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

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.