Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation

by Alice Loweecey

  “Yvonne?”

  “My newest admirer.” He grinned. “She saw me in the orchestra pit last Friday.”

  “You have a groupie?” She covered a laugh. He almost distracted her from her raging guilt.

  “I beg your pardon. I have swept a discerning cello enthusiast off her feet. She says I have great hands.”

  “Uh-huh. And she likes musical comedy.”

  “Sometimes. Her younger brother plays the hero’s sidekick. She’s coming again Friday night. I’ll introduce you after the show. We’re planning an intimate post-theater supper.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Want me to see if she has an older brother?”

  “No!” Her voice leapt up an octave. She swallowed. “No, thanks. I’m not ready to date.”

  “Giulia, you... what is that phrase you used... you stopped being a nun nearly a year ago.”

  “Jumped the wall.” Privacy fence, actually. The face the world saw had changed since the thirteenth century. The real face, when the mask came off, remained medieval.

  Frank snapped his fingers. “Right. Great image. So get back into the swing of things. The next time Evelyn comes to inspect her coffee shop downstairs, ask her to fix you up.”

  She shut down the computer and gave him half a smile. “She already tried. When I was her barista she introduced me to two of her nephews.”

  “And?”

  “Please shoot me before I try that again. One had way too many hands for a human being. The other one wouldn’t come within a foot of me. Said I had a ‘nun aura.’ ”

  Frank guffawed. “I’m not touching that one. All right, go spend another night with Godzilla.”

  “We’re very happy together. He understands what I need.”

  He opened the outer door. “And that is?”

  “Escape.” She locked it behind them.

  “Partner?” Giulia stared up at Frank, her morning coffee cooling on her desk.

  “Not right away,” Frank said. “It’s more like partner-in-training. You need three years’ documented experience working for a PI before you can apply for your own license.”

  She closed her mouth, sure she looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Why?”

  He held up yesterday’s girlfriend folders. “Are you kidding? You have the touch. Not only do people talk to you like you’re their Father Confessor, but you classify data like a born geek.”

  “That just makes me a decent assistant.” Boring. Invisible. The perfect job.

  “You’re wasted as an assistant. I can get anyone in here to answer phones and type letters. This—” he flapped the folders at her, “this proves you’re just what Driscoll Investigations needs.”

  He sat on the corner of her desk, his herringbone blazer opening to a white polo tucked into crisp jeans. “I was up till midnight working out all the possibilities these showed me. For instance,” he opened the file labeled Osborn, “she still works for the same company as Blake. She knows his schedule, she could get to his car, she resents that he just got a promotion—even though she doesn’t need the money and she’s only working a nine-to-five job to show her friends she’s not a rich parasite like they are. She said it here—” he flipped over a page. “ ‘They’re parasites on their families’ wealth.’ ”

  “She tried to convince me she and I were equals. Her hairstyle cost more than my interview suit.”

  He cocked his head. “Did she say that?”

  “Of course not. I could tell.”

  “Oh. Okay.” He set another file on top of Osborn’s. “And Bischoff. She didn’t treat you like dirt, but the way she described Blake dumping her tells me he should avoid crossing the street if she’s driving her car through the same intersection.”

  “Oh, yeah. I got a similar impression.”

  “Exactly.”

  The phone rang. When Giulia put it on hold, she said, “Captain Hogarth.”

  “I’ll take it in there.” He scooped up the files. “Think about it, okay? It’s a great idea. It means a raise, too.”

  Giulia stared at his closed door until her Godzilla screen saver roared and made her jump. Her coffee was lukewarm now, but she gulped a third of it anyway.

  Frank had just offered her a promotion and a raise for abusing the trust of five strangers.

  She’d lain awake most of Wednesday night wrestling with guilt and shame. Remembering all the years she’d spent fighting the unchecked power of her Superiors. All the resentment she let fester in her every time another already slit envelope arrived in her mail slot. Seething every time a delayed click on the phone meant the Superior was doing a random conversation check.

  And what had she done? Continued the legacy.

  When she wasn’t flogging herself with guilt, reason sneaked in and explained that she was really doing the opposite of the years of eavesdropping. She was no power-hungry local Superior looking to shine in the eyes of higher authority, ratting out underlings under the guise of spiritual growth. She was gathering private data—information she would keep like her own secrets—to prevent a disturbing situation from getting genuinely scary.

  And her conscience sneered and called it sophism, and she’d be back to self-flagellation.

  Around two a.m. she had wondered if the nuns in the Middle Ages had it right, and actual self-flagellation—with one’s own three-knot cord—made repentance tangible to oneself and the entire Community. You couldn’t argue with blood.

  At least she had the common sense to know thoughts like that came from a punchy, overtired brain. She dragged out Carlyle’s French Revolution, and, as always, it put her to sleep.

  _____

  Godzilla battled Mothra on her screen as she sipped her coffee again. Cold.

  She dumped the rest in the bathroom sink, closed the door behind her, and replaced the empty paper towel roll.

  Private investigator. Too public, no pun intended. But if Frank needed help, she could be his stage crew. Smooth the details behind the scenes to let the actor concentrate on wowing the audience.

  She stared into the bathroom mirror. Yike, dark circles. And her moustache needed plucking.

  Stop distracting yourself.

  She’d keep all information she gathered private, of course. And she could refuse to spy on cheating spouses or get involved with similarly grubby cases.

  Not for the first time, she wished she had someone to talk to. Aunt Carmela out in Phoenix was the only family member who still spoke to her now that she’d “spit on the Cross.” Uncle Vincenzo had surpassed himself in the only letter he’d written her. If he was right, her parents were weeping in the courts of Heaven, and not a single one of their blessed tears would cool her sinful forehead when she finally burned in Hell.

  She’d ripped his letter into confetti and gone to LaRocca’s for garlic pizza, where she’d drunk two—well, one and a half—glasses of red wine. She didn’t think she was as depraved a sinner as all that. And whether or not she fried in Hell was up to God, not Uncle Vincenzo.

  She splashed cold water on her face, patting it dry to protect her makeup. She could help people in trouble lots better as a PI than just as an administrative assistant. More than she could in the convent, too: no habit to scare people off. If her conscience turned shrewish again, she’d deal with it on a case-by-case basis.

  Case by case. Maybe she’d do okay. She knew some of the jargon.

  Giulia opened the bathroom door, walked past her desk, and knocked on Frank’s door.

  “Yeah.”

  Frank looked up when she opened it, and raised his eyebrows. She sat in the client chair and smiled.

  “Define ‘raise.’ ”

  “I hate legalese.” Giulia frowned at the multi-page Pennsylvania Private Detective Act. The noon lunch crowd swirled around them as she and Frank celebrated her promotion over cheeseburgers and onion rings.

  June didn’t get any better than this. A handful of fluffy clouds in a brilliant blue sky, and sunshine cascading over everything in sight. Little kids squealed as
they splashed in the fountained wading pool in the park next to the restaurant. Every table under the awning and on the Pig-Out’s patio was filled. Cottonwood might be one of Pittsburgh’s biggest suburbs, but on days like this it resembled a popular resort rather than a steel-and-asphalt town with a population of more than 60,000.

  She sucked iced tea through a straw without picking up the glass and turned a page.

  “This is pretty clear once you get used to the language,” Frank said. “I highlighted the parts you need to know. Just start logging your hours, beginning with all the Wednesday interviews.” He inserted a whole onion ring into his mouth and followed it with several gulps of root beer. “My old captain will sign your second certificate of approval. I partnered with his son for five years, before the idiot who T-boned our squad car ruined my promising police career.” He pointed to the page in front of Giulia. “You’ll need two certificates, but that’s three years away. How much do you know about guns?”

  She swallowed a bite of cheeseburger. “Only what I’ve seen in movies.”

  “I’ll take you to the shooting range this week, and we’ll get you started.”

  “Started with what?”

  “Practice. You need to learn to shoot a gun before you can get a license.”

  She hadn’t thought about weapons. “Is that necessary?”

  “You have to know how to defend yourself.”

  “Violence begets violence, Frank.”

  He coughed on a mouthful of root beer. “You sound like my grandmother.”

  “Just because I’m not in habit doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned Franciscan principles.”

  “Giulia, it’s the twenty-first century. Save all the homeless animals you want—Saint Francis was the animal guy, right?—but eventually you’ll end up serving a subpoena on a loser with a .45.”

  “But—”

  “And he won’t think you’re a cute gal who’s kind to kids and dogs. He’ll think you’re the enemy, and you’d better be prepared for it.” He wagged his straw at her. “You took this job. It involves some things you might not like.”

  She picked a sesame seed off her bun. This morning she’d thought she’d made the right decision.

  He finished his burger and frowned at her. “What kind of shape are you in?”

  The kosher pickle in her hand froze halfway to her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not coming on to you.” A moment later he laughed. “Are you blushing?”

  She chomped the pickle. “No.”

  “You should get out more. I meant, do you run or lift weights or anything?”

  “Oh.” Maybe she should get out more. “I run two miles a day—usually.”

  “Not enough. Make a fist.”

  “There are people here.” Her ears pulsed. They had to be fire-engine red.

  “Who cares?”

  “You’re not going to feel my arm.”

  “Just let me—”

  “Back off, Frank. I don’t like to be touched.”

  He sat back, eyes wide, then narrowing. “Sorry.”

  Pound pound pound. She breathed deep and slow to calm her heartbeat. What was her problem? Frank wasn’t going to grope her like Evelyn’s nephew did. Just because her first contact with men after ten years had been fodder for bad bar jokes... She forced a smile. “Sorry, too. You’re trying to say I need to lift weights for the job?” She sucked more iced tea through her straw.

  Frank’s eyebrows looked like a sandy brown caterpillar over his nose.

  Was that pity in his face? Oh, no. Not for her. She wasn’t some emotional cripple. She had a few... quirks, that’s all. And Frank wasn’t going to jump the gap from professional to personal. She was sure he knew better. Everyone knew office romances were a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Frank.”

  He blinked. “Yeah.”

  “I need to get in shape in case someone goes postal on me. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yeah... yeah. I work out at the Y. It has a good weight room. I play basketball with the guys from the precinct once a week, too.”

  She probably couldn’t afford the Y membership, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’ll figure something out.”

  Time to get distance between them before he tried some psychobabble on her about dealing with past issues. And get him off the gun subject for now. “Anything else I have to do besides increase muscle mass?”

  He gulped the last of his root beer and crunched an ice cube. “Nothing important. If you, uh, want to keep fixing the files, that’d be great. I’ll call the temp agency about a part-time receptionist.”

  She grinned. “So, it’s a promotion in name only.”

  “No—no—honest. We just have to—”

  “I’m kidding, Frank. Lighten up.”

  He smiled like he was thinking of something else. She paid attention to the last bites of the pickle and her remaining onion rings.

  He crunched his last two ice cubes. “I have to pick up some equipment. You done? We’ll stop on the way back.”

  _____

  Giulia held the wireless security camera in her hand while Frank checked the receiver settings.

  “I had no idea they made these things this small now.”

  “Yeah. Great, aren’t they? Motion sensitive, color, night vision, and small enough to hide next to the mailbox.” He pressed a button. “Smile.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Good. Plug this cable into that port on the back. Yes, that one. Just let me plug the other end into my tower.” He crouched under his desk. “Go into Explorer and open the E drive.” His voice was muffled.

  “All set.”

  He backed out and stood. “This should give us a close-up of your face.” He double-clicked and a window opened, flashed a logo, and there she was, fish-eyed in the screen.

  “Lovely.” Her nose looked like a glob of modeling clay.

  “You bet. Look at the clarity. It’s almost this good at night, too.” He closed the window and pulled the cable out of the camera. “Now the other one.”

  “If Pamela’s so rich, doesn’t her house already have security?”

  “House? Try estate.” Frank grinned into the second camera and plugged in the cable. “Sure, but we’re hampered by Blake’s paranoia.”

  “He’s afraid of his exes?”

  “No, of his CEO. Apparently a VP back in the nineties got caught in a massage-parlor sting and the company lost some huge clients. Blake’s worried that any trouble, even trouble that’s not his fault, will deep-six his promotion chances.” He deleted the photo of himself and unplugged the cable from the three-inch camera. “So he doesn’t want me contacting Pamela’s security company to view their footage. That’s why we’re going to Blake’s to set up one camera, and he’s going to plant the one at Pamela’s house.”

  “This is where I say, ‘Whatever makes the client happy,’ right?”

  Frank set the cameras on his desk and shook her hand.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Falcone. You’ve just passed the first rung on the ladder to success.”

  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 awws 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.