I Will Have Vengeance by Maurizio de Giovanni, Anne Milano Appel

Lilla.”
    The woman replied in a soft, velvety voice, very different to the sharp, brusque tone she’d been using until then.
    â€œGood morning to you, my dear Signor Lasio. Gentlemen, we are at your disposal: come back whenever you like.”

XVII
    D r. Modo stood waiting at the main entrance, smoking and huddled inside the vestibule to avoid the cold wind. As soon as he saw Ricciardi, he smiled.
    â€œSpending the morning at the theater, huh? Addicted to it.”
    The Commissario made a face.
    â€œHello, Doctor. What are you doing here? Couldn’t stand being away from me any longer, right?”
    â€œHow about it, will you buy me lunch?”
    â€œOut of the question. I was thinking of just a pizza, from the usual cart. Come on, a
sfogliatella
and coffee at Gambrinus: seems like a fair compromise to me.”
    â€œSpendthrift. And yet they say you’re loaded. Fine, I’ll settle for that: anything to get out of the cold.”
    Walking against the wind, they covered the short distance to the cafè in silence, the doctor holding on to his hat and tightening his coat collar, Ricciardi with his hands in his pockets and his hair blowing about. He was thinking about the evidence gathered that morning. He felt like he was holding the pieces of a wooden puppet which he couldn’t seem to put together. He also had the nagging sensation that he had not given proper importance to something. But to what?
    The two men went in, rubbing their hands, and sat down at Ricciardi’s usual table, the one near the window that looked out on to Via Chiaia. The doctor puffed, taking off his hat, coat and gloves.
    â€œWhen was the last time we saw such weather in late March? You’re a country boy from the mountains, but I’m from the coast and I’m telling you that as a kid I would already be diving off the rocks at Marechiaro by this time. Even in the Alps, during the war, it wasn’t this cold in March.”
    â€œDon’t complain; you’ll keep better this way. Like your cadavers.”
    â€œHold on, wait a second: maybe I’m hearing voices, like Joan of Arc. I thought I heard a wisecrack: but aren’t you Commissario Ricciardi? The gloomy Commissario Ricciardi, the man who never smiles?”
    â€œAnd in fact I’m not smiling. So, what can you tell me? You beat me to it—I would have come by your place this afternoon.”
    Modo nodded dejectedly.
    â€œListen, I’ve never felt so much pressure to work quickly: even from Rome, from the Ministry. Who on earth did they kill, the Pope? Your pal Garzo, always so
simpatico
, sent that clerk of his, Ponte, to see me twice this morning. If there were any results from the lab tests and the autopsy, the Questura wanted to know immediately.”
    â€œAnd are there any results?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’d say that the considerations I shared with you last night remain valid. However there is something strange; more a feeling than anything else. Still, it’s a feeling.”
    The waiter appeared. Ricciardi ordered two coffees and two
sfogliatelle
.
    â€œWhat do you mean, a feeling? Are there feelings, in your profession? Isn’t it all just scientific rigour?”
    â€œAh, there we go, now I recognize you: the sarcastic Commissario Ricciardi, ready to relegate science to second place. But science can help your feelings. It can confirm them, and it can prove them wrong.”
    The waiter returned, bringing their order. The doctor bit into his
sfogliatella
, famished. His greying moustache turned white from the powdered sugar dusting the flaky pastry; each mouthful was accompanied by moans of pleasure.
    â€œMmm . . . ask me what I love about this city, and I’ll tell you: the
sfogliatelle
! Not the sea, not the sun; the
sfogliatelle
.”
    Ricciardi, who, on alternating days, lived on
sfogliatella
and pizza, tried to draw the doctor’s attention back to