Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation (4 page)

The finale at last.
Giulia waited for her cue, flute in her lap.

This run of
The Music Man
appeared to be making a profit. The leads were just a mite too talented to stay in community theater. She’d heard “Marian” and “Marcellus” at rehearsals talking about the grind of trying to make it in New York. They had both tried and given up, and agreed that not having to land a part to pay the rent was infinitely better.

“Zaneeta” and “Tommy” opened their mouths and chewed the scenery. The Marquee Theater had enthusiasm going for it, if nothing else.

The Second Violin had great pecs. She could watch his bowing technique all night. The light on his music stand illuminated him from beneath at the perfect angle.

Admiring men from a distance again. How safe.
He’d brought an equally buff friend to the opening-night party. So she was probably admiring a gay man from a distance. Even safer.

“Professor Harold Hill” raised his shackled arms, and the baby brothers of seven cast members put fake band instruments to their lips.

Giulia played Beethoven’s “Minuet in G” a third lower than originally written. The Clarinet played it a fourth higher, the Saxophone in a different key. The kids tried not to giggle as they earned large
aww
s from the audience. Just like every performance.

_____

Frank caught her on her way to the exit. “You have to meet Yvonne.”

She’d forgotten. “Right. Your groupie.”

“Ssh! I’m not too sure about her sense of humor yet.”

A leggy brunette with an off-center blonde streak waited in the second row.
Now that’s a miniskirt.
Gold lace on the hem and a blouse to match. A flower tattoo on her cleavage—Giulia didn’t look close enough to see what kind of flower.

And here she stood in basic black jeans and T-shirt.

“Yvonne, this is Giulia, my new partner.”

Yvonne’s tiny smile revealed tiny, perfect teeth. “Um, hi. I thought you were Frank’s admin.”

“Just got promoted. Nice to meet you.” That certainly wasn’t jealousy in Yvonne’s eyes. Just how frumpy did she look? “Gotta catch the ten-twelve bus. See you tomorrow night, Frank.”

_____

Denver and the Mile High Orchestra’s latest CD drowned out Giulia’s carpet sweeper. DMHO was her secret addiction, even though they weren’t Catholic. Her hardcore relatives wouldn’t approve, which made DMHO’s music the perfect complement: her hardcore relatives hadn’t approved of her since last August.

Ten a.m. and all four rooms finished.
Who said scandalous women couldn’t keep a clean house and a clean conscience? Stuff that in your white gloves, Aunt Assunta. I even dusted the top of the fridge.

She carried a pitcher of water to the potted plants by the living-room window. “Hey, tomatoes. Nice flowers. Have a drink. Hey, basil, you’re limp. You have all the sun you need. Look at the parsley and oregano. They’re laughing behind your back. Shape up or you won’t make it into my next batch of sauce.”

Time for coffee. Kona-macadamia blend sounded good today.
Gotta love those three-for-a-dollar samples
. The mail should be here by now, and the new issue of
Cosmo
was due any day. Every issue drove home the fact that she had so much to learn.

As she walked down the first-floor hall back to her apartment, she shuffled through the envelopes. Junk, credit-card offer—
as if
, pizza coupon, cellophane-window envelope with
Second Notice
in the bottom corner. Oh, no. Did she forget to pay a bill?

She closed her door and shut off the coffee. Pulling out a butter knife, she slit the bill.

Other than her address and several brown smears, the paper was blank. And smelly. She put one of the smears up to her nose and sniffed. Excrement.

“Ugh!” She dropped it on the counter. “What a sick joke.” Shielding her fingers with a napkin, she picked up the paper and envelope and threw them into the trash, then tied the bag in a knot.

The twins on the second floor. This was just the kind of prank they’d pull. She still checked her mailbox before sticking in her hand after the spider incident last fall. The landlord never repaired the wall dents from Mr. Dachert’s squashing marathon. Good thing the boys hadn’t been in Dachert’s range.

Scalding hot water and soap took care of her hands and the counter, then she dumped the rest of the mail into the recycle bin. If the twins had been her students...

_____

After she’d jogged a mile, the annoyance faded. No real harm done. Just a serious gross-out.

St. Thomas’ steeple loomed up on her right. Saturday—Confession. The elegant Gothic-style church intimidated her as she jogged in place by its statue of Thomas kneeling before the resurrected Christ. She shouldn’t feel this way about a church. She’d been “on the inside” for years. Ten short months shouldn’t have changed her that much.

Don’t kid yourself. You changed the minute you formally petitioned the Superior General to release you from vows. You’re an outsider now.

Those beautiful, carved wooden doors were closed in spirit if not in fact. Anyway, she couldn’t go in like this. Father Carlos would have a stroke. Besides, she had to jog an extra mile to build stamina to fight the bad guys.

Cranking the volume on her iPod, she ran past church, statue, and grounds. Confession didn’t end till two. Plenty of time to shower, change, and walk there in respectful clothes.

_____

The bouncing theme to one of Margaret Rutherford’s Miss Marple movies started on the tiny living-room TV as she scrambled eggs for a midnight supper.

“Wait for me!” Giulia sprinkled cheese in the pan and buttered a wheat bagel.

The credits ended as she set the dishes on the coffee table and plopped on the couch.

A perfect June Saturday. A clean apartment, hours at the library, groceries for the week for less than forty dollars, and an enthusiastic theater audience.

But no Confession.

Her forkful of eggs stuck to her tongue.

She’d skipped it. After her jog, she took a different route to the library so she wouldn’t pass the church. Confession would’ve been pointless anyway. She couldn’t promise Father Carlos she’d sin no more, because lying was part of her new job description. Probably.

She swallowed the eggs. Maybe next week.

_____

“A reading from the Holy Gospel according to Luke.”

“Glory to You, Lord.” Giulia stood with the rest of the Sunday-morning congregation—all twenty-seven of them. Mostly little old ladies and men with late tee times came for 8:30 Mass.

Father Carlos removed his glasses after the Gospel reading and stepped out to the center of the nave. “I’d like to talk to you today about vocations.”

Giulia shriveled in her corner of the next-to-last pew. If inanimate objects heard prayers, the floor would open up and swallow her right... about... now. When the scuffed wood ignored her, she peeked between her curls to see how many eyes stared at her.

None, of course—they didn’t know what she used to be. She reached up automatically to fix the bottom corner of her veil, the one that always slipped forward.

Dolt. You haven’t worn a veil since last August.

The ceiling fans stirred her hair, and a breeze tickled her exposed neck.

Father Carlos described the five-step process of discerning God’s call.

God never called you
. She never deserved to wear the habit. He only wants the humble, the holy, the steadfast—

Her conscience jeered at her right up to Communion. The faithful edged from the pews and lined up in the center aisle. But she couldn’t receive the Host with sin on her soul.

Before anyone returned to their places, she slipped out the back door.

“Giulia, wait!”

Mingmei held the coffee shop door open with one foot and reached back inside with the opposite arm. The 8:30 a.m. bus fogged them with diesel as it roared away.

“This was on the doorstep next to the newspapers.” She handed Giulia a box the size of a bakery box.

“Thanks. I love the hair.”

Mingmei fluffed her short black hair streaked all over with bright purple. “It’s a shameless grab for attention. I went over to my boyfriend’s, and he and his buddies had the last three
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issues spread out on the kitchen table.”

“They saved the old ones?”

“Some of the photos had drool marks on them.” Mingmei put a finger partway down her throat and made gagging noises. “I took a long, hard look in the mirror and saw ‘bland.’ Yesterday I told my hairdresser to go to town on me.”

“What did your boyfriend say?”

“He hasn’t seen it yet. We’re going to the retro-punk dance bar tonight. Come inside for a second.”

Giulia followed Mingmei into Common Grounds and inhaled to the bottom of her lungs. Fresh coffee, almond danish, Earl Grey tea. All the faux-Tiffany lights over the bistro tables were lit, their 60-watt bulbs geared not to startle the pre-caffeine customers.

Mingmei closed the door and beckoned Giulia behind the counter. Her head and shoulders just cleared its four-foot height. “I need your honest opinion, girl to girl.” She put her hands under her small breasts and jiggled them. “Should I get one of those push-up bras?”

Giulia averted her eyes. “I think you’re proportioned just fine.”

“Not compared to the swimsuit babes. Look at you.” Mingmei stood beside Giulia. “We’re the same height, but you have hips and shoulders and boobs. Yours stick out at least two inches farther than mine. I need to enhance nature.”

The bell over the door rang, and the owner of the copy shop two doors down dragged himself to the counter. “I need intravenous espresso, Mingmei.” He yawned, stretching the grapevine tattoo around his jaw. “Hi, Giulia.”

“Good morning, Quinn. Late DJ gig?”

“No. The baby’s on his second ear infection this month.”

“And nobody slept.”

He yawned and nodded simultaneously.

Mingmei giggled and poured an extra-large regular, added three creams, and popped on a lid. “You’re interrupting girl-talk, Quinn.”

“I swear I didn’t hear a thing.” He twisted the lid to open the sipping hole and drank. “Ambrosia.” He placed two dollars on the counter and waved. “Please continue. I gotta open the store.”

After he left, Mingmei poked Giulia’s box. “Want to tell me all about this secret admirer? I love romance.”

Giulia laughed. “Nothing to tell. This must be something Frank ordered for the office.”

“In your name?”

She shrugged. “He’s kind of informal.”

“Uh-uh.” Mingmei shook her head, the purple streaks disappearing and reappearing. “Office romances are bad news. Don’t do it.”

“There’s no romance. I promise.”

Like she’d jeopardize her job. Like she wanted any man to touch her. Ex-nuns needed their own version of
Cosmo
. Maybe called
Baggage
.

“Good.” Mingmei gestured to the display case. “Extra-large black? Muffin?”

“Just a small French roast.”

“Miser.”

“Frugal, thank you.”

“Apple-filled croissants tomorrow.”

Giulia’s mouth started to water. “Ooh, you know I can’t resist those.”

“We got more cinnamon syrup for the coffee, too.”

“You are murder on my budget. I’m leaving before I succumb to the lure of a danish.”

Giulia turned the box over as she walked upstairs.

Sent from an illegible Cottonwood street name. Didn’t people know that magic marker bleeds into brown paper? This felt like a grocery bag, too: the coarsest kind of brown paper.

She unlocked the office door and flipped the light switch. Sipping the French roast, she set her purse and the box on her desk, booted the computer, and opened the windows.

Pre-coffee surprises on a Monday. Not her idea of a great start to the workweek. She logged in and checked e-mail. The box hovered at the edge of her vision. Nobody would send her a gift. And if she had a secret admirer—right—why here and not to her apartment?

She deleted the last of the spam as Frank walked in. Today was one of his Sam Spade days. Fedora, pinstripe suit, paisley tie. Circles under his eyes, too. Could Yvonne have spent the night?

You can’t get jealous, Giulia. He’s the boss. And you can’t make moral judgments. A thirty-five-year-old adult has perfect freedom to sleep around if he chooses.

“Good morning.” She checked the clock above the door. “You’re early. It’s only eight forty-five.”

He set a bakery-size box on her desk. “Blake called me yesterday at seven a.m. Pamela found this in her mailbox on Saturday. He brought me the camera, too. Let’s see who left the latest gift.”

Giulia hovered over his shoulder as his computer fired up, and he attached the cable to the camera.

“Come on, load. Piece of junk.” Frank yawned. “Should’ve had more than one cup of coffee this morning.” He drummed his fingers on the desk until his log-in window appeared. “Finally. Let’s see. E drive, SpyEyes program, open file... there.”

They squinted at the first photo. A crisp image of a mailbox, a bush trimmed to impeccable right angles, and a furry puff of something in the bottom corner of the frame.

“Squirrel must’ve set off the sensor. Date and time stamp works. Five fifty-three a.m.” Frank clicked on the
Next
button. “Stupid squirrels.” Again. “There.”

The mailbox, the bush, and three slim fingers.

“A woman’s hand.” Giulia leaned in. “How often will it take a picture?”

“I set it for five-second intervals after the first sensor trip.”

The mailbox, the bush, and a side shot of someone in a long, black coat bending over.

“What’s she doing?” Frank enlarged the window, but the photo lost clarity. “Bad idea.” He moused to the
Preferences
tab and reset the window to 100 percent.

The lens went black.

“Damn! Sorry, Giulia. I’ll get it back.” He clicked. Nothing. Another click. Still nothing. “Where are the rest of them? We put in new batteries yesterday.”

“Could the squirrel have knocked it over?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll have Blake hide it in a different spot tonight.” He closed the black window and detached the camera.

“Let’s look at something solid.” Giulia went through the doorway to her desk. “What did she leave?”

Frank stopped with his hands on the lid. “It’s not pretty.”

“Not more dead animals.” She moved her coffee mug to the opposite side of the monitor. “Go ahead.” He set the lid on the desk and unfolded layers of waxed paper.

“Gross—” She covered her nose and mouth and stared into the box. An actively rotting pomegranate half nestled in more waxed paper. Green and white mold fuzzed the brownish seeds and speckled the skin. The waxed paper was there to stop leaks, she supposed.

Frank handed her a folded square of plain white paper. “Careful when you open it. It got slimed.”

Good thing she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. The paper smelled almost as foul as Saturday’s prank bill. She opened it with fingertips only.

“Hard to read the first sentence... ‘Your temples behind your veil are like the halves of a pomegranate.’ Looks like she ran it through with a permanent red marker. ‘All who honored her despise her... Her filthiness...’ Can’t read this part. ‘...she did not consider her future.’ ” Giulia set it on the box lid. “Frank, can’t the police do anything with this? Whoever she is, she’s headed over the edge.”

He shook his head. “When I was still on the force, every so often we’d get stalker complaints. These letters, even the snake and this”—he grimaced and replaced the lid—“are nothing more than extreme pranks in the eyes of the police. They won’t waste time on mild stuff when there are rapes and murders being committed.”

She wouldn’t call disemboweled snakes and hate mail “pranks.” But Giulia could hear Frank’s words in the mouth of an overworked officer. Along with “We have to use our limited manpower where it will do the most good.”

“Did Blake get a delivery? What about his camera?”

Frank snorted. “Apples and raisins in a heart-shaped box. He’s bringing the camera here later. This came in the box.” He took a lace-edged paper out of his jacket pocket. “ ‘Strengthen me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am faint with love.’ ”

Giulia sighed. “That woman is ruining a beautiful poem.”

He tossed the paper on her desk. “Tell me again why she’s using this Bible poem to mess with Blake and Pamela.”

“She’s using the Prophets on Pamela. I told you that. Scaring her with death, doom, and despair. But she’s flattering Blake. Comparing him with Solomon: rich, virile, powerful.”

“That’s the way to his heart. Stroke his ego. He always dated the sycophants in high school.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You went to high school together?”

“Yeah.” A wry smile. “He started center mid on Varsity soccer. I played defense. The goat if they scored on me, blinded by the glare of Blake’s triumphs otherwise. He went to the prom with the principal’s daughter.”

“Let me guess. Tall, blonde, and dressed like a magazine fashion spread.”

Frank didn’t laugh. “What else?”

“Did you and your prom date have a good time anyway?”
And why did he care more than seventeen years later?

“Kind of. All the girls wanted Blake. Made the rest of us feel like leftover cabbage.”

Mothra screeched an e-mail alert. She ignored it. “This is more than a big case, then.” She stared out the window at the top of the
!PIZZA!
sign across the street. “It’s another competition. Only he’s on the bench, and you have to save the game for him.” Where did she find these sports metaphors? She never watched sports.

A grin split his face. “Giulia, I’m Jesus Christ come down from Heaven. I’m smarter and more clever than him, and he knows it. I’m also discreet. He’s desperate to make this marriage come off. Pamela has money, status, class—everything he’s drooled over since we were freshmen. Each woman he’s dated has been one step higher on the social monkey bars.”

Giulia clenched her hand under her desk. She knew Blake’s mother must have raised him not to take the Lord’s name in vain, but she kept her mouth shut about the blasphemy. “And?”

“And he needs me to grab the prize. The skinny sweeper who stopped dozens but didn’t score a single goal in two years on Varsity.”

“Shouldn’t you have some professional detachment, Frank?”

He chuckled and sat on the corner of her desk, bumping the box. “I am the soul of professionalism.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Honest. I know where the line is. Blake will get the very best from Driscoll Investigations. Think about it. When we return his life to the idyll of cutthroat business deals and social climbing it once was, all the business circles he moves in will hear my name. ‘Need information before you close a big deal? Call Frank Driscoll. I use him exclusively.’ ”

“You’ve got dollar signs in your eyes.”

“You bet. Blake can pretend he’s patronizing me all he wants—we’ll both know I saved his shallow butt.”

She clicked the e-mail. Spam. “Frank, that other box by your hip must be yours and not mine. Did you order supplies in my name so the e-mails would get sent to me?”

“I didn’t order anything. Where’s it from?”

“Can’t read the return address. Someplace local.” She batted her eyes. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

He glared. “I’ll get you for that. It’s probably a gift from the Second Violin.”

“I have no idea what—”

“I’ve seen you sizing him up. Why do women always fall for muscles? You’re all alike.”

“Frank—” She stopped, sure the heat in her cheeks wasn’t from the breezeless, muggy day. Was she that obvious? Hadn’t she learned anything from
Cosmo
?