Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation (9 page)

“Thanks. I wanted to see everything together—spreadsheets, notes, Bible verses, everything. It helps me think.”

“Damn, I’m good. Hiring you, I mean.”

“Frank.”

“Giulia, someday I’ll hear you swear—and the six o’clock news will announce that Hell has frozen over.”

Giulia tried to think
of something neutral about the Barbie as the house lights blinked to signal the end of intermission for Friday night’s performance. She’d taken the doll home to study it after Frank had compared it with the dolls Blake and Pamela received.

Okay, she shouldn’t lie to herself. She’d taken it home to obsess over.

It festered. Not so much the blatant falsehood of the twisted Bible verse, but the idea that the stalker was trying to handcuff her by distracting her with false accusations. Because that’s what she decided the handcuffs meant:
I’m smarter than you, neener, neener
.

Not if she had anything to say about it. At its heart this note-and-gift delivery was a childish game of wanting what you couldn’t have. Giulia hadn’t been a teacher for eight years for nothing; she could outwit this mentality. It was only Friday night. She had all weekend to work on it.

The Second Violin’s black T-shirt looked even tighter tonight. He must’ve upped his workout. What if he wasn’t gay? How would he react to her wearing lingerie like...

She nearly missed her cue.

Give it up. You could never wear that kind of wanton underwear. You’re a repressed ex-nun. God didn’t want you. Men won’t want you. Too much baggage. Get used to it. And pay attention before you miss another cue.

_____

The bus let her off at 11:10. People were still strolling arm in arm, enjoying the balmy June night. She could hear a late football game in the park—probably the guys from the dollar store against the mechanics from the corner gas station.

A little tea, some TV, and then bed. News of course, but an easy penance to endure to get to the late-night talk shows. Commercials blared at her when she turned on Channel 11. Back in the kitchen she stared at the Barbie until the kettle whistled. Plain green tea tonight. Nothing with caffeine.

She dunked the tea bag. Plain. Like her. Not like Blake’s women. Not like the perfect plastic woman in front of her.

She’d never be good enough for someone like Blake. Ha. Who cared about a shallow pretty boy anyway? She’d never be good enough for someone like Frank. Decent, hard-working, honest, handsome. She wanted to be good enough for him, and a big part of her didn’t care that he was her boss. But she was rejected goods. Like sniping little Sister Mary Hezekiah said the day she turned in her habits: God was better off without her.

She slammed down the tea, splashing the Barbie. She’d been repressing thoughts about that day for months. But you can only cap a boiling kettle for so long before the lid blows off.

Trapped in this apartment. Trapped in the work-home-cook-sleep rut. Day after day after day. Like today: another Friday night with the TV and a cold bed.

She had to get out. The galley kitchen walls looked like the tiny “cell” she’d had as a Canonical Novice, trapped like a cloistered Poor Clare for a year and a day. She hadn’t known then she wasn’t good enough. She hadn’t known yet that the wedding ring she’d received at Final Vows would be a lie.

A quick snatch to transfer her keys from her purse to her jeans pocket and she was out the door and down the stairs. All the blocked garbage spewed into her head. The old nuns watching every move the Novices made. The backstabbing. The passive-aggressive power plays.

She couldn’t run fast enough. Didn’t matter. She couldn’t get away. It was trapped inside her. It was part of her. Panting, she stopped in the park. Late—near midnight by now. No sounds of football. No happy girl on the arm of her man.

“I hate You!” There. She said it. No one to hear but Him. “Why didn’t You tell me I wasn’t good enough for You?”

She paced around the broken water fountain and up the path. “I wasted ten years on You, and You dumped me like a no-good boyfriend!” Tears dripped off her chin and her swollen nose. “You said You’d be closer than any lover and I believed You. You ruined my life!”

Thank God—ha ha, funny—no one was around to hear her. If she had to break down, at least she embarrassed no one but herself.

“Why did I ruin myself for everyone else?”
Stop dancing around it. Ask Him.
“Why did You dump me?”

A thin, strong hand clamped over her mouth and another grabbed her around the waist. “Shut up.”

The hands dragged her off the path into the barberry bushes. The light from the old-fashioned path lamps barely reached here.

He said in her ear, “Stupid idea, walking alone at night.”

His marijuana-and-garlic breath fogged around her and she gagged. Thought fragments slugged through her brain.
What did he
...
Jesus, help
...
No one around
...

She jerked forward, but he yanked her back. “Think you’re smart, don’t you? Think you’re better than other women.”

He shoved her forward, and she fell to her hands and knees. Thorns from old branches gouged her palms. A shoe kicked her stomach. Her lungs emptied and she dropped onto her back

His hands grabbed her collar and ripped. Her breasts bounced and her bra’s front hooks popped open.

Get him—
She clawed his head but his hoodie blocked her nails.

“Bitch.” He slapped her and she tasted blood.

Get him off—
She dug her heels into the grass and bucked her hips.

“Begging for it, smart slut?”

He dug his hands into her breasts and pushed his tongue into her mouth. She gagged and bile choked her.

“Shit!” He released her breasts and spat on the grass by her head. Then he grabbed her hair. “I’m gonna hurt you now, bitch. Warriors show no mercy.”

What? Get away! Get him off!

She spat at his face, and he punched the side of her head. Her ears rang and her eyes blurred. He dropped her head to the grass and yanked at her jeans. The zipper ratcheted apart and air brushed her legs.

Now! Get away!

But he planted a foot on her chest and pulled down his shorts. Then he dropped to the ground and pushed his knees into her armpits. She twisted away. He punched her temple. She gasped and he thrust his erect penis down her throat.

She bit.

He screamed and rolled off her, clutching himself.

She scrambled up, snatched her jeans, and ran.

“Bitch!” Distance muffled his high-pitched voice. It was lower a minute ago.

She heard a woman’s giggle, high and on edge, and realized it was hers. Then she was crying and clutching her jeans over her bare breasts and unlocking the front door to her apartment building. She stumbled down the hall, one hand keeping her shirt closed. Her other hand shook so much when she tugged her keys out of her pocket that she dropped them.

“Come on, come on.” Tears blurred her eyes, but she found the keyhole at last and fell into her foyer. On her knees, she slammed and locked the door and huddled on the carpet, sobbing.

“Oh God oh God oh God.”

Eventually a burst of applause from the television distracted her. She stood and stumbled into the bathroom, ripped off the rest of her clothes, and stuffed them into the small trash can. Then she put her face into the sink and puked.

When nothing was left but dry heaves, she groped for the mouthwash and drowned her mouth in cinnamon. She gagged on that, but kept gargling until she emptied the bottle and her mouth blazed like a bonfire.

Shower. Get his touch off you.

You’ll wake up the teacher next door.

Too bad.

She turned the spray on as hot as she could stand and scoured every inch of her skin twice over. She had to pull barberry thorns out of both hands, and the soap kept getting stained with blood.

When she faced the shower head to rinse her face, the spray stung her chest and she looked down. Red crescents from his fingernails circled her breasts. Several dribbled blood.

She sank against the far side of the tub and hunched over herself, sobbing louder than the noise of the spray hitting the shower curtain.

When the water grew too chilly to stay there, she shut it off and wrapped herself in her towel. Shuffling like an old woman, she inched her way to the couch. She pressed herself into the corner and stared at hours of mindless late-night sitcoms without really seeing them.

The conductor tapped his
baton on his stand and waited through the applause. “Remember, people, no matinee tomorrow. I’m not a comedian, so I won’t suggest you run through your music anyway.”

Giulia stepped around her music stand to the First Cello’s chair. “See you Monday, Frank.” She dug into her wallet and counted out exact change for the bus ride home. She hadn’t needed bandages for the thorn-pricks, and her hands weren’t injured anywhere near enough to interfere with her flute-playing.

Frank scanned the theater seats as the Saturday night audience exited. “Yeah.” His frown disappeared when he looked at her. “New shirt? Aren’t you hot?”

Giulia glanced at her high-collar, long-sleeved henley. “Not really.”

“Mmm.” Frank tapped his cello case as the usher kicked the doorstop away and the swinging door closed. “Where is she?”

“Have a date?” She’d have to haul to make the 10:12 bus—the crowded one. Safety in numbers.

“With Yvonne and the new pizza joint on Main Street. The one with the unpronounceable name. It’s supposed to have authentic Sicilian pizza—the thick kind.”

“Have you asked an authentic Sicilian? What kind of sauce do they use?”

Good. Her light post-performance conversation sounded almost normal. She had all day tomorrow to get her act together for Monday morning.

“Dunno.” Frank checked his cell phone. “No messages. Where is she?”

“Maybe she’ll call tomorrow. ’Night.” Giulia picked up her flute case.

“Giulia, wait.” Frank put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched hard enough to knock against a music stand. “Yvonne threatened to stand me up, but I didn’t think she’d really do it. Would you commit a huge breach of professional etiquette and get pizza with me? I want to pick your brain.”

Bad idea. She was still a walking freak-out. “I have to catch the bus.”

“I’ll drive you home. Please? I promise not to mention Barbies or the Bible. Besides, I’m hungry. Are you part Sicilian by any chance? Can you pass judgment on the pizza?”

He’ll wheedle till I cave. I’ve got no reason not to go with him; he won’t come on to me.

She hoped her smile looked genuine. “I’m all Sicilian. Twenty generations of women make me qualified to judge any pizza. Let’s go.”

_____

“Yvonne is hot, you know? But that’s about all she is. She doesn’t read anything in the paper besides the lifestyles section, and she only watches chick flicks.” Frank swallowed a quarter of his beer. “And she gossips.”

Giulia sipped Chianti. “Then stop seeing her.”

“It’s not that easy.”

The waitress set the pizza between them. Frank dug out slices with a miniature spatula and set them on their plates. Without smiling once, Giulia looked the pizza over with one eyebrow raised, measured the height of the crust with finger and thumb, and tasted the sauce. Then she bit through cheese, sausage, and green peppers and chewed. Slowly.

Aglio e Olio
—quite an ethnic name choice for a new restaurant—certainly piled on the Old World charm. Empty Chianti bottles on red-and-white checked tablecloths held candles with artistic wax drippings. Waitresses dressed in “authentic” peasant costumes. Sinatra and Dean Martin crooned from ceiling speakers. And, of course, bunches of plastic grapes on dried grapevines hung from a trellised drop ceiling.

Why, of all places Frank wanted to try, did he pick a restaurant with “garlic” in its name? She knew she’d have to deal with garlic again sometime—she loved garlic, always bought it fresh and chopped it herself. But too soon, too soon.

Stop. Focus on not making Frank suspicious. Swallow this pizza and say something clever.

“It’s a presumptuous little offering, but it has merit.” She’d heard that on a wine-tasting show once.

Frank’s worry lines faded, and he laughed. His first bite took half his slice. “This is great. Don’t be such a pizza snob.” He drank more beer and finished the slice. “See, Yvonne is like a tenth cousin twice removed. When I break up with her, a couple relatives won’t speak to me anymore.” He took another slice. “Maybe that won’t be so bad.”

Story of her life for the last year. “Frank, think of her rather than yourself. Call her tomorrow and then break it off in person. Not over the phone.” More wine. “If I had a buck for every junior and senior who cried on my shoulder because their boyfriends texted their breakup...”

“Yes, Sister. You’re the soul of fairness and decency, Sister.”

“I’m not a nun anymore.” She clipped the words and bit into more pizza.
Don’t lose it.
She should have caught the bus. She wasn’t fit company for anyone, let alone her boss. And she wasn’t decent anymore. Her mouth hadn’t formed a prayer since he’d stuffed his...

“Giulia.”

Her eyes focused on her white-knuckled hand around her wine glass.

“Want to tell me what’s been bugging you all night?”

“No.”

“I could see it in the orchestra pit. You—”

“Frank, my personal life is my business.”

“Of course it is.”

“Then let’s talk about something else. Where did you find Sidney?”

_____

Frank parked two spaces from her building’s front door.

“Thanks for the ride and the pizza, Frank. See you Monday.”

“Giulia, how long have you lived in this neighborhood? Do they issue a can of mace with your house key?”

“It’s not that bad. We all look out for each other. Besides, it’s affordable.”

“It’s two derelict buildings away from becoming a slum. That punk on the corner’s radiating attitude. Let me walk you to the door.”

Was it Pot-Breath? She had to get out of the car. She had to put a good face on it. If it wasn’t him, was that other guy near the doorway the right height? Could she get down the hall and lock her door before Frank drove away?

“Giulia.”

Say something. Make a joke about defending yourself with your flute case. Turn this door handle and get out. Mary, Mother of Mercy, protect me.

“Giulia, what’s the matter?”

Frank’s hand came down hard on her shoulder, and she gasped and shied against the door.

“That’s it.” He shut off the car and pocketed the keys. Before Giulia could protest, he came around and yanked open the passenger door. “Out. Your chivalrous employer is seeing you to your abode.”

She ghosted a smile up at him and put one foot on the curb. Hooray, her legs didn’t give out. Frank stuck to her back as she opened her own door, but walked through each room while she locked them in.

His “Me Tarzan” act was funny and comforting in its way. But he should go home, now that she was safe inside.

Liar.
Face it: what she really wanted to do was hide under the covers and not come out till Monday morning. She had to beat that fear into submission.

Frank settled into the corner of the couch near the window. “Nice couch. Come join me on it.”

She squeezed into the opposite corner. If she thought of it like one of the girlfriend interviews, she could detach herself.

Frank leaned away, legs crossed, one arm across the back of the couch. “First let me tell you that I had another reason for taking you out to dinner and getting you to let me in here.”

Her heart stuttered. Frank was the soul of decency. She thought. What if he really wanted—

“We need to talk about Pamela.”

She nearly laughed. Work? That was his ulterior motive? Her legs unfolded, and she took a full breath. “You’re reprehensible. I don’t even get overtime pay.”

“You got pizza. You said it was good pizza.”

“You don’t need to look so charming, Frank. What do we need to work on?” Piece of cake. She needn’t have worried.

“Someone tried to rape Pamela last night.”

Her heart stopped this time. It must have, because when it beat again a second later, a jolt of pain zapped her chest.

“At—at her house? Near the camera?”

“No such luck, if I can put it that way. She’s running the Children with Cancer auction this year. First organizational meeting was last night at that French restaurant downtown. The one where you have to speak French or you could end up ordering steamed DVDs.” He grimaced. “Bad joke.”

“Yeah.” She could relax. It wasn’t related to last night in the park. It was just a weird coincidence.

“The women got gabbing and stayed late. Pamela’s friends went to the parking garage, and Pamela realized she left her cell phone on the table. Then she got stupid and decided to take the garage stairs rather than the elevator.”

“Is she all right?”
Please. Please.

“Fortunately, yes. The guy grabbed her at the landing and ripped off her shirt, but her friends were still on that floor. She screamed and they came running and he took off.”

“Thank God.”

He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Blake called me at 6 a.m. I’m whipped. He thinks it’s connected. I don’t.”

Good. Then neither was hers. “Why?”

“Too typical. Pretty girl alone in an empty downtown stairwell after dark? She might as well have had a target painted on her back.”

Say something else. Act normal.
“Did she see his face?”

“No. Too dark on the landing, she said. Blake gave me a summary of what she told the police. He was taller than her, and she’s something like five-eight or -nine. All she remembered clearly was his breath. Like he’d eaten a garlic pizza and smoked a joint after.”

The couch lurched. Frank receded like a movie special effect. His voice wobbled through the buzzing in her ears.

“Giulia? What’s wrong?” His hand patted her cheeks. “It’s okay, Giulia. She’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Blake and her family will keep her under lock and key now.”

The room came back into focus. “That’s not—” She cleared her throat. “That’s not it.”

His eyebrows scrunched together. “Tell me why you freaked out in the car.”

“Last night.” How to say it? “I was walking in the park last night.”

“At night? Here?” His voice ratcheted up several notches. “Alone? Are you nuts? Do you have a target painted on you, too?”

“Stop, Frank.” She heard the tremble.
Freaked out
didn’t begin to cover her mental state. “I needed air.”

“Giulia, you don’t go out in this neighborhood alone at night. You—”

“Shut up, Frank. Just shut up. I know it was stupid.” She couldn’t tell him why she needed air. One hundred percent guaranteed he’d never understand. “I wasn’t going to tell you—keep personal and business separate, you know. But we can’t be sure anymore that the stalker is one of the exes.”

“Since when? Where’d you get this idea? And what does this have to do with the punk on the corner?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what do you mean about not one of the exes?”

“Because—” The words wedged in her throat.

He paced the length of the coffee table and back. “Giulia, it’s after midnight, I had Blake screaming in my ear at 6 a.m., and I’m the walking dead. Do you have anything useful to say?”

A flicker of anger, enough to open her mouth. “I must apologize. I wasn’t able to take notes last night. Next time I’ll be sure to bring the Day-Timer. Listen: Pamela’s attacker had a busy night. Straight from the garage downtown to the park on the corner here.”

Frank stopped in front of the tomato plant. “What?” Sharp, not critical.

“Let me finish my report, Mr. Driscoll. I have a head for detail, remember? He dragged me in the bushes and called me a slut—you’ll have to check to see if he used the same insult on Pamela. His breath smelled like pot and garlic. Now do you see? He kicked me and ripped off my shirt and grabbed my—” She dug her fingernails into her palms and barreled on before he could interrupt.

“I tried to get him off me but he straddled me and—” The rush of words choked her for a moment. “I bit—him. He rolled off and I got my clothes and ran back here and locked the door and that’s what’s been bothering me all night, okay? He stank like pot and garlic and he tried to rape Pamela and he tried to rape me.” Her voice cracked and she hid her face against her knees, rocking and sobbing.