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

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.