his way.
“I am sorry,” she said.
Blume glanced at her, but continued walking. As he passed, he said, “What for?”
“Your injuries.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to sit down.”
He walked past her and threw himself into the back pew.
Principe said something to the woman with the dyed hair, then sat down beside him.
“You feeling OK?” he asked Blume, his voice dropping to a whisper as someone a few rows ahead turned around to look at them.
“Not really.” Blume lowered his voice, too. “Look, I sent in a sample of hair to the labs. Did you hear anything about that?”
Principe nodded. “Yes, the head of the lab, Cantore-know him?”
“Not really. I’ve met him, but I can’t say I know him.”
“Well, Cantore wanted to know what your idea of a joke was.”
“I know, I know. There was no chain of evidence, no consent given, no crime scene to justify lifting the sample-I just needed further confirmation that Manuela Innocenzi was in Clemente’s apartment.”
“So why did you send him the hair of a dog?”
Blume closed his eyes. He could see the funny side of it. There was definitely a funny side. But he didn’t feel like laughing. Maybe when the funeral was over.
“They got saliva from the victim’s eye,” Principe continued. “The killer spat into it. The saliva contained a high quantity of cortisol, which indicates that the person was excited or anxious at the time of killing.”
“That’s useful information?”
“Cantore told me about the cortisol. I only mention it because it fits in with your idea that this was not a professional killing.”
“Jesus,” said Blume forgetting to keep his voice down. “We all know that. It was a knife attack. Can’t we move on a bit?”
“No,” said Principe. “That’s just it: we can’t.”
“You’re going to tell me I’ve been taken off the case,” said Blume.
“What are you talking about? Of course you’re off the case. You are supposed to be in a hospital bed. A kid was killed, two policemen injured.”
“I know,” said Blume. “I was one of the two. But you don’t need me for the next step. I need you to issue an arrest warrant on a guy called Angelo Pernazzo. He’s the one we want. For the Clemente murder.”
“Who?”
“Angelo Pernazzo. Just get his fingerprints. That’ll do it. I had a label…”
“Arrest on what charge?”
“Make something up. That’s your job.” But Principe was already shaking his head. “What-you mean you won’t?”
“I can’t,” said Principe. He took off his shiny glasses and polished them on his sleeve. “They issued a writ of certiorari. The case, or the remnants of it, is being transferred to a different office.”
The nervous woman with the black hair appeared at the end of the pew and gave him a half wave. Blume glared at her until she moved out of his scope of vision.
Principe had produced a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket pocket and was riffling through them. “The prosecutor general has taken me off the case. I am to write up everything on the Clemente case, then give it to them, and they’ll incorporate it into a general file regarding possible corruption and abuse of office.”
“What’s this about?”
“I’m not entirely sure what’s going on. This writ is the maneuver they always use when they want to stop us from investigating politicians. You ask me, I think Clemente’s widow pulled strings to have it shut down.”
“She’s that powerful?”
“Her family’s been in politics for two generations. She’s got uncles, cousins in practically every party.”
“Doesn’t she want to know who killed her husband?”
“I think she’s happy to think it was Alleva. She lived apart from her husband most of the year, is a good- looking woman, has ministerial prospects, and would no doubt prefer their private life not to be the object of police investigation and press speculation.”
“What about Angelo Pernazzo?”
“Weren’t you listening? I no longer have jurisdictional competence. And even if I did, it would be hard for me to give instructions based on your hunches.”
“It’s more than a hunch.”
Principe sighed. “Supposing I could do something, what would it be?”
“Get his fingerprints. That’s all it will take.”
“I can’t order it. But maybe I can make representation to the prosecutor general. I’m taking it your suspect has no alibi.”
Blume hesitated.
“Alec, you’re not going to tell me to risk having a run-in with the prosecutor general by betting on a feeling you have against someone who does have an alibi?”
“He has an alibi, only I don’t like it,” said Blume.
“I don’t like a lot of people, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real, unfortunately.”
“It’s a computer alibi,” said Blume and explained about Pernazzo’s online poker, while Principe’s impatience made him rock back and forth in the pew as he listened.
At the end he said, “There’s nothing I can do with that. Can’t you see?”
“Get the technicians to check out his alibi, then,” said Blume. “We’ve got his name and address, they can see if he was online from his home when he said he was.”
“Telecom Italia needs a court order to release the names of customers… I could do it, bundle his IP with an investigation into file-sharing or something. It’s a lot of work.”
“Not officially. Just let the computer crimes division know you and I are interested in this IP address. They’ll help. Tell you what, get in contact with a guy called Giacomo Rosati. He knows me. Explain the situation, then get him to call me directly if anything turns up.”
Principe puffed out his cheeks and shook his head, but agreed. “Do you mind if we get back to the other case? Ferrucci’s murder. That’s where all the attention is focused now.”
Blume tried to nod, but his whiplash collar would not allow it. From the front of the church, a group of six young policemen in dress uniform and white gloves stood up and began walking toward the exit.
“The pallbearers,” said Principe. “It looks as if the coffin has arrived.”
“We may as well stay here, then,” said Blume. “Where’s the family? I need to pay my respects after.”
Paoloni nodded. “Down there. Second row from front. He had a sister.”
Blume saw the back of the head of a young woman with long dark hair. Beside her sat a bald man who had hidden his face behind a hymn sheet. His shoulders were shaking.
“And the mother?”
“For some reason, she feels she has to greet everyone as they arrive. That was her at the entrance. The one with the dyed black hair,” said Principe.
Blume closed his eyes. “I didn’t realize that was her.”
“You look like death,” said Principe. “Are you coming down to the front?”
“No,” said Blume. “I’ll stay here.”
Principe hesitated. “Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I am sure I am not OK,” said Blume. “I never said I was OK. I feel like shit. Which is why I’ll stay here at the back. You go down front. Also, tell Paoloni to meet me here afterwards.”
“Fine,” said Principe. As he walked down the aisle, the pallbearers arrived, bearing the coffin on their shoulders. All the cops in sunglasses who had been outside followed behind, veering off to fill the middle pews as the coffin continued its voyage down to the front. The last policeman to take his place was Gallone, who came down the aisle with a slow, reverent gait, his face a mask of sorrow, his eyes downcast. Before the altar, he made the sign of the cross, bowed his head, and genuflected, staying there on bended knee like Jesus falling for the third
