The map had been on the wall for three months, and the number of pins had gradually expanded. She had to pass by Assistente Capo Rospo’s desk on her way to turn on the overhead lights, and he took the opportunity to say, “Those pins don’t mean shit.” “They all converge around two places,” said Caterina. “Yeah, two hotels. Big fucking surprise that, finding tourists in hotels.” “This hotel has more than . . .” She had to stop talking, because Grattapaglia’s metal desk drawer refused to slide, and Grattapaglia smashed the side of his heel into it several times, swept the stuff from his desk, and left it on the floor. “Ma vaffanculo a tutto!” Grattapaglia clenched and unclenched his fists, then rubbed his left bicep and whitened. Rospo was suddenly busy with his work. Caterina went over to the Sovrintendente. “Let me help you,” she said. “Don’t let the stress kill you.” “Fuck the stress,” said Grattapaglia. “It’s being indoors. Last thing I’m going to do here is find out who the damned mugger is.
