“No, no, Caravale, nothing’s been touched. I thought you would want your people to examine the scene.”

“Very good, Boldini, that’s exactly what I want.”

In his mind’s eye, he could imagine Boldini’s grimace of disapproval. In a meaningless ceremony a few years ago, the city council had made the comandante an honorary maresciallo of Stresa in recognition of his “invaluable service commanding the extensive traffic reorganization necessitated by the repaving of the Strada Statale del Sempione.” And in Boldini’s eyes, since marshals outranked colonels, he was entitled to call Caravale by nothing more than his last name-but not the other way around-and he was patently miffed when Caravale didn’t see it that way. And so, of course, Caravale called him “Boldini” every chance he got.

“All right, Boldini, I’m on my way, then,” he said. He began to hang up, then spoke again. “As to who was kidnapped-I take it you don’t know yet?”

Boldini hesitated. “Actually, we do. It was, ah, Achille de Grazia.” His voice was as somber and reverent as a muffled church bell.

“I see.”

“Sixteen years old, the son of Vincenzo de Grazia.”

“Yes, all right.”

“You do know Vincenzo de Grazia…?”

“Yes, Boldini, I know Vincenzo de Grazia. The son, was he hurt?”

“That we don’t know for certain. There is a witness, Carlo Muccia, a grocer-my men are holding him for you-he says the boy was definitely alive, but they had to drag him to their car-it took two of them-so, yes, it appears he may have been injured.”

Or it could be that he just preferred not to go. “Thank you, Boldini, we’ll take over from here. You’ve informed de Grazia?”

“Ah, no, as a matter of fact. As you may know, Signor de Grazia has honored me by making it clear that he does prefer to conduct any local police business through my office. However, in this case, I think the nature of the circumstances, the regrettable nature of the circumstances, ah, suggests that you be the one to inform him, don’t you agree?”