Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation (3 page)

“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.”