The Bottom of Your Heart by Maurizio de Giovanni, Antony Shugaar

hostess.”
    The two policemen politely declined and sat down. She perched on the sofa.
    Ricciardi heaved a sigh.
    â€œWe’re very sorry, Signora, to disturb you at a time like this. But as you can imagine, time is of the essence. Still, if you don’t feel you’re up to answering a few questions right now, we can certainly come back some other time.”
    â€œNo, Commissario, I understand the urgency and I intend to do what I can to help. I’m the first to want to know what happened.”
    Her voice was calm; only her hands, white-knuckled and clenched in fists in her lap, betrayed grief-laden tension.
    Ricciardi went on: “We searched your husband’s office but we found neither a letter nor a note that might suggest . . . that he had decided to end his life. Do you know of any reason or situation that might have pushed him to . . .”
    â€œNo. My husband was a powerful, wealthy, respected man. He had no debts, he didn’t gamble, there was no shadowy past of poverty and desperation, he had no relatives in dire straits. His family was well-to-do: his father was a prosperous merchant. I’d rule out any motivations for . . . for an act of that kind.”
    Maione cleared his throat: “All right, Signo’, money wasn’t a problem for your unfortunate husband. But money isn’t the only thing there is, don’t you agree?”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    Ricciardi broke in: “My colleague is trying to ask whether there might be reasons of some other kind, not economic in nature. A state of excessive exhaustion, some disagreement at work, or at home, perhaps with you yourself. The brigadier is trying to reconstruct your husband’s psychological state.”
    Signora Iovine pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in an expression that must have been a habitual one, given the wrinkles they had noticed previously.
    â€œCommissario, as I told you, my husband is . . . was an untroubled person. He worked hard, but he always had. A university career, and he’d reached the very highest peaks of academia, means keeping to a demanding path and it involves rivalries and conflict, but he’d clearly achieved his goals. Here at home, too, there was no reason for conflict.”
    Ricciardi nodded. It was time to explore new territory: “We understand that you have a son. Is that right?”
    â€œYes, Commissario. His name is Federico, and he’s eight years old. I sent him out to play in the park with his nanny as soon as I heard the news. I haven’t told him yet: he’s very close to his father, and he’s quite a sensitive child. I’m going to have to find a way.”
    â€œCertainly . . . Excuse us if we insist, but it’s our job to take into consideration any possibility, however remote. It does happen that people who commit such an extreme act do so without leaving a note or any written message, but it’s pretty unusual. Do you happen to remember anything strange he might have mentioned? Did your husband say anything that surprised you?”
    â€œNo, really, nothing. My husband, Commissario, was away from home a lot. For that matter, that was the nature of his job: pregnant women can hardly plan the timing of their medical needs. Lately, he’d been very busy, and he was definitely tired, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
    Maione sighed. They’d come to the crucial point.
    Ricciardi resumed: “In that case, since we have no reason to suspect this was suicide, we need to take another possibility into consideration: that someone might have pushed your husband out that window. Do you know whether the professor had recently had any disagreements or quarrels, even a petty argument, and if so with whom?”
    The woman fell silent. Hers was an expressionless silence that Maione found unsettling. She sat staring into empty space, practically without blinking, and slowly twisted