Mo-bot rolled her eyes. Decades of working serious crime, analyzing scenes and hunting criminals, had robbed the job of some of its drama, but she still wasn’t as blasé about it as Sci.
“You can go out to play when all this is over,” she said in a patronizing tone.
“I’m not a child, you know,” he remarked as he signaled for a right turn. “But that would be nice.”
Mo-bot knew something had happened to Trotta the momentthey rounded the corner and joined Via Metronio. The wide, leafy residential avenue ran alongside the Basilica di San Giovanni a Porta Latina and the old missionary college, both buildings surrounded by ancient high brick walls. On the other side of the street stood luxury apartment blocks and grand old villas, surrounded by mature trees that reached high toward the sun.
The road was blocked by police patrol cars, vans, and unmarked vehicles. There were local residents in the gardens of the neighboring mansions and apartment blocks, watching events, and a small crowd of passers-by gathered by the wall of the basilica. The high branches shaded them from the burning sun. If it hadn’t been for the clear indications that something was very wrong, Mo-bot would have been focused on the beauty and architectural history of the stunning street.
Sci pulled up behind a row of parked cars.
“This probably isn’t good,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Mo-bot replied.
“Same,” he said, reaching for the holdall on the back seat. “I’ll take a look inside.”
Mo-bot felt stifled by the humid air the moment she left the air-conditioned car. She scanned the crime scene, centered on Stefano Trotta’s house, and saw someone she recognized. Mia Esposito was talking to some plainclothes officers.
Mo-bot walked over, but a uniformed officer at the cordon prevented her from getting too close.
“Inspector,” she yelled. “Inspector Esposito.”
She registered her name, glanced at Mo-bot, and immediately frowned. She excused herself from her colleagues and walked over.
“What’s happened here?” Mo-bot asked.
Esposito said nothing.
“Listen, I’m the one who should be upset,” Mo-bot said. “You arrested me. Wrongfully.”
Still nothing.
“Is Stefano Trotta dead?” Mo-bot tried.
“How would you know that?” Esposito countered.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you,” Mo-bot replied.
“Instead of you asking me questions, I should be asking you about the whereabouts of Jack Morgan. Did he send you here?”
Whatever was in that house, it hadn’t put Esposito in a good mood.
“You tried that already, remember? When you held us without charge,” Mo-bot retaliated.
Esposito bristled.
“I didn’t mean any discourtesy, Inspector,” Mo-bot remarked, checking her own frustration. “I can see you’re busy.”
She backed away. Esposito scowled at her before returning to her colleagues.
When Mo-bot joined Sci on a patch of grass by the basilica wall, she saw he was piloting a tiny drone through Trotta’s villa. The screen on the remote control gave them eyes on the interior. There in the living room was Stefano Trotta’s body. He was seated on a large couch, gun in hand, an apparent suicide.
“Grim,” Mo-bot observed.
“Not a nice way to die,” Sci remarked, favoring the exit wound on the side of Trotta’s head.
Mo-bot saw him frown and pilot the drone around the room. On-screen, the drone was broadcasting a view of a blank wall.
