check what it was. As he registered the presence of another amber light, he felt a prickling of danger run up to his hairline from his neck. They were not lights; they were eyes. Then he heard it, a growl, and before he had time to stand up again, two canine fangs appeared in the blackness and a huge, heavy, stinking black shape rushed from under the caravan and hurled itself on top of Blume, sending him crashing to the ground. As he fell on his back, he could see the civil protection team twenty meters away, enveloping themselves in smoke, oblivious behind their masks.
Blume shouted, then instinctively brought his arms up to his throat, but the animal did not attack him there. Its tactic seemed to be to use its weight to immobilize him before tearing at him with its teeth. The beast opened its huge mouth over Blume’s damaged arm. He could feel its tongue and breath on his hand, and tensed as he waited for the jaws to shut and sever his fingers. Blume started thrashing about, and realized the animal was not as heavy as it looked. He punched with his good arm and connected with the animal’s cold nose. It barked and took its weight off him completely. Scrambling to his feet, Blume delivered a massive kick to the flank of the animal, which shuddered and yelped. He kicked it again, and it rolled onto the ground, assuming almost the same posture as Blume had been in a few seconds ago.
Blume brought his foot up, ready to strike with his heel this time, but the big black dog just lay there, breathing fast. A muffled yell came from behind, and Blume turned to see the men running toward him. One shouted something from behind his mask, then ripped it off and shouted again: “Stand back!”
One of the team, still in a mask, was pointing the shotgun, the other a tranquilizer gun. Blume started to step back, and the one with the shotgun was the first to step forward. Blume stepped back to where he was.
“Get away! That’s a Cane Corso. It can rip out your throat with a single bite.”
His companion with the shotgun took off his mask to observe, “A bit small for a Cane Corso.”
“It’s young. Also, it’s badly malnourished. But don’t let it fool you.”
Blume looked at his bandaged arm and hand. The animal had covered it in saliva.
“Stand back, Commissioner.”
The dog had had plenty of opportunity to bite his arm off. But it had not used its teeth. Even as he had thrashed about and hit it, the animal had done its best to continue licking his hand. That’s all it had done. He realized now that he had managed to smash his fist into the dog’s nose because it was trying to nuzzle him. Blume moved a little closer, and the animal thumped its ugly cropped tail back and forth, then closed its strange tiger-ish eyes.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Blume.
“We’ll put it to sleep with this.” He slotted a feathery red dart into the light rifle.
“Then what? He gets put down?”
“Phenobarbital overdose. If I had to choose a way to die, I might just choose that. Very peaceful.”
Blume hunkered down and stretched out his arm. The dog lifted a mud-caked paw and made a sort of whinnying sound. Blume patted the muscular neck, still sleek and clean.
“Can we get him some water?” he asked.
56
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.
