Chapter 8 - THE HOUSEMAID WHO REFUSED TO CONFESS|
The interview room at the police station was smaller than my grandfather's workshop.
Its walls were painted a dull beige.
A metal table stood beneath a fluorescent light that flickered whenever someone opened the door.
I had never felt so alone.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap, staring at the empty chair across from me.
Every time footsteps approached, I hoped someone would tell me there had been a terrible mistake.
Instead, officers kept bringing paperwork.
When a detective finally entered, he placed a photograph of Vanessa's necklace on the table.
"Miss Bennett, we recovered this from your personal bag."
"I know."
"Can you explain how it got there?"
"No."
"That's going to be a problem."
I looked straight at him.
"Someone put it there."
"Who?"
"I believe Vanessa Moretti did."
The detective studied me.
"You're accusing a wealthy woman of planting jewelry worth three hundred thousand dollars?"
"I'm telling you I didn't steal it."
He began asking questions about my salary and whether I had financial difficulties.
I told him about my grandfather's death and the expenses of settling his estate.
Then he asked whether I resented working for people who owned expensive things.
For the first time, I felt angry instead of frightened.
"I've spent five years caring for that house."
"I've washed clothes worth more than my car and polished silverware older than my grandparents."
"Do you think that makes me want to steal?"
The detective leaned back.
"People do strange things when they need money."
"And people do terrible things when they're afraid of the truth."
He stopped writing.
I refused to answer any further questions until Evelyn Brooks arrived.
She entered forty minutes later with another attorney from her firm.
Her expression was calm, but I could tell she was furious.
"Claire, are you all right?"
I nodded, though tears had already started falling.
"Please tell me Luca knows I didn't do this."
"He does."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because someone is trying very hard to make you look guilty."
Evelyn placed a folder on the table.
Inside were photographs taken from the mansion's security system.
She had obtained the recordings from the independent company that maintained Luca's cameras.
And what they showed changed everything.
At 1:42 that afternoon, a woman wearing a red cardigan entered the staff hallway.
She carried a small black jewelry pouch.
A minute later, she emerged empty-handed.
The camera didn't capture her face clearly.
But it showed that she was wearing diamond earrings and a distinctive gold bracelet.
Evelyn enlarged a still image.
"Do you recognize this bracelet?"
I stared at the screen.
Vanessa wore it almost every day.
It had been a wedding gift from Luca.
"That's hers," I whispered.
The detective examined the photographs.
"These images don't conclusively establish who placed the necklace in the bag."
"No," Evelyn replied.
"But they contradict the assumption that my client was the only person with access."
She continued presenting evidence.
A cleaning schedule showed that I had been working downstairs during the relevant period.
A delivery receipt confirmed that I had accepted a kitchen shipment at the time Vanessa claimed to have seen me upstairs.
And the independent security logs showed that my bag had remained in the staff room while I worked.
Then Evelyn placed one final document on the table.
It was a copy of the necklace's purchase invoice.
"The reported value is also questionable," she said.
"The necklace was described as a three-hundred-thousand-dollar family gift."
"But the available invoice appears to reflect a significantly lower purchase price."
The detective frowned.
"Are you saying Mrs. Moretti exaggerated its value?"
"I'm saying we should verify both the valuation and the source of the purchase funds before treating her statements as established facts."
Several hours later, I was released without charges.
The investigation remained open, but there was insufficient evidence to justify holding me.
When I walked out of the police station, Luca was waiting beside his black car.
He wasn't wearing one of his expensive tailored suits.
He had changed into a plain white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
For some reason, seeing him dressed so simply made me want to cry all over again.
"Claire."
He approached slowly.
"Are you okay?"
I wanted to say yes.
Instead, I shook my head.
"No, sir."
He looked devastated.
"She humiliated you at my wedding."
"She threatened you in my house."
"And now she tried to have you arrested."
"I should have recognized what she was doing long before this."
I wiped my eyes.
"You can't change what happened."
"No," he answered.
"But I can change what happens next."
He told me Vanessa had left the mansion with two suitcases.
Her access to the household accounts had been suspended.
And he had instructed his attorneys to begin reviewing his options for ending the marriage.
I should have felt relieved.
But something still bothered me.
"Mr. Moretti, why would Vanessa risk everything over an old restaurant?"
Luca looked toward the Chicago skyline.
"Because the restaurant may only be the beginning."
Back at the mansion, Maya was waiting in the kitchen.
She was twenty-four, shy, and had been working there for less than a year.
When she saw me, she began crying.
"Claire, I'm so sorry."
I hugged her.
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Yes, I did."
She pulled away.
"Mrs. Moretti told me to clean the upstairs hallway this morning."
"And I saw something."
My heart began pounding.
"What did you see?"
"She wasn't alone when she went into the staff room."
"There was a man with her."
Luca stepped closer.
"Who was it?"
Maya's face went pale.
She looked toward the doorway before whispering his name.
"Victor Sloane."
I recognized it immediately.
Victor was Angelo Bellini's private security chief.
He had been standing behind Vanessa during the wedding reception.
And according to the old documents from my grandfather's shop, he had worked for the Bellini family since 2005.
Maya grabbed my arm.
"Claire, I heard him tell her something."
"What?"
She swallowed hard.
"He said, 'The last girl who saw what happened to Frank Moretti didn't live long enough to testify.'"
And suddenly, I knew our investigation wasn't only about recovering stolen property.
May you like
There was another witness to Frank Moretti's murder.
And someone had spent twenty years making sure she remained silent.
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