by Blake Pierce
The police had investigated, and she’d been a primary suspect as the beneficiary of his life insurance policy. Battling to cope with her grief, and the demands of her young daughter, Falcone had her house searched and turned upside down not once, but numerous times. She herself had been tested, questioned, interrogated, her phone and laptop seized, and there had been multiple trips to the police headquarters for interview after interview.
Her father’s constant support, and the need to care for her toddler, had saved her from a serious breakdown, although she knew how close she had come. Facts had emerged—hideous, terrible and unexpected. These bombshells had crushed her so badly she had thought she’d never recover.
Marco had been in serious conflict with one of the other partners in the law firm who had wanted to buy him out, or force him to resign, but he had refused.
Even more soul-destroying, she learned that Marco had embarked on an affair with one of his secretaries, soon after their daughter was born. The affair had grown serious and she had pressured him to leave Falcone. At that stage, six months before his death, Marco had broken it off, but the disgruntled woman had remained with the firm.
Head down, legs burning, Falcone sprinted across the park. This flat, straight path was where she pushed herself to the limit. She remembered her horror as her world had crumbled around her. The life she’d thought was so perfect had turned out to be a sham. Her own happy ignorance had somehow been the worst of all. How could she—an intelligent woman with a legal qualification—not have known about any of this? How had she been so immersed in her own world that she had been oblivious to it?
Gradually, like a dark, terrible cloud, the investigation had passed over, but it had left only uncertainty in its wake because the results had been inconclusive. The police had not been able to link anyone to Marco’s death. In the end, the theory they favored was that he had taken contaminated muscle-building supplements.
Falcone herself had seen how many potions and powders and tablets he took, in his efforts to gain the edge of fitness and strength that make the difference between winning and losing. She’d teased him about it many times but he’d insisted that his dream was to turn professional, no matter what it took.
Not all the supplements he bought had been properly registered, the police said. Some of them were obtained from friends of friends, and others from unlicensed manufacturers. Overdosing on a contaminated batch for a number of months could have caused a fatal and irreversible toxic buildup, but there was no powder available for testing in the empty containers of the products that Marco had continued to use up, even after he started feeling too ill to cycle.
Up until then, Falcone had always been impatient of her father’s calling to be a public servant. After that, when her world changed, she realized that to obtain the peace of mind and closure she needed, she had no choice but to follow in his footsteps.
Soon afterward, Falcone had quit her job and joined the local police unit as a junior constable. She’d risen quickly through the ranks and had been promoted to detective just two years later, and department head a year after that. Her legal background gave her a valuable advantage in the department, but it was her own past experiences that gave her the dogged determination to follow through on her cases, pursue every avenue, and never ignore any piece of evidence, no matter how small it seemed.
Reaching the end of her sprint section, Falcone slowed, gasping for breath. She thought she might have achieved a personal best on that section, and was looking forward to checking her Fitbit when she got home. The only problem was that in trying to outrun the bad memories that had crept up on her so unexpectedly, she hadn’t given thought to her latest case. The fresh air hadn’t been used to ignite the spark of inspiration she needed.
Well, where inspiration wouldn’t come, plain hard work was a good substitute.
After the usual morning chaos of breakfast, dressing her daughter, and waiting for her school bus to arrive, Falcone headed to work. She was eager to see if her hunch from the previous day might pay off, and if the local detectives, or Social Services, had any useful information to give her.
As soon as she walked in, Detective Bianchi hurried to meet her. He looked excited.
“Good morning,” he greeted her. “I have been on the phone, and online, since early this morning, and I have found information on the suspect Cassandra Vale.”
Falcone felt a surge of excitement. This could provide the breakthrough she needed, or at least get the investigation onto the right track. It could reveal a pattern of behavior which would help her to link the disjointed puzzle pieces together.
“Tell me, please,” she said, eagerly following Bianchi as he headed to his small office.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Falcone took a seat opposite Bianchi, noting as she always did how tidy his desk was; the reflection of a highly organized and methodical mind. That wasn’t his greatest strength, though. She thought that would have to be his likeability. This had allowed him to work as a respected international investigator in three countries outside of Italy, and maintain close relationships with his teams even after he moved on.
“My French colleagues informed me about a current case. You may even have heard of it. Pierre Dubois, accused of murdering his fiancée. It’s currently being heard.”
Falcone nodded slowly.
“I think I remember it being mentioned, or perhaps I read about it. The name sounds familiar.”
“It’s an interesting case. There is circumstantial evidence but a lack of concrete proof, and the prosecutor is doubtful that they will find him guilty. Though in court, who knows? It is always unpredictable.”
“How was Cassie Vale involved?”
“She was working as the family’s au pair at the time. She had been there less than a week.”
Falcone drew in her breath sharply.
“In his testimony, Pierre Dubois said that he had personally witnessed Cassie Vale physically fighting with the victim, Margot Fabron. She died later that night, falling from a high balcony.”
Or being pushed, Falcone thought, with a surge of excitement. This was sounding like an uncanny coincidence.
“Something else,” the detective added. “Pierre Dubois testified just a few days ago that somebody—and Cassie Vale was the only occupant of the family home at the time apart from the children—had searched his rooms, and had destroyed private security footage that he kept there. Apparently cameras were operational in his bedroom.”
“Why have they not called her to testify?” Falcone asked.
“Dubois only discovered the missing footage when he was released from jail. He was denied bail for a while as he became violent after his arrest, and tried to assault one of the detectives. By then, the police had cleared her and she’d left France.”
“And now, here she is.”
“Look, she’s not on their witness list. She’s no longer a suspect; her statement was used, but that was all. We could detain her on their behalf, but I thought I’d wait for your say-so first. In the unlikely event she’s permitted to testify, it might complicate our case if she’s shipped off to France.”
“Yes, that would set us back, and as you say, it’s unlikely the French courts would allow it at this late stage. I agree it’s very interesting, and the parallels in the two situations are uncanny. The footage in the Rossi home didn’t record at all, it was live feed only, but Cassandra Vale was in that office and looking for it. I can’t stop thinking about what she was trying to erase.”
Bianchi nodded.
“The moment when Ms. Rossi fell to her death, I should think. From what you say, everything points to a fight having occurred,” he said.
“Exactly. A violent fight, but why? Was Ms. Rossi abusing her children and Cassie Vale was standing up for them, or was it the other way round? Had the au pair transgressed—hit the children, stolen from her employer—and did this cause the fight? Which was it?”
Falcone felt the old frustration
boiling inside her, the awfulness of not knowing the truth, of having to live with doubts and suspicions that could never be laid to rest because life was messy and uncertain, and even people’s motives were seldom easy to read, or clear-cut.
“It indicates, if nothing else, that this young girl is a magnet for trouble, that she attempts to obfuscate the facts, and also that she’s not scared to get into a physical fight,” Bianchi suggested.
Falcone nodded agreement as he continued.
“We still need proof, and there’s a glaring lack of it in this case so far. So, where do we go from here?”
“I’m going to make my calls to Social Services and the local police,” Falcone said. “Perhaps they can provide another piece of the puzzle.”
She headed down the corridor to her office. It was a cramped room—although she was an organized thinker, Falcone didn’t have the good habit of neatness, and she’d realized that the larger her space ended up being, the worse it looked, and the quicker it got to a stage where it seemed impossible to keep tidy at all.
So she’d opted for a compact space, where she could keep more rigorous control over the mountain of paperwork that seemed to constantly build.
As she walked into her office, her phone rang. Answering, she found herself speaking to the CEO of Rossi Shoes. She’d left a message for him last night, asking him to call her urgently. Now, Falcone imagined him sitting in a luxurious office, waving his arms in distress as she broke the news, with an untouched cappuccino resting on a silver tray in front of him.
“This is awful, a tragedy. Can you tell me what happened?” he cried.
“Ms. Rossi fell to her death last night, down her staircase at home.”
“This is beyond belief! How did such a thing happen?” the CEO asked.
“We are still investigating. It could have been an accident. The heel of her shoe broke.”
There was a resounding silence and Falcone realized, too late, that this theory would not be well received by Rossi stakeholders.
“You are saying the shoe broke, which caused her to fall to her death? Is there proof of this?” he asked, carefully.
“There is no proof,” Falcone reassured him. “The shoe could have been damaged during the fall.” She heard a sigh of relief as she continued. “We are still piecing together the facts and questioning suspects.”
“You make it sound as if this could be murder?” The CEO sounded horrified all over again.
“We have not yet ruled it out.”
His voice shook as he replied. “From our side, Ms. Rossi was a woman of great vision and unique ability. She took the brand from a family business, to a leading name that stands among the industry greats. Can you offer us any further information on this suspected murder? How could such a crime have occurred?”
Falcone realized that she was on speakerphone. She adjusted her mental image to a big boardroom, with a long table lined with high-backed leather chairs. She heard concerned voices. People were murmuring about the share price, and various international deals that were about to go through.
“A murder will jeopardize everything,” she heard a woman’s voice, high and sharp. “The deals will be at risk. Share prices will suffer.”
Falcone pressed her lips together. She usually had little sympathy for the plight of large corporations, but in this case, she couldn’t help but realize how delicate the situation was, and how much responsibility rested on her to do the most thorough job she could.
If she and her team ended up accusing anyone of murder, they would need cast-iron proof, and preferably an eyewitness.
Otherwise, with corporate interests at stake, the police would be accused of bungling, and this would reflect badly on everyone concerned and adversely affect her team’s reputation. Falcone was well aware that the Italian public had far more love for the fashion world and their local iconic brands than they did for the tireless workings of law enforcement officers.
“I can meet with you this morning at eleven a.m.,” she said. “We should have more information by then and can give you a clearer idea of the direction this will take.”
“All right, Detective. Thank you for this meeting. May I ask if you could attend it at our offices, so the board of directors can be present?”
Falcone agreed. Once again, she heard the worried buzz of voices, and picked up that a press conference was already being organized for noon. Clearly, the Rossi board wanted to be ahead of the curve and break the news publicly before any rumors could circulate which might jeopardize their share price or upcoming deals.
After concluding the conversation, Falcone read the coroner’s report that had just come through. It confirmed that Ms. Rossi had a high blood alcohol level at the time of her death, and that the fall had resulted in a broken neck which had killed her instantly. The coroner confirmed that the other facial injuries and head injuries had been incurred at around the same time, but he could not establish with any certainty whether or not they had been caused by the fall.
Falcone nodded as she closed the document, pressing her lips together in disappointment. Realistically, she hadn’t expected the report to provide any miracle insights, but only to confirm what they had already observed. She continued with her routine checks to see if there had been any other reports from the Rossi household in the past. Her first phone call was to the local police.
When Falcone stated her name and the reason for her call, the sergeant who answered said she would transfer her to the station commander.
Falcone waited a minute, and then found herself speaking to the sergeant again.
“Unfortunately the station commander is out today. However, I have looked up for you on our system. We have received no reports from that address.”
“Thank you,” Falcone said.
It was only after putting the phone down that she began to think there had been something odd about the conversation. The sergeant had provided the information at a speed that Falcone would never have imagined possible. Even with computerized systems, that search had been uncannily quick.
So quick that she was starting to suspect it might not have been done at all.
Shelving this line of inquiry, Falcone decided to follow up with the commander personally when she had more time, and to explain that his staff might be taking shortcuts, and he should check up on them.
Then Falcone made her next call, to Social Services, where she had better luck getting hold of the person she needed. She got put straight through to the department manager, Mr. Dellucci.
“How can I help, Detective?” he asked.
“I am heading up an investigation,” she began. “We have had an accidental death, which I believe may have occurred under suspicious circumstances. I would like to know if you have had any call-outs to the relevant address, or been consulted at all—perhaps somebody might have alerted you recently?”
“Please, give me the details.”
She noticed with surprise that Mr. Dellucci suddenly sounded less enthusiastic and more guarded.
“The name is Ms. Rossi. Here is the address.”
Falcone read it out carefully.
“Hello?” she said, frowning as she wondered if the line had been cut off, as there was nothing but silence on the other end. “Are you still there?”
“I am sorry,” the manager gabbled. “I have just been called into an urgent meeting. Rest assured, Detective, I will get back to you as soon as I can with any relevant information.”
He disconnected swiftly, and Falcone’s frown deepened.
He hadn’t even asked her for her phone number. What was going on here?
She tried calling back, but was not at all surprised to be told, when she asked for the manager, that he was not available.
Falcone took a moment to consider what had just happened.
This could just be the usual bureaucracy and inefficiency of state departments at work. The Social Services manager might indeed have been stressed and overworked, and called into an ur
gent meeting. She would have believed it more readily if his tone hadn’t changed during their conversation, as he started to realize what she was asking about.
The other explanation was that the name and address had thrown up red flags in both the police and Social Services, because somebody else had already engaged with the officials regarding it. Falcone knew only too well that such things had been known to happen.
Had Ms. Rossi interfered with the processes, and paid off certain departments to avoid any complaints going onto the record?
If this had been the case, Falcone knew it would be difficult to prove. Corrupt officials who had accepted bribes were as slippery as eels, and were expert at covering their tracks and ensuring no incriminating records were available. As a result, it was usually impossible to trace back whether this had occurred, unless the person who had laid the complaint sought help from a different department or a police unit that lay outside the radius of the briber’s influence.
Mr. Dellucci had sounded panicked, though. What did that mean?
Falcone shook her head. It was all proving to be frustratingly inconclusive.
At this point, all she had was a hint that the au pair had been involved in trouble before, and that somebody might have been abusing the Rossi children.
There was one other avenue that she could pursue, and that was to question the elderly grandmother who had just moved into residence at the family home.
Falcone checked her watch. It was time to pay another visit to the house and see if Nonna—her last hope—could provide any information, or best of all, a usable eyewitness account. After all, she had been present in the home at the time. Perhaps this lady would be able to provide the missing pieces of the puzzle and give Falcone what she longed for—cast-iron proof to confirm her strong suspicions.