Free Black Run by Antonio Manzini

her eyes with the sleeve of her Patagonia sweater.
    â€œWould you like a glass of water, signora?”

    Luisa shook her head. “No. I wonder if I can go take a look at the man you found. At least that way I could set my fears to rest, no? I can’t stay up at the hut all alone. Not as anxious as I feel.”
    Rocco stood up and went to the window. He tossed the cigarette butt into the street, then pulled the window shut. “Tell me something: this hut, this chalet, exactly what is it? A lean-to of some kind?”
    â€œNo, Dottore. It’s a small bar and trattoria up in the mountains. There was a time when huts were just huts. Now they’re chalets, did you know that? We serve food and drinks, and the place is furnished better than a boutique in Milan.”
    â€œAh. And does it make money?”
    â€œIf the season is successful, yes. It makes plenty of money.”
    Rocco leaned his forehead against the glass and watched the sidewalks, dotted with snow. A woman holding a child by the hand crossed the street. “How much can you make with a chalet?”
    â€œWhy? Are you thinking of finding a new line of work?”
    Rocco laughed. “That’d be nice.” Then, at last, he turned around and looked at Luisa Pec, sitting across the desk from him. “No. It’s just to help me understand. I’ve only been here a few months. I come from Rome, and let’s just say that the mountains and me are as distant as . . . as Rome and the mountains.”
    A small smile broke the worry lines on Luisa’s face; it lit up as if someone had touched a lit match to a lamp wick inside. “Well, now, what can I tell you? Enough to earn a perfectly decent living.”
    Rocco sat back down in his chair. “Do you really want to see him, Luisa? It’s not a pretty sight, you know.”
    The woman bit her lip. Then she nodded briskly, three times.
    Rocco stood up. “The face, if you know what I mean, is no longer recognizable. Maybe if . . .”

    â€œLeone has a tattoo. On his chest.”
    Rocco looked down, as if he were searching for a precious object that had just fallen on the floor. The woman sensed that something wasn’t right. A gray, invisible veil once again fell over Luisa’s pretty face. “What is it, Commissario? What’s wrong?”
    â€œI’m not sure that . . . Oh well, forget about that. What does the tattoo say?”
    â€œI have the same tattoo. We got them together. It’s a Hindu mantra. Maa vidvishhaavahai , which means—”
    â€œMay no obstacle arise between us,” Rocco finished the sentence for her, head bowed.
    Luisa’s pupils dilated like two oil patches. “But how . . . how did you . . . ?” Then Luisa understood.
    And she burst into tears.
    He’d managed to avoid the procession to the hospital. He’d let Officer Casella accompany Luisa Pec to see Fumagalli and take care of all the administrative details. He’d delegated the official phone calls that had to be made to the investigating magistrate and the chief of police to Inspector Rispoli, one of the few officers on whom he relied almost blindly.

    Now Rocco was sitting at his desk. In front of him, spread out like a sheet, was a map of Val d’Ayas. Across the desk, on the other side, was the raw material the state had provided him with: Officer D’Intino, looking at him blank-eyed, and Special Agent Deruta, still damp, his hair combed back. Inspector Caterina Rispoli with her lively blue eyes was sitting some distance from the pair of them, as if pointing out that her IQ was much higher than her colleagues’. The deputy police chief looked at his two male officers. He knew perfectly that the task he was about to assign them went well beyond their skill sets, but he also knew that the task would keep them busy for a long time, and the thought of not seeing D’Intino and Deruta wandering around police headquarters put him