"Some feel that way, yes," he said quickly.
Based on an Italian festival that started six decades ago, Sanremo, Eurovision was a televised songwriting and -performing contest, countries competing against one another in a theatrical show that was lavishly and gaudily produced. The music was criticized as being bubblegum, with a patriotic topping and political bias. Still, Ercole loved it. He had been six times. He had tickets for the next Grand Final. Two tickets.
Ever hopeful, Ercole Benelli.
"They returned from the show and found police waiting at his flat. He had been selling fuel-system secrets to a competing team. The charges resulted in a fine only but in Italy, of course, people take driving very seriously. I myself was personally offended."
"You like car races?"
She said fervently, "I go to Formula One whenever I can. One day I will own a Maserati, the coupe. Used, of course. It will have to be. A Ferrari...well, that is beyond my dreams, on a Police of State salary. Do you attend?"
"Not often. I can't find the time." In fact, auto racing held no interest for him whatsoever. "I enjoyed the movie Rush." He couldn't remember the drivers' names. And one was Italian.
"Ah, brilliant, wasn't it? Niki Lauda, an artist! He drove for Ferrari, of course. I own the DVD. I attend races quite a lot. But they aren't for everybody. You must wear sound protection, if you go. I take my earmuffs, the ones I use on the police pistol range. They also help me get good seats. People see Police of State printed on the cups and they make way for me."
For some reason he said, "I race pigeons."
"The birds?"
He said, "Of course the birds."
What other kind of pigeons were there?
"I have never heard of that. In any event, though Arci's offense was not serious, Daniela could hardly have a boyfriend who committed a crime."
"And one who was guilty, as well, of bunga-bunga when he was away at races."
"Exactly."
"Poor thing. She must have been devastated."
Beatrice clicked her tongue, the way a disapproving nun might do in class. "I wouldn't call her a thing. It's offensive. But, yes, of course she was upset." Beatrice looked into the other room, toward the woman who was a foot taller, seven kilos lighter and had the face of an angelic cheetah. She said kindly, "Even the beautiful can suffer from heartbreak. No one is immune. So, I say to you simply that she is available, if you wish to speak to her on the matter."
Utterly flustered, he blurted, "No, no, no. I have no interest in her in that way, none whatsoever. I'm merely curious. It's my nature. I am curious about everyone. I am curious about people from different regions. People of different ages. People of different races, different colors. I am curious about men, about women, black, white, brown..." He struggled to find something more to say.
Beatrice helped out: "Children, of any complexion?"
Ercole blinked, then realized she was making a joke. He laughed at her dry delivery, though uncomfortably. She gave no response, other than to study the bags.
"So. What do we have here?" She was holding the card. "'From the smoking station.' What is that?"
"The location of a possible witness to a crime. Or a perpetrator."
She read another card. "'The attack site.'"
He stepped forward, to tell her what it contained, but she waved him back, past a yellow line. "No, no, no. You are not gowned. Get back!"
He sighed and stepped away. "It's pebbles--"
"From a rooftop. Obviously."
He then asked, "And can you see if the NV Hotel in Vomero has a CCTV pointed northeast, from the top level of their parking garage?"
Beatrice frowned. "Me? It would be the Postal Police who could check that."
"I don't know anyone there." He tapped his Forestry Corps badge.
"I suppose I could. What case is this?"