Darkness for the Bastards of Pizzofalcone by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

shook his head: “Nothing. The mother called at 7:30; Ottavia answered and told her only that, as of that moment, there was nothing new.”
    Alex was pouring herself a cup of coffee: “Apparently she informed the boy’s father. She called him last night and told him only that their son was missing. And this morning she was going to tell Dodo’s grandfather, too, but she was going to wait until it got a bit later, when he was less likely to have a heart attack at the news. That’s what she said.”
    Aragona sighed: “At 7:30 in the morning, and Ottavia answered? And you already know all these things? But it’s only 8:15 now! I can understand the President being here, since old people don’t need much sleep, but why were you all already here in the office so early?”
    Pisanelli remained unruffled: “Look, let me tell you from personal experience: you’ll be the last one in even when you’re an old man. You spend too much time in front of the mirror, trying to look like somebody else.”
    Aragona took off his blue-tinted sunglasses: “What do you mean, somebody else? I’m authentic, one hundred percent!”
    Lojacono raised his eyes from the screen where he’d been watching the video of the boy for the hundredth time: “Sure you are, cowboy. Come on, get yourself some coffee, seeing that that’s at least one thing good old Guida knows how to get right.”
    Just then a man walked into the room and asked: “Is this where you’re working on the missing child? I’m Alberto Cerchia, the father.”
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    They had him sit down at Ottavia’s desk, which had the least wobbly chair in the office, and then went to summon Palma, who was on the phone with police headquarters for the first briefing of the day.
    Alberto Cerchia was a good-looking man, just over forty, fairly tall, tan, and with a lean physique. Wrinkles around his eyes and a slight graying at his temples betrayed his age, but otherwise, anyone would have thought him ten years younger. He wore a casual navy blue suit and a light-blue shirt open at the neck. He was shaken up and obviously tired; a shadow of stubble just visible on his face and a number of creases in the fabric of his jacket stood in sharp contrast to the general impression of a habitually well-cared-for appearance.
    â€œI only got the news last night,” he said, as if to explain the timing of his arrival, “and I got on the road immediately; I was at the Swiss border. There was lots of rain on the highway . . . but of course I couldn’t stop. She told me . . . I asked who was in charge of the investigation. So I came here first. Tell me, exactly what happened?”
    His voice, with its northern accent, betrayed a pragmatic, impatient personality that preferred to be in charge.
    Palma answered for the group by introducing himself: “I’m Commissario Palma, and we took the initial call. Your son was on a school field trip to a museum, the Villa Rosenberg, and he left with a person who hasn’t been identified. Since then, yesterday morning at 8:30, we’ve heard nothing more about him.”
    The man listened attentively, his brow furrowed, his lips tight.
    â€œSo you’re telling me that my son Dodo has been kidnapped? Is that what you’re telling me?”
    Palma coughed uneasily: “We’re not certain of that yet. We do know he wasn’t taken by force, he went with this person willingly, so . . .”
    Cerchia interrupted him, raising one hand; he seemed unable to believe what he was hearing.
    â€œWait a minute, how could you know that?”
    Ottavia broke in, her voice gentle; she understood what that man was going through and did her best to calm him down.
    â€œWe have a video from the museum’s security camera. It’s just a short clip, no more than a few seconds, but . . .”
    The man leapt out of his chair: “A