Black Run Read Free Page A

the defrost button, and sat there staring at a metal streetlamp tossing in the wind. Grains of snow fell through the cone of light, sifting through the darkness like stardust.
    â€œIt’s snowing! I knew it!”
    He put the car in reverse and drove out of Duvet.
    When he parked outside his apartment building on Rue Piave, the BMW with Pierron behind the wheel was already there with the engine running. Rocco leaped into the car, which the officer had already heated to a toasty seventy-three degrees. An agreeable feeling of well-being enveloped him like a woolen blanket.
    â€œItalo, I’m hoping you didn’t ring the buzzer to my apartment.”
    Pierron put the car in gear. “I’m not an idiot, Commissario.”
    â€œGood. But you have to lose this habit. The rank of commissario has been abolished.”
    The windshield wipers were clearing snowflakes off the glass.
    â€œIf it’s snowing here, I can just imagine up at Champoluc,” said Pierron.
    â€œIs it up high?”
    â€œFive thousand feet.”
    â€œThat’s insane!” The greatest elevation Rocco Schiavone had ever attained in his life was 450 feet above sea level at Rome’s Monte Mario. That is, of course, if you left out the past four months in Aosta, at 1,895 feet above sea level. He couldn’t even imagine someone living at 5,000 feet above sea level. It made his head spin just to think about it.
    â€œWhat do people do at five thousand feet above sea level?”
    â€œThey ski. They climb ice. In summer, they go hiking.”
    â€œJust think.” The deputy police chief pulled a Chesterfield out of the policeman’s pack. “I prefer Camels.”
    Italo smiled.

    â€œChesterfields taste of iron. Buy Camels, Italo.” He lit it and took a drag. “Not even stars in the sky,” he said, looking out the car window.
    Pierron was focused on driving. He knew that he was about to be treated to a serenade of nostalgia for Rome. And sure enough.
    â€œIn Rome this time of year, it’s cold, but often there’s a north wind that clears away the clouds. And then the sun comes out. It’s sunny and cold. The city’s all red and orange, the sky is blue, and it’s great to stroll down those cobblestone streets. All the colors are brighter when the north wind blows. It’s like a rag taking the dust off an antique painting.”
    Pierron looked up at the sky. He’d been to Rome once in his life, five years ago, and it smelled so bad that he’d thrown up for three days running.
    â€œAnd the pussy. You have no idea of the sheer quantity of pussy in Rome. I’m telling you, maybe only in Milan will you find anything comparable. You ever been to Milan?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re missing. Go there. It’s a wonderful city. You just have to understand how it works.”
    Pierron was a good listener. He was a mountain man, and he knew how to stay silent when silence was called for and how to speak when the time came to open his mouth. He was twenty-seven, but you’d guess he was ten years older. He’d never left Val d’Aosta, aside from the three days in Rome and a week in Djerba, the island off Tunisia, with his ex-girlfriend Veronica.

    Italo liked Rocco Schiavone. He liked him because he wasn’t one to stand on ceremony, and because you could always learn something from a guy like him. Sooner or later he’d have to ask the deputy police chief—though he insisted on using the old rank of commissario —just what had happened in Rome. But their acquaintance was still too new, Italo sensed, and it was too early to delve into details. For the moment, he’d satisfied his curiosity by poking into documents and reports. Rocco Schiavone had solved a substantial number of cases—murders, thefts, and frauds—and had seemed to be well on his way to a brilliant and successful career. And then suddenly