Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation

by Alice Loweecey

  Wrong. No one was going to threaten her with the Bible. “If only I could read the return address. There’s a verse from Revelation I’d like to send her.” She handed him the note.

  He smoothed it out on the desk and placed the note sent to Pamela next to it. “Same handwriting. Same paper. Why’s she targeting you? Did any of them follow you after you left?”

  “I don’t remember. But I’m no threat. Wrong looks, wrong family, wrong bank balance. According to you, not Blake Parker’s type.”

  “Not a romantic threat, no...”

  Good thing she wasn’t vain. The way Frank still had his eyes on the notes, he had no clue how that sounded. Plain Giulia and her plain life. At least that meant he wasn’t about to consider her as anything other than an employee.

  Too bad, a Cinderella voice in her head whispered. You’d love him to. She scowled into the psychedelic mold. Stuff a glass slipper in it, voice.

  “Maybe you’re a threat to her plan. You know, because your story made them think you’re working to keep Pamela and Blake engaged.”

  “So this pomegranate is really a neon sign saying ‘Back off’? Why couldn’t she have used sour milk? Milk is a frequent metaphor in the Song of Songs.”

  He looked up from the notes. “What’s the difference?”

  “Because I like pomegranates.”

  Two quick raps and the door burst open.

  “Frank, you have to do something now!”

  The Perfect Male stood in the doorway. Wavy blond hair, broad shoulders, muscular arms and legs obvious even under the impeccably tailored suit. If he’d been smiling, Giulia wouldn’t have been surprised at a cartoony gleam from his front teeth.

  Frank stood and pulled his jacket straight. “Blake, we are doing something. Did anything else happen?”

  Of course. The apparition could be no one but Blake Parker. Even stressed and panicky like this he would turn every female head in his office.

  “Pamela called me an hour ago. She’s not eating, she’s not sleeping, and she hasn’t been able to continue with the wedding plans.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “You promised you’d help us, Frank. When are you going to stop this?”

  Frank’s hands came down on Mr. Perfect’s shoulders. “I told you I’d eliminate your problem and I will. Did you bring the camera?”

  “Yeah. Here.” He pulled it from his suit jacket. “There was mud all over it. Didn’t rain that much last night. Besides, I thought the spot we picked would’ve protected it.”

  Giulia’s eyes met Frank’s. The ex was smarter than they’d given her credit for.

  “Come in here, Blake. We’ll see if it caught anything before the mud.”

  Giulia looked away from Blake’s blondness and saw both boxes. She’d better hide the extra pomegranate.

  Opening her top drawer, she slid the wrapping and note from her delivery inside. With silent footsteps, she opened the third drawer of the nearest filing cabinet and set her box in the back. If he didn’t leave soon, she’d have to wash the drawer with undiluted disinfectant.

  She carried a manila folder back to the desk. A faceless grunt doing her faceless job.

  “Time stamp says 4:42. All I see is... an arm in a long sleeve?” Blake’s voice from Frank’s office.

  “If she moves just two inches to the right, we’ll see her face in the next shot.” Frank, in his detached, concentrating voice.

  “What the—where’d the picture go?”

  “Blake, don’t touch the camera.”

  “The connection must be broken.” A rattle and a metallic knock.

  “She covered the camera with mud, Blake. That’s why there’s no picture.”

  “What? How’d she know it was there?”

  “She looked for it. She’s no dummy.”

  “Now what do we do?” If that had come from a child’s mouth, Giulia would’ve labeled it a wail.

  “You take Pamela’s camera back and hide it... let’s see... behind that embroidered pillow in the wrought-iron chair on the front porch. Make sure the lens has a clear line of sight to the mailbox.”

  “Fine. What about the one at my place?” Footsteps and Blake’s voice coming closer.

  “We’ll bring it out this afternoon.” Frank passed Giulia’s desk, Blake following.

  “We? Who else have you told?” Blake grabbed the shoulder of Frank’s jacket. “Don’t you understand confidentiality?”

  “Of course I do.” Frank smiled the way that made Giulia unable to stay mad at him. “I have a partner. Ms. Giulia Falcone, let me introduce Blake Parker.”

  Stand. Smile. Look him in the eye. “Pleased to meet you.” She grasped his hand. Clammy. His, not hers. Better that way. Gave her an air of competence.

  “Same here.” His eyes traveled from her lived-in sandals and cotton skirt up to her plain, yellow camp shirt.

  Yes, she shopped at Goodwill. No, she wasn’t tall, thin, or blonde. And yet—he was giving her a “Hey, babe” smile. Good Lord, was it possible for any male to be that convinced of his universal appeal? Apparently.

  Frank tapped the monitor. “She’s the organized half. I’m the deducer.”

  “Are you sure she can keep her mouth shut? It’s bad enough there’s some psychotic bitch after me and Pamela. I don’t need more women screwing up our lives.”

  Don’t react. You’re invisible. Let Frank stroke this arrogant pretty boy.

  Frank’s smile clenched, then relaxed. “Blake, you hired me because you trust my skill and judgment. I know that trust extends to every part of my investigation.” He shifted his balance, and his stance became at once assured and easy.

  Blake waved a hand in Giulia’s direction. “Fine. Whatever it takes to get us out of this mess.” He sniffed; his eyes found the original pomegranate on her desk. He pointed with a slightly crooked finger. “That—disgusting thing. Are you positive someone I dated is doing all this?”

  “ ’Fraid so.”

  Blake spread his hands, the picture of ingenuousness. “They all took the breakup so well.”

  Giulia nearly laughed, but her speakers screeched. Saved by the e-mail bell. She swiveled to the screen as Frank walked Blake over to the window, talking.

  Blake interrupted Frank’s soothing report, leaning out the window and muttering about the stink.

  Poor baby—he really should do something about that whine. It distorts his modulated voice.

  Frank planted his elbows next to Blake’s on the wide sill. “We’re on top of it. These things don’t resolve overnight. We’re collecting the data we need to close this.”

  Another impatient whine.

  Frank stood. “It’s just like in high school—I got your back.”

  Blake drew his head inside and poked his crooked finger into Frank’s lapel. “Just do it quietly. No cops.” Poke. “If word gets to upper management that I’m involved in anything to do with the law, my promotion is out the window.” Poke. “It doesn’t matter that I’m the victim. They want squeaky-clean execs.”

  Frank pushed the finger aside. “I got it.”

  Blake ran his hands over his blond waves and adjusted his Mondrian-pattern tie. “I’ll tell Pamela we have complete confidence in you. The camera’ll be back there tonight.”

  He closed the door much more quietly than he’d opened it.

  Giulia deleted the e-mail. “Well.”

  Frank banged the edge of his fist several times on her desk. “Someday I’m going to re-break his finger.”

  “You showed commendable restraint. My teeth might’ve found that top finger joint, if he deigned to notice my humble presence enough to point it at me.”

  Frank sat on her desk and chuckled. “Good thing I learned to keep my temper in check when I was a cop. We never knew when somebody might be hiding a gun. Hey—” he scanned her desk, squatted and looked beneath it, then around the room. “Where’s the other box?”

  “Stinking up a filing cabinet.” She retrieved it and set it on the windowsill. “These
aren’t evidence or anything, are they? Can’t we throw them out?”

  “I want to try to get a fingerprint off the wax paper first. Bring that one into my office, would you? The letters, too.” He carried the one from her desk at arm’s length and set it on the floor next to his filing cabinet. “Now bring me some paper from the printer.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Boss, sir.”

  He took the twenty-plus sheets from her with one hand as the other rummaged in a bottom drawer of the filing cabinets. “Close the door behind you so there’s no breeze to disturb the powder.”

  Three more e-mails waited for her attention. She deleted the one offering low-cost drugs and answered the others before upping the spam filter.

  Why was the stalker targeting her? Giulia hadn’t done anything except interview her. Whichever her it was. Had the cover story been that thin? Had she been that bad at it?

  And who sent the box? Bubbly Isabel, secretly furious that she wasn’t planning her own wedding to Blake? Perfectly matched Sandra looking for the perfectly matched husband? Efficient Camille determined to rectify the inefficient breakup?

  Yesterday Giulia would’ve said her only enemy was herself. If she didn’t count all the relatives who blamed her now that there wasn’t a nun or priest in this generation of Falcones. And maybe the Community’s Bursar General.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek to prevent a smile. There’d been a moment in their final meeting when she thought the woman simply couldn’t bring herself to sign the check returning her dowry. All three hundred dollars of it. But she didn’t think Sister Mary Beatrice would send her a rotten pomegranate at the exact same time an ex-girlfriend of Blake Parker sent one to his fiancée. If nothing else, Sister Mary Beatrice wouldn’t waste perfectly good food.

  The stalker knew she wasn’t a threat. This definitely was a “stay out of my business” message. Nothing more.

  “Sorry, whichever one you are. The job comes first.” She glanced at Frank’s closed door. “Gotta stop talking to myself at work.”

  She got the disinfectant from the bathroom closet and sprayed the file drawer. Meh. But better bleachy chemicals than rotten fruit. With a grunt, she shoved up the bottom half of the window another foot. Diesel fuel and hazelnut coffee blew in on the breeze. The city hall clock tower struck at ten a.m., but she wasn’t hungry.

  “Yes!” Frank’s voice through the closed door. A moment later he opened it, waving one of the letters in a rubber-gloved hand.

  “Fingerprints.”

  “Whose?” Giulia shook her head. “Never mind. Stupid question. On what?”

  “Pamela’s letter. Index and thumb. Half a thumb on yours.”

  “I’d applaud you, but what are we going to do with them?”

  He collapsed against the door frame. “O ye of little faith.” His face scrunched. “Did I quote that right?”

  “Yes, you sinner.” She hoped she didn’t look old-ladyish. She had to drag herself out of Catholic high-school teacher mode. “Why do we need her fingerprints?”

  “They’re insurance. If we ever have to bring in the police—God forbid, Blake will have a cow—we’ll plug these into the criminal database.” He wiped his other gloved hand on his trousers and left a black smear across the pinstripes. “Shoot. I have to clean up the mess I just made. Be right out.”

  Rattles and sneezes. “Giulia, in the filing cabinet behind the door should be a box of those clear sheet protectors. Third drawer, maybe?”

  She opened the drawer. Nothing. She tried the second. A cockeyed hanging folder stuck to the back of the cabinet. She worked her fingers into it, felt thin cardboard, and yanked. With a rip, the box popped out and she barked her knuckles on the bottom of the drawer above.

  “Got it.”

  Blowing on the scrape, she opened the top of a plastic protector and held it out as Frank slipped in a letter. The black-outlined prints showed up as dark as the bloody red line through the first sentence.

  “Why does she think stalking him with the Bible is going to make him come back to her?” She held the wastebasket while he slid in the brown paper wrappings. “Rhetorical question. Don’t answer.” When he raised his eyebrows, she said, “I don’t know if I want to get into her head to find out.”

  He peeled off the gloves. “Giulia, do you see why you need to learn to defend yourself?”

  She stared down at him. “Just because someone says ‘boo’ doesn’t mean I’m going to scream.”

  “That wasn’t some bored-teenager prank. It sent Pamela into hysterics.” He crumpled the paper in his hands and slam-dunked it into the basket.

  Excess powder poofed up her nose and she sneezed. “Pamela’s led a sheltered life.”

  “And you’re a woman of the world?”

  “I’m quite sure I have more experience than she does. I did teach high school for eight years.” The basket plunked on the floor next to his desk.

  “Convent years don’t count. You might be thirty—”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Okay, twenty-nine, but sometimes you’re as naïve as a sheltered Catholic-school kid. And did you know you talk like my grandmother?” Sitting on his heels, he replaced the fingerprint-kit components into their slots.

  “It’s the training. We were supposed to be a placid example at all times, and that includes how nuns walk and talk.” She pulled out his client chair and sat. “Don’t change the subject. Why are you so upset over this? It was creepy but inherently harmless.”

  He closed the box and set the kit into the bottom drawer. Then he closed his eyes instead of answering her question.

  Was he counting to ten?

  Frank’s eyes opened. Green and almost luminous in the shadow of the desk, they made it difficult to look away.

  “Let me put it this way.” He went to his own chair and sat facing her. “You agreed to be my partner. That carries certain responsibilities. One of them is to get your head out of your butt.”

  Who was he to— Why did he think he could—

  “And before you go all righteous anger on me, let me tell you about Karen Reed. A sweet lady who found true love at age twenty-five. Except her true love liked to own things. Like girlfriends and knives.”

  The phone rang.

  “Let the machine get it.”

  “I—fine.”

  “When True Love showed his possessive side, Karen ended the relationship. Then the phone calls started. Twice a day. Four times. Letters in her mailbox. Then special delivery. She thought it would stop as soon as he found another girl. When he started to drive behind her after work and park outside her apartment for hours, she called the police.”

  He picked up a pencil by the middle and tapped both ends like a seesaw on the desk. “You are paying attention, right?”

  “Yes.” Better keep it short, or she’d say something she’d regret.

  “Good. A rookie cop named Driscoll tagged along with his partner to interview Karen. Because True Love hadn’t actually done anything, all the police could tell her was to be careful and let them know if things changed.”

  He stopped tapping the pencil.

  “A week later the letters got simpler: ‘We’ll be together forever.’ Accompanied by photos of both of them with a dripping heart around their faces. The hearts were drawn in blood. She called us. A judge issued a restraining order.”

  “Fine. That’s exactly what restraining orders are for.”

  “Oh, God. Grow up. Three days later her boss called us. She hadn’t shown up to work, and her neighbors hadn’t seen her. Rookie Driscoll got the key from her landlady, opened her door, and puked his guts up a minute later. True Love knew how to use those knives. Karen lay on the kitchen floor surrounded by a heart. Made from her own guts. We found her actual heart on the wall in True Love’s apartment. Two other hearts next to it had already shriveled. True Love came after Driscoll’s partner with one of the knives, and Driscoll shot True Love’s leg out from under him.”

  Giulia’s heart contra
cted. “That poor girl. But if he was that misguided, could anything really have stopped him?”

  “Misguided?” The pencil snapped in two. “Do you have a brain under all those curls? He was a twisted killer, and she died because we didn’t take him seriously till it was too late.”

  “No one is irredeemable—”

  Frank slapped both hands on the desk. “Listen to me. Forget the crap you fed your students. You want this job, you drag yourself out of the nunnery and onto the streets. I don’t care if you get on your knees every night to pray for whoever is stalking Blake, as long as you know this is not a game.”

  “I am quite aware of that.” She recognized her tone of voice. The last time she sounded like this, her Superior was lecturing her about her lack of decorum.

  “Then act like it. Have you started a spreadsheet of Blake’s and Pamela’s notes and packages received?”

  “Of course.”

  “Add a tab for yourself. We’ll hope this is a fluke, but it absolutely has to be catalogued.”

  Giulia counted to ten this time. “Frank, it can’t be anything other than a one-off. I’m no threat. Am I rich? Tall? Blonde? Do I come from the right background? Please.”

  He drummed his fingers. “Jealous women—”

  “Even our jealous and obsessive stalker picked the appropriate target: Blake’s new tall, blonde, rich, Barbie doll.” She waved the folder in front of her face. “Why is it so hot in here?”

  “I closed the window so the fingerprint powder wouldn’t blow all over the room.” He felt the back of his neck. “I didn’t notice the temperature.”

  Giulia went to the window and shoved it up. Pretending to adjust the screen bought her a minute. What a pig-headed, arrogant know-it-all. She inhaled mingled coffee, baking bread, and the overflowing dumpster between the buildings before she turned around. “Your advice has been noted and filed. Please dismiss the idea that I take any of this lightly.”

  Damn him for that look on his face—puzzled and frustrated and... charming. Damn him for making her curse. Damn her for losing her objectivity.

  “I’m taking an early lunch. Should I take the pomegranates to the dumpster?”

  “Uh... no, not yet. I want to study them some more.”