Nun Too Soon (A Giulia Driscoll Mystery Book 1) (14 page)

Twenty-Two

After the movie Frank retired to the den to play Assassin’s Creed online with his brothers. Giulia queued several Mozart symphonies on their multi-CD changer to drown out the brothers’ running trash-talk. Through hard experience, she had a mere thirty minutes of gameplay before the multiple voices from the attached speakers became too loud for her to think. She’d checked with her fellow Driscoll spouses after the first couple of Fridays, and they shared their successful coping mechanisms with her.

Symphony number five in B-flat major burst through the living room. She flexed her fingers.

“All right, people. Fear the power of the highlighters.”

She started at the left end of the TV stand with Geranium Asher’s two pages detailing the police call and what she heard listening at the shared wall. Next to them she dealt Shirley Travers’ naked hate. Three pieces of tape linked them. Below both of those she set Len Tulley’s pages, the one in which he threw everyone possible under the bus landing off-center. Continuing the hub of a wheel pattern, she taped Jonathan’s reasonable story, Cassandra’s pulsing neon lust for Fitch’s death, and two blank pages for Henri Richard the actor and Lacy Maples the angry ex.

The Driscoll boys’ game strategy—shouting each other down—cut across the Mozart symphony. Giulia scowled at the six-inch gap caused by the door sticking to the hardwood floor. Frank kept promising to fix it before she had to hand-wax it for the twentieth time.

“Crank it down, warriors!”

“Sorry, hon!” from the den.

The almost identical male voices cut the volume by half. Giulia swapped out the highlighters for regular red, green, and blue markers. With the red, she drew arrows to the most suspicious statements. Iffy statements got blue. Positive clues, green. Then she attacked the entire collage with Post-it notes.

An hour later, pages from the police and DNA reports fanned out from the spokes of the wheel. More arrows led from information in them that connected to underlined and highlighted points from the interviews.

Muscle cramps rippled through Giulia’s shoulders. Her knees hurt from extended contact with the wood floor. Only four years out of the convent and she’d gone soft. Sister Eulalia would’ve had plenty to say about that.

She unkinked her right shoulder enough to grope on the top of the coffee table for one of the blank pieces of paper that had been stuck in with the printouts. With the plain blue marker, she made a list for the weekend:

• Get on the internet and find the actor

• Stay on the internet and find the baby mama

• Try to contact both and have an in-person meeting Sat. or Sun.

• Fitch’s apartment (block out two hours)

• Groceries

• Sleep?

• Food?

She focused her eyes on the DVD player’s clock. Eleven forty-five. Enough for one day. She capped all the markers and paper-clipped all the un-collaged documents in separate piles. Slowly, with attention to her left foot returning to life with a thousand phantom bee stings, she stood up for the first time in two hours.

The CD remote cut off Mozart’s symphony number twelve in the middle of the second movement. Frank’s voice rushed into the gap. She bent in half and picked up the clue collage at the bottom, folding it more or less in half, then in quarters. The loose edges flapped, but she tamed them into a semblance of neatness and set the rhombus on the coffee table underneath the semi-empty delivery box.

Off with all the lights except the front hall and the stairs. Check the locks. Trudge upstairs and into the bathroom. Strip and fall into bed. She was so whipped she postponed her nightly Bible reading, something Frank had taken a while to get used to, especially on their honeymoon.

She had no idea when Frank came to bed. She only noticed his presence when he whispered in her ear, “Told you it’d be after midnight.”

She slept the sleep of the righteous and weary until her phone rang at nine a.m.

“I thought you said you’d be ready for me?” Roger Fitch said. “It rang so many times I thought I’d get dumped into voicemail. You can come over now.”

Twenty-Three

Giulia stuffed the phone under her pillow. But only for a moment.

“I’ll be over soon, Mr. Fitch. Thank you for calling so early.”

She returned the phone to her nightstand and pulled the blanket over her head.

Her husband said from the pillow next to her, “I love it when strange men call my wife while we’re in bed together.”

“It’s all part of my nefarious plan to keep you on your toes.”

He peered under the blanket. “Ruh-roh, Shaggy! We’ve got a recret ragent in our red!”

Giulia giggled. “You are the only person who can make me giggle like Sidney.”

Frank kissed her ear. “One of the many reasons I love you is that you are nothing like Sidney.” He kissed her neck. “Where are you going at this hour on a Saturday?”

She moved her hair away from her neck so he could get to more of it. “Roger Fitch’s apartment.”

Frank jerked up onto one elbow. “What?”

“I want to walk through the crime scene. He wants a report on what everyone said about him.”

“He’s a killer. Okay, alleged killer.”

Giulia knew how to interpret his words and body language. “I’m taking Zane with me as my personal muscle. You should know I’m not naïve enough to go to an alleged murderer’s apartment by myself.”

He fell back onto his pillow. “Sometimes I worry. Tell Zane to wear a tight t-shirt and a leather jacket, if he has one. He’s got good muscle under those button-downs he usually wears.”

“Spoken like a cop used to sizing people up.” Giulia draped one leg over his. “I promise,” she kissed his shoulder, “that I won’t take,” his collarbone, “any foolhardy risks.” Her lips found his.

She tapped his shoulders a few minutes later. “I really have to show up for this appointment,” she said with her mouth still against his.

He pulled her on top and kissed her harder.

A few more minutes later, she tapped his shoulders again. “I mean it.”

A pitiful sigh. “I’m losing my touch.”

She pecked his nose. “No, I’m obsessive about doing my job.”

He let his arms drop to his sides. “One hundred percent true. Fine. Go. Leave me here cold and alone and unloved.”

Giulia’s feet touched the carpet. “You are the farthest thing from unloved. There must be UK soccer on live at this hour. I plan to be back by noon, unless I can get hold of a French actor or a jilted lover. I’ll call you if that happens.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?”

“You will when I tell you thrilling stories of the Jerry Springer kind.” She dialed her admin’s number. “Zane? It’s Ms. Driscoll. Can you be ready in twenty minutes or so? I’ll pick you up.”

“No prob, Ms. Driscoll.” His voice sounded alert and prepared. “Should I wear menacing clothes?”

Giulia smothered a laugh. “Actually, yes, if you possess them.”

“Awesome. The thug life for me. See you in twenty.”

She set down the phone and said to Frank’s attentive face, “Why do men automatically think alike?”

“It’s programmed into our DNA. Seriously, be careful. Don’t trust that guy.”

“I don’t. That still doesn’t mean—”

“That you’re not going to do your best to find the truth, regardless,” he finished for her.

“I need a new line,” she said, and headed for the shower.

Twenty-five minutes later she pulled into Zane’s driveway. March had performed another about-face and the clouds threatened snow. Giulia refused to turn on the heat in the car on principle, but she had chosen jeans and her violet wool coat.

Zane opened his door and Giulia almost didn’t recognize him. Her fashionable admin wore cowboy boots, thick jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather bomber jacket. His white-blond hair, wet and combed straight, should have made him look like he was playing dress-up. Instead, it combined with the clothes that emphasized his kickboxer’s physique to make him look exactly like the label she’d given him earlier: Understated muscle.

He blew it by jumping into her car with a, “Hey, Ms. Driscoll. What do you think? My girlfriend says I look like Trunks from
Dragonball Z
, except my hair’s not purple.”

“From what?”

“Anime. Never mind. Trunks is badass. I’m channeling him today to be your backup.”

“I—good. You look great.” She backed out of the driveway and headed east. “Your presence will maintain Fitch’s illusion that I’m a wuss in body and spirit.”

“PayWright was never like this.” He leaned forward in the seat, the seat belt keeping him anchored. “What are we looking for?”

The light ahead of them turned green. Giulia drove straight for a few blocks. “Three things. One, I want to get a feel for the apartment, the balcony, the landscaping. That’s right. You haven’t seen the photos. Open my tablet. They’re in the Fitch folder on the desktop.”

While Zane scrolled through the photos, Giulia continued, “Two, Fitch wants a summary of all the interviews I’ve done. Three, I’m going to ask him more about his ex-girlfriend who got an abortion.”

Zane whistled. “He’s going to blow a gasket.”

“Probably. That’s another reason you’re here. He’s more likely to behave with another DI employee in the room.” She turned left, then made a quick right. “Only a couple miles to go.”

“These surveillance photos sure make it look like he didn’t kill her.”

“I know, but the obvious inference is that the man or woman in the poncho was casing the apartment building for future burglaries. Then when he or she saw Fitch strangle Loriela, he—or she—hightailed it out of there.” She signaled and turned left into the apartment building’s parking lot.

Zane repacked her tablet. “I almost forgot. Yesterday afternoon I found it. I finally found something on the AtlanticEdge documents that might be the essential clue to the problems I’m having with the financial records.”

“You just made my day. Tell me that Fitch is the one who’s been skimming off the books for the past two years and you’ll make my month.” She parked and shut off the car.

His eager posture wilted, but only for a moment. “I can’t say that for certain yet. And honestly, he may not be involved at all. Here’s what we saw—”

“Later. Right now we have to focus on the Silk Tie part of Fitch’s life.” She turned in her seat to face him. “What I’m going to do is make Fitch walk me through the night of the murder. I’ll get the summary of interviews over with first so he’ll be more willing to do what I want.” She unbuckled her seat belt but didn’t get out of the car. “You’ve never done anything like this, which makes you twice as useful. Watch Fitch’s body language. Assess the logistics of the apartment and the balcony in relation to those footprints and the landscaping as they looked on the night of the murder. Don’t write anything down, because that will put Fitch on his guard. I know you have an excellent memory. This is your chance to test it.”

Her phone alarm rang.

“What?” She unlocked the phone. “Oh, crap. I forgot about confession.”

“Huh?”

She cancelled the alarm. “Confession. It’s a Catholic thing. I set an alarm for it this week because I’ve been lying for the sake of the job more than usual. Without confession, I shouldn’t really take Communion at Mass tomorrow.”

She put away her phone. Zane’s face could’ve been the poster image for bewilderment. Giulia smiled and waved it away. “It’d take too long to explain. Sidney would file it under ‘Catholics sure have a lot of rules.’ Come on. Time to beard Fitch in his den.”

Zane jumped out of the car. Giulia followed and locked it. “Please stop looking like a puppy waiting to catch its first Frisbee.”

He sobered up. “Sorry. I’m your silent muscle. I’ll remember.”

In the foyer, Giulia pressed the button next to Fitch’s name. He buzzed them in without asking who they were. She pushed open the stairwell door and they walked up two flights of scuffed steel-tread stairs. When she rang Fitch’s doorbell, she wondered if Geranium had her ear to the wall between the two apartments.

Fitch opened his door. “Come in. I’m all yours ’til lunch.” He caught sight of Zane. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone else.”

“You remember my assistant, Zane Hall.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

They shook hands, and Giulia caught Fitch’s startle at Zane’s strength. Perfect.

He led them into the deep-carpeted living room. Giulia’s feet sighed with envy even as she assessed the art on the walls and the cologne wafting from Fitch. It smelled like something new from a
Sports Illustrated
tip-in.

“You want coffee?”

“Thank you, no,” Giulia said. “Let’s get right to what we came here to report.”

She gave Fitch an edited version of Geranium’s interview. A good thing, too, since his only comment was “Nosy old fart.”

“Can you tell me any more about the night the neighbors called the police because of the argument between you and Ms. Gil?”

He waved it away. “We fought. We got loud. So what? Lori wasn’t a timid little flower. She had fire in her. That’s what I like in a woman. Not our fault the neighbors eat dinner at four o’clock and want to go to bed at seven. If landlords wouldn’t cheap out on the sound baffling in the walls everybody’d be happier.”

Giulia let that slide and proceeded to Len Tulley. Fitch stopped her two sentences in.

“I’m the one who told you Len found the video. I know that makes Len look bad, but it doesn’t mean his hand is sticking the knife into my back.”

“Mr. Fitch, you hired me to look into everything that could save you from the death penalty.”

“Jeez, you’re using that patient voice again.” He gave Zane a grin that attempted to exclude Giulia. “Does she use that on you too?”

“Mr. Fitch.” Giulia wrested the steering away from Fitch’s hijack attempt. “Len Tulley also mentioned you and Mr. Petit have a history.”

Fitch blinked at her. Giulia waited.

“Yeah,” Fitch said. “Yeah, we went to the same high school. So what?”

“I understand there was some rivalry between you and the possibility exists that it may still be ongoing.” This roundabout way of coming at vital questions made Giulia itch.

“Are you kidding? That was sixteen years ago. Nobody cares what happened in high school once you get a real job and a life.”

Tendrils of red inched up his neck. Giulia could’ve kissed them.

“That may be true for certain people, but Leonard Tulley’s condo is a shrine to his teenage football triumphs.”

Fitch barked a laugh. “He gave you that old sob story, eh? You should hear him at the bar. He ought to have a warning label for new customers coming into Long Neck. Poor Len, could’ve been somebody, would’ve made the NFL Hall of Fame if only his rivals hadn’t tackled his knees in the State Championship game his senior year. Blew ’em both out.” He leaned back in his chair. “Truth is, Len was the big fish in a small pond at his D-2 college, but he would’ve been outclassed in any Division I school.”

“That’s somewhat harsh.”

Fitch shrugged. “A short stint in the pros would only have delayed Len’s permanent career as a bloated has-been. He’s a good brewmaster, though. Long Neck’s profits have increased at a slow but steady rate since he signed on.”

Giulia said with no change in her voice, “Do you work at the bar with him?”

“With him?” The sneer in his voice matched the one on his face. “I’m part owner of Long Neck. He works for me, in the strict sense of the word. Want to know the best part of being on top? Minions.”

Still without a change in inflection, Giulia said, “But we were talking about history between you and Colby Petit. This was in basketball, not football. Am I correct?”

Fitch looked like he’d just thought better of giving Giulia another insult disguised as a grudging compliment. His charming sales smile reappeared. “It was so long ago, but—hey, just a second.”

He jumped up and went to the artistic glass-and-chrome shelves on either side of the TV. From one at waist level, he took out an oversized crimson book and flipped through it.

“Here you go. This is our varsity team picture. I’m holding up the right side of the trophy. That’s Colby in the back row, behind me.”

Giulia studied the faces in the photo. The face of the future Colby Petit, Esq. peeked out from behind Roger Fitch’s shoulder. His “Say Cheese!” smile foreshadowed the smile that appeared at exactly the moment to win a reluctant jury. His eyes looked at Fitch holding the trophy, not at the camera.

“I see.” She handed the book back to him. “Thank you.” She segued into a quick summary of Jonathan Stallone’s early-morning interview and a longer one of Shirley Travers’ vitriol and lunch meetup.

Roger whistled. “Whoa. I forgot about her. Lori sure proved she had what upper management wanted with that deal.”

Next to Giulia, Zane shifted on his couch cushion, but kept quiet.

“That’s an interesting way to describe it,” she said.

“Oh, come on. You’ve been in business. It’s like rugby. Trample the weak and leap over the dead. Travers was weak.”

“Shirley Travers welcomed Ms. Gil as a new employee and trained her to do the job she was hired for.”

“Yeah, and Lori outstripped Travers in less than a year. Lori would’ve been an idiot not to turn that to her advantage, and Madre Cassandra sure didn’t raise an idiot.” He pointed to Zane. “You. You’re younger than your boss here. By default you should have a better grasp on current methods and practices. In the proper order of things, if she doesn’t scramble to keep ahead of you, you’re going to replace her within a year or two. That’s business. Travers didn’t keep her ears open. Never rest, you—Zane, right? Stay hungry. That’s why Lori was a success.”

Giulia chose her next words with care. “The police reports contain no evidence of a motive for Ms. Gil’s death. They posit some theories, but that’s all we have after a year: Theories.” She crossed her arms over her knees, the gesture bringing her closer to Fitch. “What do you believe was the motive for Ms. Gil’s murder?”

Fitch didn’t miss a beat. “Revenge. What else could it be? Sure, her killer took our credit cards, but that was opportunity at hand. If the killer’d been serious about cleaning us out, he—or she—wouldn’t have stopped at Lori. He’d have taken care of me while I was sleeping it off ten feet from Lori’s body.”

Taking the cue, Giulia stood. “I know we haven’t yet discussed Cassandra Gil’s interview, but I’d like to walk through the murder scene.”

Fitch stared up at her for a moment, then shrugged and stood. “Why not? Come on, Zane. I’ll give both of you the Hollywood Horrors tour of Apartment 212.”