by Blake Pierce
With snapshot precision, Falcone took in the rest of the scene.
Nothing looked out of place. The hallway looked and felt undisturbed. There were no footprints or scuff marks on the polished tiles in front of her, and the house was quiet.
She walked slowly over to the body and glanced up the marble stairway.
It was high enough and steep enough for a fall to have been deadly, but healthy women in their forties didn’t usually fall down their own staircase for no reason.
But wait. Her gaze sharpened, noticing that one of the woman’s stylish boots was minus a heel. She guessed that was it, glinting halfway up the staircase. Had the shoe broken and caused the fall? Or had it broken during the fall?
Remembering the name of the deceased, and looking at those exquisite boots, and at the large replica at the foot of the stairs, she wondered briefly if the woman might be part of the wealthy family that owned Rossi Shoes. If so, this would be a high-profile investigation and she and her team could not afford to make even the smallest mistake.
She bent and felt the woman’s pulse. She didn’t expect to find one and there was none. Her flesh was cold, but rigor mortis had not yet set in.
The call had come in half an hour ago and that timeframe rang no alarm bells. However, as she crouched down and took a closer look, she noticed that there was a large scratch mark on the dead woman’s cheek. Dried blood had darkened the wound so it stood out on her pale face. There was a contusion on her cheekbone, her nose had bled, and her hair was matted.
Gently taking the well-dressed woman’s right hand again, Detective Falcone noticed that her knuckles were grazed.
She glanced up the staircase again.
These injuries could possibly have occurred during the fall—but face, head, knuckles—those locations rang alarm bells for her. They pointed to a fight, or a struggle.
“You have not interfered with the scene in any way?” she asked the girl, who was standing a few yards away, wringing her hands and shifting from foot to foot. She appeared extremely anxious and again, Falcone wondered if her anxiety was disproportionate to what had occurred.
“No. I haven’t touched anything,” she said.
This time, Falcone picked up that she was American. An American woman, working in the home. Was she a maid or an au pair? Who else was residing here?
“Is there anyone else at home this evening?” she asked gently.
“Ms. Rossi has two children, Nina and Venetia. They’re upstairs in their bedrooms. They know this has happened. Then there’s Nonna, Ms. Rossi’s mother. She arrived earlier today, and is in one of the spare bedrooms. She doesn’t know yet. She seems to suffer from dementia and I didn’t feel capable of telling her.”
Falcone nodded.
“She suffers from dementia? Is there a person to care for her?”
Cassie Vale gave a worried frown, and Falcone wondered why her question had caused this reaction.
“I—well, not really. Ms. Rossi would have cared for her but she fell.” Her words tailed off and she stared at the body for a few moments, before drawing in a deep breath, as if she was struggling to pull herself together emotionally. “I helped Nonna into her nightgown and made sure she was in bed,” she told Falcone.
Falcone stood up. The body offered clues. Some she had read, and others, the coroner would supply during the examination later tonight. What interested her was that the girl, too, looked as if she had been in a fight.
Under the brilliant light of the hallway chandelier, Falcone could clearly see a scratch on her cheek, and there was a shadow on her cheekbone that she thought might be a bruise, covered in makeup. She had seen many similar injuries, and attempts at concealment, in the domestic violence cases that she handled.
“The children’s father? Where is he?”
The auburn-haired woman shook her head and gazed back at Falcone helplessly.
“I don’t know. They were divorced last year, from what I understand, and the children haven’t had access to him since. I don’t even know his last name. Rossi is her name. She owns—owned—a shoe company.”
Falcone nodded. Her guess had been right. The deceased was indeed a well-known and high-profile businesswoman.
“I will ask one of my team to locate him and make contact,” she said.
Falcone stepped away from the body and made her way upstairs. Slowly, step by step, keeping a close lookout for any evidence that might present itself along the way.
There were a few strands of hair on the stairs. Again, unusual for a fall, and more symptomatic of a fight. Smudges—blood, lipstick, who knew? The forensics team would test, when they arrived.
There was the spiky silver heel, lying on the stairs like a long nail.
Falcone loved shoes and fashion; she supposed it was written into the Italian DNA. Outside of working hours, she loved to dress well, and spent a lot of money—probably too much, if she was truthful with herself—on quality items of clothing. There were a few pairs of Rossi shoes in her own wardrobe, but even she would never have worn boots that were quite so impractical and edgy. Generations of passionate dressers might be in her blood, but she had to balance it with the requirements for her job.
Her father had been a detective for many years. He’d retired from that department after a heart bypass operation, and was now heading up the local team in the village where he’d relocated, in a quiet countryside area outside Rome.
He had always encouraged Falcone to follow in his footsteps and was inordinately proud of her decision when she’d finally joined the police. From a young age, he had encouraged her not just to look, but to see. To notice, to observe. He’d told her many times, and shown her by example, how an officer of the law might need to step into their role at any time, whether on or off duty.
As a result, Falcone had always found her footwear choices ended up being practical, as well as beautiful. Heels were fine within reason, but when she put on a shoe, her first question was: Could I run in this, if I had to?
That ruled out the more extreme designs, although she was proud of the pace she could set in a pair of high heels. But these shoes? They were insane. They were like catwalk prototypes, which would be toned down before being sold in the high street stores.
Falcone tried to imagine what would happen if the heel had suddenly snapped, perhaps as the woman had put her full weight on it.
With a heel that high, it would definitely have destabilized the woman. Falcone would have imagined that a serious ankle injury, a sprain or even a break, would have been more likely than a fall, but she knew it depended on the circumstances.
“Did you witness the fall?” she called to Ms. Vale, who was waiting in the hallway below, keeping a few yards away from the stairs, and still twisting her fingers together anxiously.
“No. The children did.”
“They actually saw it?” Falcone couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice. “Did the children go to their mother afterwards? Are they all right?”
Her hand dropped to the phone in her pocket, ready to make the call to summon a nurse, or counselor, immediately.
Ms. Vale looked indecisive for a moment as if she wasn’t sure how she should answer that.
“They are all right. They were obviously shaken but I—I guess it hasn’t really sunk in yet.”
“How old are they?”
“Eight and nine years.”
Falcone’s eyebrows shot up. She would have expected instant hysterics; two shocked and inconsolable children running straight to their mother, shaking her, trying to rouse her, inadvertently contaminating the scene as they did their best to wake her.
It didn’t make sense that the au pair was saying this hadn’t happened. Perhaps the children had gone to her, but she hadn’t seen, since according to her, she had not been there at the time. Falcone knew her anxiety might also affect her recall of events.
Even so, Falcone knew, there was something very wrong here.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
She was curious to drill down into the sketchy story that the au pair had provided so far. From her nervous manner, Falcone was prepared for her version to be littered with inconsistencies and half-truths, but she knew that sometimes lies could be as revealing as honesty, and could guide a perceptive interviewer to what had really happened.
“There—there’s a room upstairs. It was a lounge, but it got changed into a dining room today so that Nonna, the children’s grandmother, can access it. She battled to walk up the stairs when she arrived.”
Ms. Vale took a shaky breath as if those words had reminded her how lethal the stairs could be.
“Please keep to your far right when you walk up,” Falcone advised. Ms. Rossi had fallen on the left side of the stairs. She watched the young woman carefully as she climbed up. She pressed herself close to the railing, seeming to need it for support, and looked away from the body as she passed.
The forensics team was already moving smoothly into operation. Her second-in-command was busy briefing the coroner, who had just arrived. They would photograph the scene, and take forensic samples before removing the body.
Falcone had worked with these detectives, and this coroner, for years. She trusted them to do the very best job, without her micromanagement and interference. She knew her strength was in the interviewing, as she had an exceptional ability to pick up physical tells and ask the right questions.
Once she’d completed the interview, she would share her first impressions with her team. Most probably, they would already have picked up on some of the same concerns she had.
“How long have you been working here?” Falcone was suddenly curious. She sensed that the au pair seemed somehow out of place.
“Me? Just three days.”
Falcone frowned as she walked into the upstairs room, which from its décor, and the armchairs stacked along the back wall, had clearly been repurposed.
Pulling out a chair at the dining table, she noticed a soup tureen and five empty bowls stacked neatly on the sideboard, and an empty red wine bottle next to them. Clearly the family had dined here earlier. Then the unimaginable had happened.
Falcone took the notepad and tape recorder out of her bag.
After confirming the nervous woman’s full name and details, she asked, “May I see your passport, please?”
A spasm of anxiety crossed the woman’s pretty face.
“My passport? Is it necessary? Do you have to keep it, or will I get it back?”
“It’s standard procedure to obtain photographic proof of identity of all witnesses who are not direct family,” Falcone reassured her.
Even so, she was intrigued by just how worried Ms. Vale seemed about handing it over, and how defensive she appeared.
After Falcone had paged through the document and photographed the relevant pages, she handed it back and was again surprised how the young woman just about snatched it up, and zipped it immediately into the side pocket of her purse.
Falcone proceeded with the interview.
“So you arrived three days ago? Is that when you were hired?”
“Yes.”
“Why was an au pair needed? Were you replacing someone who left?”
“Um—no, I don’t think so. Ms. Rossi told me that she’d been divorced and then gotten very busy with work, and needed someone to stay with the children.”
“And how long were you hired for?”
Falcone sat straighter as she saw this innocent question had hit home. Cassie Vale looked unsettled by it. She bit her lip, looked down, glanced at the door as if perhaps an imaginary cavalry might storm in to rescue her. Then, distraught, she stared at Falcone again.
“It was originally for three months. Until Nonna, the grandmother, could move here. Then—er—then she was able to move sooner. So I was actually going to leave tomorrow.”
Falcone’s gaze locked onto Cassie. This could be a crucial piece of information. Clearly, there had been a reason for the grandmother’s earlier arrival. The question was whether this was related to the events that had played out tonight. Falcone suspected that it was.
“What happened earlier today and how did this occur? Please describe the events from your point of view.”
“Well, Nonna arrived after lunch. I’d just—” Here, Ms. Vale hesitated as if choosing her words carefully. “I’d just been out. I got back before she arrived, which was at about two p.m., and the children came back from school about half an hour later. I was packing the whole afternoon. The housemaids moved the table upstairs during that time. Then I came through to the dining room at six, where we were all having supper.”
Falcone couldn’t understand this version of events. The au pair was consumed by anxiety. She was stammering, fidgeting, speaking in a wobbly voice. But what confused Falcone the most was why she hadn’t spent the afternoon with the children.
What luggage did an au pair have? One or two suitcases? That meant an hour’s packing. Why had it taken the whole afternoon and why had she not been supervising the children—playing with them, helping with homework, or doing any other of the myriad chores that she had surely been paid to do?
Falcone felt a heaviness settle inside her. Something was amiss here. Either Ms. Vale had deliberately chosen not to spend the afternoon with the children, or else she had been instructed by her employer not to. And that raised many more questions, which could unfortunately not be answered by Ms. Rossi.
Falcone hoped that the children would speak out. She knew she would need to be sensitive when questioning them. This might take time, and require patience. She might not obtain all the information she needed tonight, especially if they were traumatized.
“You had supper. What then?”
“The children were going to have tiramisu with Ms. Rossi and her mother. I went back to my room. I finished my packing and had a shower.”
Yet more packing? Falcone struggled to conceal her disbelief at the Herculean nature of this task.
The au pair continued in a low, trembling voice.
“After my shower, when I was in the bedroom—no, I was still in the bathroom. Soon after I stepped out of the shower, I heard the children calling me. Nina was screaming my name, and it sounded as if something was wrong, so I dressed, and ran to them as quickly as I could. That was when I saw it. I saw her.”
Cupping her face in her hands, Cassie Vale burst into deep, wrenching sobs.
Falcone waited. She didn’t offer sympathy, although she couldn’t help but feel it, looking at the woman’s evident misery. She simply sat quietly until she had regained control, and then continued.
“How did the children seem?”
“Shocked. They were definitely shocked.”
The au pair nodded as if she was confirming this fact with herself.
“Where were they?”
“Where were they?” She repeated Falcone’s question in a high, panicked tone. Then she paused before continuing. “At the top of the stairs. Near the top. To be honest with you, I didn’t notice. I—the minute I saw that body lying there, it was like I couldn’t see anything else.”
She looked at Falcone, who picked up mute appeal in her tear-stained blue eyes.
“Did you ask them what happened?” Falcone continued.
She nodded.
“They said she fell. I think it might have been caused by her shoe breaking, but the children weren’t sure.”
“Had she been on her way up, or was she going down the stairs?”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Perhaps on her way down. Maybe she was going to fetch the tiramisu.”
Falcone remembered that empty bottle of wine.
“Had she been drinking with supper?”
Now Cassie Vale nodded emphatically.
“Yes. She opened the bottle before dinner. I guess it was to celebrate her mother arriving. She poured Nonna a small glass and I think she had the rest.”
Wine, plus those killer heels, plus a steep staircase. It all made sense, but yet, it didn’t.
Falcone stared directly at Cassie.
“I notice you have a cut on your face. Please could you explain how and when that happened?”
The young au pair’s hand flew to her face and she looked distraught.
“A cut?”
Falcone thought her surprise was as fake as the cover-up of her bruise.
“You received it how?” she pressed.
“I—gosh, I hadn’t even noticed it.”
That was an outright lie, Falcone was sure. The cut was deep enough to be clearly visible. There was no way she could have missed it, as it would have been obvious from even a quick glance into a mirror. And however she had received that cut, it would have been painful.
“It might have been while I was playing hide-and-seek with the girls yesterday,” Ms. Vale then ventured. “I crawled under a thorny branch and noticed my clothing was torn.”
Falcone had to allow for the fact that out in the freezing cold, and in the excitement of a game, her face might have been numb enough not to feel it, but that didn’t explain why she hadn’t seen it.
Reflexively, she didn’t trust the young woman’s testimony at all. She was visibly worried, and she didn’t seem certain of her story. It might be that her state of anxiety was making it difficult for her to remember. Falcone had interviewed many witnesses who reacted similarly, and battled with recall, after a stressful event.
However, Ms. Vale wouldn’t have been stressed while playing hide-and-seek the previous day. If she was to be believed, everything had been perfectly normal right up until the children had called her while she was in the bedroom. Or in the bathroom, as she’d corrected herself. Only then had the stressful event occurred, which according to her timeline would have been just over half an hour ago.
And although it must have been shocking to see the woman dead, she hadn’t even had the trauma of needing to console hysterical children. From her account, they hadn’t been badly affected. It appeared the entire household had maintained levels of calmness that would have put seasoned first responders to shame.
