“In the last photo, even. Her weight. You can see it in her hips.”

Isabella had died in a hotel overlooking Central Park, and her body had not yet been released for return to Rome. The original reports said she had spent the night alone, that she had taken some sleeping medication, too much, apparently. She had a problem in that regard, it seemed, a history. Only this time, there’d been no one to help her. So she’d slipped and cracked her head on the tile, and the hotel maid found her in the morning. The fact she’d been alone had caused some confusion—since she and Orsini had checked in together. Now it seemed Orsini had left New York the afternoon before her death, and after he left she’d been seen drinking with a man in the hotel bar until late. The man with her had been quite a bit younger, according to the waitress; but the waitress had since contradicted herself. The hotel security video turned up blank. People wondered why.

“Isabella was no angel,” said Johnny.

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t like getting old. And, well, you know, she loved attention.”

“The young man at the bar?”

“It’s just a rumor. But I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Everyone blames Paolo for the trouble in the marriage—but sometimes it’s not the husband. As you know.”

“As I know.”

Initial toxicology reports showed Ambien in her blood, and Vicodin, and alcohol, as well. Even so, it wasn’t the drugs that had killed her but the fall. A peculiar tumble, a bad angle. According to some reports she had numerous bruises on her body, contusions on her face, and a cracked jaw, and these were not necessarily consistent with the injuries someone might receive from such a fall.

All this information had come out helter-skelter over the last several days. It was hard to tell what was accurate and what the tabloids had invented as a way of making the story more enticing.

“You’re right,” I continued. “There’s no point being reckless.”

“You don’t want to see Paolo?”

“I do. But I can’t. Not this afternoon, anyway—”

My brother interrupted with a wave of the hand. “I know,” he said. “You have to go with Frank to see his uncle. Cardinal Whiting. But that’s not for several hours.”