Nun Too Soon (A Giulia Driscoll Mystery Book 1)

by Alice Loweecey

  Giulia snorted. “Isn’t that a little passive-aggressive for a psychologist?”

  “You think?” Sidney belched. “Gah. Sorry. The tenant just punched that tiny place she shoved my stomach into.” She shifted position. “Okay, AtlanticEdge. I’ve organized it so it makes sense to me, but not to anyone else yet. Can you open my files and I’ll explain?”

  Giulia clicked the icon titled “Sidney” and then the “AtlanticEdge” folder. Sidney scooted her chair next to Giulia’s.

  “Now the Word doc labeled ‘Week of March 2’ and the Excel doc labeled the same.”

  Giulia opened both and a kaleidoscope of colors filled her screen.

  “Okay. Page one of the spreadsheet has seven columns, one for each of the employees I think is a likely thief.”

  “Wait a sec.” Giulia turned on her tablet. “I started one of these this morning at the lawyer’s office.” She checked hers against Sidney’s. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Him? I didn’t think he was that suspicious. Yes. Yes. Really? Why her?” Giulia pointed to the last column.

  “She’s heavy into online gambling. I found video footage of her checking one of the biggest sites on her phone while she was at her desk. I didn’t need to be able to read lips to see that she was losing.”

  Giulia typed onto her tablet.

  “Okay, she’s added to my list. But why the box of crayons guy?”

  All the names on Sidney’s spreadsheet had photos from their employee passcards next to them. Only the fourth one made Giulia cringe.

  Sidney wrinkled her nose. “I know, right? I’m secretly hoping he’s stealing money to buy clothes that actually go with each other.” The bald man in the picture wore a purple shirt, green plaid tie, and orange checkered pocket square.

  “I just get a weird feeling about him,” Sidney said. “Like if this was a horror movie he’d be the guy training an army of rats in his mother’s basement or making sculptures out of dead bodies.”

  “Both hobbies would take significant funds,” Giulia said, crumpling her sandwich wrapper and tossing it into the trash can. “Plus, either scenario would be easy to trace. Massive plaster purchases or antibiotics and bandages.”

  “I guess. Okay. Page two.”

  More colors.

  “We organized two years of sales and returns and bonuses and all that stuff. Zane helped me a lot with this.”

  “What did I do? Whoa. What’s with the conjuring circle?” Zane stopped in the doorway, money in hand.

  “It’s all the documents from the lawyer with related information grouped together,” Giulia said. “Bring in a chair and squeeze around everything, please.”

  “I’d rather stand. Thanks for picking up lunch.” He placed the money in Giulia’s in-box and came around to her other side. “Oh, the books.”

  Sidney pointed to the cells highlighted in yellow. “These are the retail software sales. Green is consulting, pink is monthly contracts, blue is big corporate sales. The blank column is only there to separate income from outflow. Light brown is sales staff expenses, gray is bad debts, red is manufacturing, purple is advertising. We used light green for paychecks and pale yellow for bonuses.”

  Giulia leaned back in her chair. “I am officially impressed.”

  Sidney jerked a thumb in Zane’s direction. “He showed me how to organize it so if I got hit by a semi someone besides me would be able to figure out what I did.”

  “Sidney.”

  She grinned at Giulia. “Don’t worry. It’s the hormones. It’ll pass once I evict this one.” She patted her stomach and got kicked in return. “Brat. Don’t beat up mommy. My desktop has the link to the company surveillance footage stored offsite. I’m spot-checking it against dates where Zane found what he thinks are small discrepancies in the books.”

  “These guys are slick,” Zane said. “They’re not using an easily detectable pattern. What’s ticking me off is how long it’s taking me to pin down their pattern. It’s mimicking complete randomness, which is just another way of saying they think they’re smarter than everyone else.”

  “Guys,” Giulia said, “we’ve had the job just under four weeks. The company employs a thousand people.”

  “Eight hundred seventy-three full-time, ninety-six part-time.”

  “Zane,” Giulia said.

  He turned away from the monitor to look at her. Giulia didn’t say anything else as she watched his face. When everything slid into place behind it, his pallid skin lost all traces of color.

  “Ms. Driscoll, I apologize. It was never my intent to be disrespectful.” He placed his palms together before his face and bowed.

  Giulia waited a few seconds for him to move. When he opened his hands, she smiled at him.

  “Zane. I’m not your teacher or your spiritual leader. I’m your boss. You’re still learning the boundaries between college and a real job. Like, for example, not correcting the boss when she chooses to use a rounded number.”

  A touch of color returned to Zane’s face. “We were expected to challenge our professors at MIT.”

  “Of course. And at PayWright you were sat on like suitcases ’til you were latched and stuffed into your slots.”

  He nodded. “We got written up if we had any conversations on shift that weren’t directly related to a call.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I got written up on average once every twelve days.”

  Sidney made an indefinable noise. “Why didn’t you go into computer programming like you got your degree in?”

  He gave her a one-shoulder shrug. “I like the analysis but I didn’t want to sit at a desk staring at a screen all day. My student loan grace period ended and I had to do something. The call center was half a step up from cleaning portable toilets for a living, which I actually considered, since I can’t cook and don’t know how to bartend.”

  “Portable toilets.” Giulia shivered. “That beats any cleaning job we got stuck with in the convent. And that’s saying something.”

  Sidney stretched her back. “You people are making me dread diaper changes, and I’ve cleaned alpaca poop for years.”

  “Zane,” Giulia said, “I’ll give you the two extra employees that aren’t on my list. You and Sidney give me reasons to keep all seven or to narrow it down to five or fewer by Friday morning.”

  “Deal.”

  “All right, go away. I’ve got piles of police reports and evidence and photographs to plow through.”

  “You used to be all shy and soft-spoken like a nun in the movies. Power has gone to your head.” Sidney’s voice broke on the last words and she giggled ’til she got the hiccups.

  Giulia face-planted on her keyboard and then made a big show of typing up a fake “Termination of Employment” notice. Zane ran to the bathroom and returned with a cup of water. Sidney choked it down, reduced the frequency of the hiccups, and hit the escape key on Giulia’s keyboard.

  Zane’s reaction to Sidney’s audacity ruined all her efforts to eradicate the hiccups. Only deep-breathing and determination kept Giulia from catching them.

  Eight

  Two hours later, her butt numb and her fingers cramping, Giulia set down the police report on break-ins similar to the one at Fitch’s apartment. Bulleted lists filled three pages of the legal pad on her lap. Multi-colored fluorescent Post-it notes fattened the report’s right-hand side. She got to her knees to relieve the muscles in her thighs and picked up the autopsy report. The crime scene and autopsy photos, too, since lunch was long digested.

  The top photo: Loriela mostly naked and strangled on the small apartment balcony. The next, a close-up of her face and neck. The pathetic image of the soaked, draggled blouse and hair—brown according to the autopsy but looking black in the early morning rain—made Giulia’s throat close up. So vulnerable. So final. And according to the information they’d gleaned from AtlanticEdge, Loriela Gil radiated confidence and energy when she was alive.

  Frank would lecture Giulia about getting too involved with the case, with emphasis on her bleeding-hea
rt tendencies.

  “Guilty. So what?” She bit back a smile. “Now I’m copping attitude.”

  Several more photos of Loriela’s body from different angles. Giulia divorced herself from the pathos of it and put on her detective hat. She treated the imaginary fedora like an actor putting on a costume: When she wore it, Giulia Falcone the ex-nun who was still a Franciscan at heart up to, and including, working with homeless humans and animals, took a vacation. Giulia Falcone-Driscoll, who’d started as DI’s admin and now ran the business, took her place. Professional Giulia fought for justice and made a living doing it.

  She stepped over the circle of documents and spread out the eight-by-ten photos on the floor beneath the window. If she treated them more like a PowerPoint slide show than a puzzle...

  Starting at the upper left-hand corner of the narrow end of the office, she sat on her heels and placed the photo taken at the farthest point away from the apartment. Then, as though she was walking alongside the apartment building, the photos of the footprints, of the broken barberry bushes, of Loriela’s shirt and hair drooping off the edge of the second-floor balcony. Then, as though she too had used the bushes as a stepping stone up to the wrought-iron railing, Loriela’s body lying in the corner, the open glass door, the neat circle cut from the glass above the deadbolt. In the third row, the soaked carpet from where the rain had blown in when the killer had opened the door to steal, according to the police report, wallets and laptops.

  The footprints on the carpet trailing mulch and bits of grass. The rumpled bedcovers. The open purse on the kitchen counter. In the office-slash-den, two rectangles of dust-free table where two laptops used to be.

  The rest of the photos covered the square footage of the entire apartment. Master bedroom, hall, spare bedroom turned into the den which still contained an Xbox and flat screen TV, kitchen with marble-topped island and dining space, living room with another flat-screen TV. Walk-in closets in each bedroom, one and a half bathrooms, a tiny laundry room off the kitchen.

  “Their rent must be as much as our mortgage.”

  A knock and the door opened. “I’m heading out to my baby checkup,” Sidney said.

  “It’s four o’clock already? No wonder my muscles have locked up.” Giulia un-knotted herself. “See you tomorrow.”

  “I promise not to drive over any railroad tracks.” Her slower than usual footsteps retreated ’til the main door closed behind her.

  Giulia twisted left and right, easing her back and shoulder muscles. So much left to read. She’d filled seven and a half pages of the legal pad. At this stage she liked to scribble and rewrite and draw lines between connections rather than type into her tablet.

  She’d had to keep the window closed so the papers wouldn’t blow all over and the air in her office was dead. Plus she didn’t want to spend the night on this hard floor.

  That settled it. She stacked the photos in reverse order and slid them into their envelope. Returning all the documents to the shipping box went much faster now that she had a handle on their order. Her first action after closing the box was to open the window.

  “Brr. False spring lived up to its name.” She inhaled the fresh air.

  When she opened the door, Zane’s right hand flailed at her. Her evil imp whispered that she ought to buy a hand-held flag at the dollar store for him to wave. Her good angel whapped the imp with its wing. Zane was sloughing off the insanity of his year in telemarketing, but it wouldn’t help to push things too soon.

  “Yes?” she said to him.

  “Ms. Driscoll, check this out.” He turned his monitor toward her. “The dumbed-down version of their proprietary software, the one sold online and in stores? There’s something off with the numbers.”

  Giulia grinned. “Excellent. Do you know what?”

  Zane’s shoulders slumped, emphasizing his weightlifter’s neck muscles. “No. But I will.”

  “I have perfect confidence in you.”

  Her admin looked up, his eyes studying her for sarcasm.

  “Yes, I mean it. I’m heading home for a quiet evening with cinnamon coffee and DNA reports.”

  “I can stay—”

  “No. We’re not on deadline with this job yet. Let it percolate.”

  His shy smile appeared. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve got a date.”

  Nine

  “Are you going to work all night?” Frank’s voice hovered between plaintive and annoyed.

  “It’s only nine-thirty,” Giulia said from their living room floor. “I want to get a better handle on this DNA report.”

  With a deep sigh, Frank sat beside her. “Let me see it.”

  “I knew you’d say that.”

  “I have an ulterior motive,” her husband said as he studied the graphs and numbers. “I want dessert.”

  Giulia batted her eyes in the best cartoonish manner. “I’ve lost my allure so soon?”

  “Your espresso cake hasn’t.” Frank looked down at her. “I’m joking. Don’t look like that. But seriously I want a honking big piece of that cake before I take you to bed, wife of mine.”

  “Then reveal some secrets to me so I can fit it in with these photographs and other reports.”

  Frank unstapled the pages. “Come closer, my child, and let Papa Driscoll explain forensic DNA to you.”

  Giulia sat cross-legged next to him. “My spirit is open to absorb your wisdom.”

  Frank’s eyes skewed sideways at her. “Don’t use your Sister Regina voice. It freaks me out.”

  She kissed his cheek. “All part of my plan to keep our marriage fresh by keeping you slightly off-balance. Cosmo says so.”

  “I don’t trust that magazine.”

  “Focus, Mr. Driscoll.”

  “Right. DNA. Let’s start with this table of alleles for a nasal mucus sample.”

  Frank took her through alleles and loci and short tandem repeats. “STRs. Easier to say and most cops and lawyers know what they are nowadays. This table shows samples from—damn—eight people—the dead girlfriend, the suspect, the cleaning lady, the apartment building manager, the landscaper, and one—two—three other names, probably the friends who hung around most.”

  “Those suspects are so obvious they’re cliché.”

  “Don’t knock every cliché. There’s a reason the obvious suspects became cliché.”

  “Yes, O guru.”

  “Stop it. Okay, see where the numbers of the dead girlfriend are the only ones that match the mucus sample exactly? Sometimes the chart shows matches that are too close to call, but not here. See how it says that sample two—the piano player—is ‘included’ and everyone else is ‘excluded’ as possible matches?”

  Giulia raised her finger from the page where she had been following Frank’s explanation. “All right. I’ve got the basics of this chart. What about the electropherograms over here?”

  Frank described peaks and “off-ladder” loci and ambiguities. “There’s also what’s called ‘noise.’ You’ve got a little of that here in this urea crystal sample on page four.” He picked up three different pages from the initial charts and after that two more pages of electropherograms. “None of the samples appear to be degraded. That’ll make things easier for you.”

  A few minutes later, as Giulia was repacking the shipping box, she gave Frank her best “stop the erring student in his tracks” stare.

  “You’re giving up much easier than usual.”

  Her husband’s eyebrows raised in comic innocence. “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. Recall last year when we ran DI together. How many times did we argue over method versus means?”

  “Forget that. What about justice versus logic?”

  “Exactly.” She set the box on the hall table. “So allow me to rephrase my observation: Why are you so calm and cooperative tonight? Yesterday you treated this case like it was a joke whose punch line I didn’t get.”

  “Oh, muirnín. I’m sorry.” Frank jumped up from the couch and wrapped
his arms around her waist. “I have a mouth like an asal.”

  Giulia snorted before she could stop herself. “You are not a jackass. You do, however, lack a reliable internal censor.”

  Frank turned her around and kissed her. “Then I won’t mention how unladylike it is to snort.” Before Giulia could protest, he said, “Seriously, you know I’m all for giving you any advice or bits of knowledge I have if it’ll further DI’s reputation. Gotta keep my reputation for incisive sleuthing intact.”

  “Your reputation?” Giulia’s voice jumped half an octave.

  Frank wrestled her onto the couch and tickled her into gasping submission.

  Ten

  Roger Fitch arrived at Driscoll Investigations at nine o’clock Thursday morning dressed in jeans and a Steelers jersey under a leather jacket. He clutched a V8 energy drink like it alone could drag him into communication with his fellow human beings.

  “Good morning,” Giulia said, mentally contrasting his hangover-chic to her neat brown wool trousers and jade-green sweater. “Please have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.” She indicated Zane’s client chair.

  Sidney disappeared into the bathroom for the second time since eight-fifteen. Fitch ignored Giulia’s invitation and paced between both desks, drinking and staring first out the window, then at Zane and Giulia, then at Sidney when she emerged from the bathroom.

  “Zane, can you give more reasons to justify items b, d, and g? I don’t want to give Monsignor Jerome any reason to cut us off before we complete the presentation.”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure.” He added notes to three header cells in the spreadsheet on his screen.

  Sidney eased herself into her chair, both she and the chair creaking.

  “Ready to pop, huh?” Fitch said.

  Sidney gave him an excellent imitation of Giulia’s “frost in July” smile.

  Giulia inhaled sharply enough for Roger to hear her. He turned, but Giulia’s face showed nothing but polite welcome. As recently as last year, she would’ve laughed out loud at Sidney’s mimicry. Now? Not a chance. One, she liked Sidney too much. Two, it wasn’t professional. Three, it was an excellent imitation of Angry Giulia and she wanted to see more. So she cut Roger off before he could do any real damage.