Vecchie conoscenze
Sofia Martinet died in her apartment, struck in the head with a heavy object. As Rocco Schiavone pursues a new investigation, some returns from the past emotionally shake the Deputy Police Chief who almost catches himself repenting of his own tough exterior: perhaps because an inviting allusion to the emancipating power of love hovers everywhere. Love of any kind.
Schiavone does not believe this. All elements point to one culprit: motive, time, place, material and computer traces, psychology. But he doesn't believe it by the skin of his teeth. "The archaeologist, Sara, said she sees nothing in my eyes. It's usually the same impression I get when I look at a murderer." Instead, in the eyes of suspect number one he saw something: "Fear." She died in her apartment Sofia Martinet, struck in the head with a heavy object. The only clues a repeated "J" in her diary, and a pale stripe around one finger, a sign of a ring always worn and coldly removed from the corpse. In her seventies, a house full of books, including several valuable antiquities, an internationally renowned name in her academic field, an art historian specializing in Leonardo da Vinci. The investigation carried out by Rocco Schiavone, with his unmistakable style of work and life, has two junctures. The first concerns the conduct of the victim's son; the second is a discovery the latter had made while digging into the scientific works of the Renaissance genius. "A turning point in the world of Leonardo studies." Suddenly, a telluric shock also emotionally complicates Rocco's restless days: Sebastiano, the friend from childhood, and from exploits on the edge of legality, who had been missing for quite some time, sunk in his secret hunt alongside his young wife's executioner, resurfaces. Old acquaintances. And he is not the only, shocking return from the past to turn old dear acquaintances into spectres. A perhaps more lonely Rocco Schiavone, but at moments self-critical, who almost catches himself repenting of his own rind of toughness: perhaps because an inviting allusion to the emancipating power of love hovers everywhere. Love of any kind.