Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation

by Alice Loweecey

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Acknowledgments

  About_the_Author

  Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation © 2011 by Alice Loweecey.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2011

  E-book ISBN: 9780738729213

  Book design and format by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Ellen Lawson

  Cover art © Ray Laskowitz/Purestock/PunchStock

  Editing by Brett Fechheimer

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  For Mom and Dad

  Giulia Falcone—formerly Sister Mary Regina Coelis—popped a tangerine Life Saver in her mouth to stifle a curse.

  No wonder the client was desperate. She would be too if a stalker had sent her notes that escalated from adoring to obsessive. Given the choice, she’d rather be chased by a rabid Doberman.

  The office door squeaked, letting in the aroma of fresh coffee. Giulia looked up. Light from the hallway glinted off the title on the frosted glass: Driscoll Investigations.

  Frank Driscoll stood in the doorway, a steaming cup in each hand. “Any ideas?”

  “I enjoy having a boss who looks like Nick Charles bring me coffee.” Giulia tilted her head to one side. “If you put on the suit jacket, you’d be the image of that classic detective.”

  Frank’s blue shirt, gray shadow-striped tie, and charcoal trousers sat well on his muscled, six-foot-tall body. Very well.

  Stop it, Giulia. He’s the boss.

  She pushed the notes away. “This is one sick broad. Why couldn’t you need help with a nicer case? Like someone looking for their long-lost twin sister.”

  “You figured out the messages?” Frank kicked the door closed and set a sleeved paper cup next to her. “I apologize for the cup, but Common Grounds doesn’t have espresso-sized paper.”

  “I worship you.” She removed the lid, inhaled, and sipped. “I take it back. I worship their espresso.”

  “Women are fickle.”

  She swallowed a smart remark after a glance at the challenge in his grinning, freckled face. “As your dutiful assistant, I’ll graciously overlook that.”

  Frank went into his office and rolled his chair next to her. “Tell me what the letters mean.”

  “They mean that this woman needs to learn the true nature of love. Stalking her ex with the Song of Solomon is wrong on so many levels.”

  “What makes that wrong? What’s the Song of Solomon?”

  “Heathen. Ever hear of the Bible? The Song of Solomon is probably the most beautiful love poem ever written.” She sipped espresso. “It’s also filled with euphemisms for men’s and women’s naughty bits.”

  He picked up one of the messages. “Really? I don’t see that in here.”

  “She’s leading up to it. The first one was innocuous. But think about the second one: ‘Your love is more delightful than wine. Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes. Take me away with you—let us hurry!’ ”

  Frank slurped from his own paper cup. “I wouldn’t mind a woman writing that about me.”

  Men. All ego and appetite. “You would if she sent your fiancée a message that says, ‘Tremble, you complacent woman; shudder, you who feel secure! Beat your breasts, for you will be completely forsaken.’ ”

  “That’s part of the greatest love poem?”

  “No. It’s from one of the Prophets, I think.”

  “You don’t know? I’m shocked. Didn’t you teach this stuff when you were Sister Mary-whatever-you-were?”

  “I tried not to rub the kids’ noses in the R-rated parts.” Giulia tilted the cup to get the last intense mouthful. “What about you? Didn’t the nuns teach you anything in school? You come from a good Irish Catholic family.”

  “My brothers gave me all their hoarded cheat sheets.” Frank leaned back in the chair and scooted away. “I’ll go to Confession on Saturday.” He stood and opened the window. The early June breeze filled the room with fresh air and the smell of frying sausage from the pizza place across the street.

  The phone rang.

  “Good afternoon, Driscoll Investigations.” Giulia aimed her empty cup at the trash while listening. “One moment, please.” She hit the Hold button. “It’s Mr. Parker. Want to take it in your office?”

  “Nah.” Frank rolled back to her desk, hand extended. She hit Hold again.

  “Frank here, Blake... Already?... What was in the box?... Okay.” He made a “gimme” gesture, and Giulia handed him pen and paper.

  “Calm down.” He held the phone between his ear and shoulder and scribbled. “Here’s what I need you to do. Bring me the package and a list of everyone you’ve dated in the past three years... Of course, names, addresses, and phone numbers... See you at six.”

  He lobbed the phone at Giulia and she hung it up.

  “More letters?”

  “The Golden Boy of Cottonwood, Pennsylvania, is not happy. New deliveries to him and the Perfect Fiancée.”

  “Creepier than the others?”

  “Hers was. A dissected snake in a jewelry box. His was a pair of love
birds.”

  “Dead?”

  “No—they came in a box that had air holes drilled in it.” He shook his head. “She dyed them pink and blue.”

  Giulia laughed. “Sorry. Good heavens. How does this woman sleep at night?”

  He stacked the letters and tapped their edges on the desk. “You sure these are all quotes from the Bible?”

  “I’ll check the Old Testament for the ‘tremble and shudder’ quote tonight.”

  _____

  Giulia jogged past St. Thomas Church as the electric carillon finished “O Sanctissima” and the Angelus bell rang. That meant it was six o’clock. The Latin words looped in her head as she finished her last half-mile.

  Oh, come on. It was high time she dragged herself into the twenty-first century and jogged to Metallica or Queen. She could stretch the budget to cover an iPod Shuffle, even though she’d already pawned the plain gold “wedding ring” she received the day she took final vows and became a “bride of Christ.”

  She flexed her bare left hand. After she left the convent she’d kept the ring as a reminder of the mystical union she’d once shared with God Himself. But money got tight when she lost the waitressing job in the Mexican place after dropping an entire stack of enchilada-filled plates. The pawnbroker gave her seventy-five dollars for the ring, and peanut butter on cheap white bread had never tasted so good.

  Her stomach growled and she picked up her pace. Around the block, past the dollar store, down to the gas station. She smiled and waved at the evening mechanic as he locked up.

  “You got yer mace, lady?” he called.

  Giulia pulled the mace-sprayer necklace out of her T-shirt, and he gave her the thumbs-up. When she turned the corner, he was at his nondescript van making his first sale of the day. Perhaps it was another mace necklace or a hand-dyed shirt... or pot in a small bag labeled All-Natural Herbal Tea. She wondered if the gas station’s owner turned a blind eye to that part of the van’s supplies. She really hoped the mechanic was supporting an invalid mother with the drug money, but even she knew that thought was painfully naïve.

  St. Thomas’ carillon changed to “Panis Angelicus,” and she grimaced. Even country-western on a portable radio would be better than moldy Latin hymns.

  You’d never have said that in the convent, Falcone. Thought it maybe, but never let it pass your lips. Maybe Sister Mary Fabian was right and you really are going to Hell.

  Then at least she’d arrive in good shape. She laughed and started an extra lap around the block.

  _____

  Giulia had surrounded herself with most of the papers from the corner filing cabinet when Frank walked in at nine the next morning.

  “Frank, did your last assistant ever update the computer files?” She waved a handful of manila folders at him.

  “Good morning to you, too.” He stopped short, setting down a lumpy, translucent package on her desk. “Why is everything on the floor?”

  “Because it’s the only way to see what’s been stuffed in here.” She groped on the cabinet top for her breakfast peanut-butter sandwich. “Don’t worry.” She swallowed a bite. “It’ll be back together by five. I’ll start transferring everything to the hard drive tomorrow.”

  “Forget about the files for now. I want you to do something else.” He pushed her chair toward her. “Sit down.”

  Her stomach fluttered. Had she screwed up? Maybe he loved old-fashioned filing. Or hated Windows. Why had he waited an entire month if he didn’t like her methods? He knew she hadn’t much experience with “regular” jobs. Few other twenty-nine-year-olds had a résumé that jumped from bagging groceries in high school to pouring coffee ten years later. Some Catholic school systems treated the habit and veil as instant teacher qualification. Six weeks of Methods and eight years’ experience didn’t count anywhere else, though. She needed this job. For the first time in nine months, her checking account had a buffer.

  “What?” She sat.

  He unwrapped more than a dozen layers of plastic wrap from the package to reveal a long, flat jewelry box. “This is the snake received by Pamela van Alstyne, Blake’s fiancée.”

  She opened it and coughed. “Nasty.”

  “I’ll open the window. Car exhaust is better than that smell.” He walked two steps to the outer wall and pushed up the bottom sash.

  Giulia unfolded the paper stuck in the lid. “ ‘Go down, sit in the dust. No more will you be called tender or delicate. Your nakedness will be exposed and your shame uncovered.’ ” She studied the ex-grass snake. Its peeled skin stuck to the bloody cotton wadding beneath it. “Does the fiancée actually have any deep, dark secrets?”

  “I ran a background check on her. Your life in the convent was more exciting.” He took out two envelopes from the same pocket and gave her a folded pink paper from the top one. “This came with the birds. That’s ‘Passion’ you smell. My last girlfriend liked to douse herself in it. Every time we kissed, I sneezed.”

  She snickered and opened it. “ ‘Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden, that its fragrance may spread abroad. Let my lover come into his garden and taste its choice fruits.’ ”

  She held the note in two fingers to hand it back, resisting the urge to say, Just tell me what you want, Frank. “Phew. Cloying. See what I meant about those euphemisms?”

  He nodded. “Even I got that last one.” He set the note on the desk and held out the second envelope. “I want you to interview Blake’s last five girlfriends.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Me?” She shut her mouth with a click.

  “People talk to you. Here’s your cover story: Pamela’s mother hired you to see how Blake treats his women, because he seems too good to be true. You can also hint that her mom wouldn’t object to busting up the happy pair.”

  “But... I mean...” She sat straighter. “That’d be lying.”

  “Spare me.” Frank slid off the desk and pushed the window higher. “This is the real world, Giulia. I lie all the time when I deliver subpoenas. Nobody’d open the door for me otherwise.”

  No, no, no. She took this job for peace and quiet. Routine. No surprises. “I’m just an administrative assistant.”

  “And you were a teacher for eight years. You can talk to strangers.” He appraised her while a passing fire-engine siren faded. “You got a decent suit?”

  She glanced at her jeans and button-down striped shirt. “My job interview suit.”

  “That navy blue one? Good. Blake only dates women with money or status, so you have to blend in with that crowd.”

  Giulia scrambled for a way out. Detectives pried. Dug under people’s skin. Exposed them. That was okay for Frank—he liked people who zipped their mouths shut. Thought they were a challenge. And he used what he learned only for doing good. But she’d had too much of prying in the convent.

  “Frank—”

  “I need you, Giulia.” He set down the envelope and paced from the window to the filing cabinets and back. “These women won’t give me the time of day. I’m the social equivalent of their pool cleaner.” He leaned both arms on the desk, facing her. “But they’ll dish dirt to another woman.”

  She took out the list. “This one’s on the north side—that’s ten miles from here. This one, too. The last one’s in Pittsburgh. I don’t own a car.”

  “That’s what Enterprise is for. You can drive, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Thought so. By the time you go home and change, they’ll have a car waiting outside your apartment.” He stared at her. “What?”

  He didn’t understand. She needed to be invisible. From people. From God. The dissected snake lay right in front of her. One of these five women probably disemboweled it. They’d look at her like that. God looked at her like that. Stop. Don’t bring your baggage to work.

  One more—businesslike—try. “I have no idea how to collect the information you need. I am completely green on interviewing techniques. I—”

  He turned his back to her and wal
ked into his office. His old desk drawer rattled and banged. He returned a moment later and slapped a Day-Timer into her hands.

  “Never used. The precinct guys got it for me when I opened. There’s a pen inside.” He squatted in front of her and looked up into her eyes. “Giulia, I get the feeling this is my big break. The case that’ll get me word-of-mouth rep. I need to crack this.”

  Blast. He treated her like more than a typing and filing grunt. And he sure knew how to make big, green Bambi eyes. Could she say no to a legitimate employer request? Hey—if she did this for him, and he got more cases, he could hire a real assistant and she could go back to anonymity.

  “Will they be home at this hour?”

  He grinned and bounced up. “Guaranteed. They’re society types. The only way they’d be out is if they’re doing charity work. No big fundraisers are happening till the August Children with Cancer auction.”

  “All right. I’ll call them from home. Give me half an hour before you send the car.”

  “Tell me how to thank you.”

  Never ask me to do this again. “How about hiring someone to clean the bathroom?”

  “Does it need cleaning?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

  She rolled her eyes. “Not today, because I scrubbed it yesterday.” As she opened the door, she said, “Can you print out directions to the Pittsburgh address? I’ll pick them up on my way to the first girlfriend’s.”

  Giulia sat in the sedate maroon Impala listening to the engine cool. The house of Blake’s most recent ex, three doors to her left, wasn’t as intimidating as she’d feared: a shingled Cape Cod in a not-quite-rundown neighborhood, one street over from the perfectly landscaped McMansion section.

  If Blake Parker only dated money, she’d bet Sandra Falke never brought him home to meet the folks. Wrong income bracket.

  Now or never. Her interview after this one started in forty-five minutes.

  Keys in her jacket, dinky purse in the glove compartment. She took a deep breath, crossed herself, and got out of the car. Blouse tucked in, jacket buttoned, hair... well, nothing would make that sedate. Day-Timer under one arm, she stepped onto the curb and snagged the heel of her pump. Arms flailing, she caught herself before her knee hit the cement and ruined her only pair of pantyhose. A robin hopped past and cocked its head at her. She blew it a raspberry.