“And you told me to be nice to poor Sidney.” Frank opened his salad container and grimaced. “What’s this white stuff?”
“Feta cheese. It’s all natural, made from goat’s milk, very healthy. I spritzed plain vinegar on top. Vinegar is good for cleansing the system, too. There’s cheddar on the burger but no bacon. Nitrates are a leading cause of migraines in men under fifty.” She split the pile of napkins between them. “I looked it up.”
“I—thanks.”
Sidney rooted in her skirt pocket. “Here’s your change.”
Giulia carried the water into his office. Frank followed, salad in one hand and cheeseburger in the other.
“Bring in your lunch and close the door.” While she unwrapped salami on homemade pumpernickel and swallowed a bite, he stabbed lettuce, feta, and cucumber on a plastic fork and said, “Anything else I need to know about last night?”
“Nothing important. He bought dinner, my lack of cable caused him to miss a soccer game, and since he didn’t call this morning, I gather he found no one lurking in his closet when he went home to change.”
Frank chewed his first bite of cheeseburger, and his eyes rolled back in his head. “God, that’s grand.” With a contented sigh, he swallowed and drank half the water. “Okay, sounds like you did good. I won’t tell him that Man U lost to Wigan, biggest upset in Premier League history.”
“Should I understand any of that?”
“Just soccer talk,” he said through a mouthful of salad. “And I’ll tell Mom to add you to her devotions. Inviting an engaged man to sleep in your apartment, unchaperoned. I’m shocked.”
“Francis Xavier Driscoll, you know better than to think anything happened.”
The burger thumped into its plastic box. “How did you know my middle name?”
“A good Irish Catholic boy named Francis can only have one possible middle name.” She crossed her arms. “What’s mine?”
“How should I—oh. Wait. You’re a good Italian Catholic girl. Mary. No—Maria.”
“Bingo.”
“You can take the kid out of the Catholic, but you can’t take the Catholic out of the kid.” He waved her out. “Go finish your lunch in the sunshine, or at least someplace that doesn’t have a biblical scent diffuser. And log all the hours Blake foisted himself on you as billable time.”
As soon as Giulia crossed Frank’s threshold, Sidney waved her over.
“Come here, Ms. Falcone, come here and listen to this.”
Sidney double-clicked an MP3 e-mail attachment. A man and woman sang a bouncy song in painfully cheerful voices. A guitar and piano accompanied them.
“Hats and gloves,
Snug and wooly.
Socks and scarves
Keep you cozy.
When winter bites,
Laugh and play,
Keeping warm
The alpaca way!
Meier Farms, two miles west of Cottonwood on Route 19, all-natural alpaca yarn and odor-free fertilizer. 555-WOOL. Meier Farms—it’s Spin-tastic!”
Sidney closed the file. “What do you think, Ms. Falcone? I wrote the lyrics, my sister wrote the music, and that’s my mom and dad singing.”
Giulia hunted through her mental thesaurus for a compliment. “It’s catchy.”
Sidney clapped. “Oh, good. It’s the first time we’re advertising on radio and TV. It’s the same jingle for both, but for TV we have a short movie of my mom spinning the wool in the backyard with the prettiest alpacas roaming behind her. One of them came and looked over her shoulder while she was spinning, and Dad got it on film. My boyfriend says it puts the cute factor through the roof.”
The phone rang. Sidney put the call through to Frank in a textbook-professional voice.
Giulia set the remains of her lunch on her own desk. “The farm supports your whole family?”
“Once we got out of debt. Alpacas are wicked expensive. Thirty-two thousand dollars for two proven females—meaning they successfully gave birth once—and twelve thousand for two non-gelded males.”
“Good heavens.”
“That’s why I needed the swimming scholarship. When I applied to colleges, Jingle and Belle were only on their third pregnancy each.”
Giulia coughed. “Jingle and Belle?”
“Sure. Mom’s the original Christmas elf. The males are Comet and Blitzen, and the six babies are the other reindeer names.”
Giulia tilted her head and scrutinized Sidney. “And you’re not a Christmas elf?”
Sidney gave her a duh look. “Of course I am. Nothing beats Christmas. But Mom out-elfs us all. That’s the real reason I haven’t moved out yet. The whole month of December is one long Christmas orgy. It’s so great. Did you know that goat-milk eggnog tastes just like the cow kind?”
Goat milk. And Giulia would bet— “From your own goats?”
The big eyes got bigger. “Where else? Ms. Falcone, once you’ve tasted chilled goat’s milk that you milked yourself the night before, you’ll never touch pasteurized, hormone-filled, store-bought cow milk again.”
Sidney pulled a small photo album out of her tote bag. “This is my whole family on the cover. My twin sisters are the oldest, then my brother, then me. Dad’s blurry because he set the timer too short and didn’t make his spot behind Mom in time.”
“What’s in the small laundry bags by your sisters’ feet?”
“Alpaca poop.”
Giulia plopped into Sidney’s side chair. “What?”
“It makes the best fertilizer. It doesn’t stink, and it comes out shaped like raisins. Not wrinkly, more like chocolate-covered raisins.”
“Gross.”
“Well, if you like that candy, maybe, but as fertilizer it can’t be beat. You can use it on indoor plants, and your house won’t smell like the toilet overflowed.”
The weak basil. “Does it work on herbs?”
“Anything. Do you have a garden?”
“Herbs and tomatoes in pots.”
“Tomatoes love our fertilizer. I’ll bring you a sample bag tomorrow. It’s not expensive at all, either.”
Frank appeared in his doorway.
“Am I losing my mind, or did I hear someone singing about alpaca poop?”
The photographs surrounded the Driscoll Investigations lettering on the frosted window Wednesday morning. The hall light behind Giulia’s head reflected off them in different spots, obscuring a face here, an arm there.
Blake Parker stood naked in one, the bath towel at his feet. She lay on her bed in another, her knees propping a book. Except the book that should be there wasn’t. Instead, Blake’s head was buried between her legs.
Her on her knees, eyes closed, her open mouth filled with Blake’s very erect penis. She’d knelt on the bed and yawned. She remembered, because just then Blake had laughed out loud with the laugh track on the TV. But in the picture, she knelt on the floor.
Her bent over the bookshelf in her T-shirt, looking for a book. Only in this photo Blake stood behind her and even she would swear they’d spent an X-rated night together.
Clunk. Her travel mug slipped to the hall floor.
“Giulia? You up there? I saw you get off the bus.” The street door slammed and Frank’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. “I got an idea about us doing surveillance in shifts, and I want you to work out a schedule—”
He stumbled on her coffee mug, his eyes following hers to the door display.
He stepped backward, looked at her, looked at them, stepped forward. The bookshelf photo, on top of the D in Driscoll, sat exactly at his eye level.
His head jerked left, right, up, down.
“Frank, I don’t know—”
He snatched the bookshelf photo and tore it in half. He ripped down the one where she should have had a book on her knees. Then he stopped, inhaled, and exhaled. With care, he pulled the remaining photos off the door, bending onto their backs the pieces of tape holding them.
Giulia reached out to help. Frank jerked his head
no. She picked up her mug. A few drops had spilled. She hadn’t noticed the aroma of French-vanilla hazelnut filling the narrow hall until just now. Her fingers fumbled the key out of her purse, but she managed to unlock the door.
Frank shoved the door open ahead of her and strode into his office. Giulia leaped and caught the doorknob before the door crashed into the wall.
“Can you come in here, please?” Frank’s words snapped like karate students breaking boards.
He should be angry at the faked photos, not her. Maybe that was it—they were too nasty to keep, but they were evidence of the stalker’s willingness to pervert the truth.
She’d have to analyze them. With Frank. And discuss how cleverly their stalker made it look like she and Blake spent an... athletic night together.
He held the pieces of the torn photo in his hands. “Tape.”
She ran to her desk and back with the tape dispenser in her hand.
“Set it down. I’ll put them together.” When that one was repaired, he dealt the photos onto his desk like a game of solitaire. “A full-frontal shot of our client naked and wet. Did he take a shower?” Icicles edged his voice.
“Yes, when we got in.”
“My partner on her knees to our client.” He glanced sideways at her; his freckles made too sharp a contrast to his skin. “Did they teach you those prayers in the convent?”
Giulia shied but stood her ground. “Frank, you can’t possibly think these are actual pictures.” An irrelevant thought captured her attention: she was glad she’d worn her dowdiest gray skirt and shapeless slate-blue blouse today.
“Blake on the couch, looking—I see a pattern here—looking very happy. As though he’d just finished doing something pleasurable.”
Giulia pinched her lips between her teeth. When she could control her voice, she said, “He watched sitcoms because I don’t get cable.”
“I especially like this one. My partner’s double bed seems to be plenty big enough for one adult to inspect the other for... what? You’ll have to tell me.”
Icy fingers crawled down her back.
“And what book were you looking for so diligently? I’m glad Blake was able to help you.” He lined up the last one at the edge of his desk. “This might be my favorite. Not every PI can hold up her hips at just the right angle to accommodate the client’s cock.”
She sat in his client chair before her legs gave out.
“Did you need to get a closer look?” He offered her the last one.
“They’re faked.” Her voice wobbled.
“Your tomato plant is doing quite well. I can almost smell that broken stem on the far side.”
“I told you yesterday that nothing happened. We went to dinner, he slept on the couch, he drove me to work in the morning.”
“He took a shower, too.”
“Yes. So?”
“You omitted that detail in your report.” He brought that photo closer to his eyes. “You really should buy larger bath towels. How can our clients get ready for you to accommodate them if they have to use substandard bathroom supplies?”
“Frank!”
“It seems you omitted several details in your report yesterday. When were you planning to tell me about this new service you’re bringing to the firm?”
“Of course I didn’t tell you about the shower. Everyone takes showers. It wasn’t important.”
“What do you consider important?” He picked up the bookshelf photo. “Which book you needed?” The bed photo. “How adept he was at oral sex?” He slammed it down. “How many times you came for him?”
“Stop it!” Giulia swept the photos off the desk and they scattered over the floor. “Yes, he came out of the shower like that. He gave me that arrogant grin and said it was my choice whether he slept naked or not. I told him that we were professionals and that we expected the same of him, and to put on his clothes. I locked myself in my bedroom, he watched TV, and we both went to sleep.”
Frank’s teeth ground together, and he breathed in a too-steady rhythm.
Giulia searched the floor for the Blake-on-the-couch photo and the Blake-by-the-bookshelf photo. “Look.” She set them side by side on the desk. “Look at Blake’s smile. It’s identical in both photos. Head a little thrown back, the same number of teeth showing. Even his hair has the same curl on the side of his forehead. Whoever took them just flopped the photo to trick us.”
“You’re going to stand there and tell me that Blake Parker stood naked in front of you and you refused him? What runs through your veins? No woman’s ever said no to Blake.” He grimaced. “Including two of my girlfriends.”
“Yes, I refused him. Look at these.” She dived and came up with both bed photos. “I had a book on my knees here. I remember, because it was hot and I didn’t want the sheet.” What she wanted to show him wasn’t clear in the 4 x 6 print. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes.”
“Yes, you do—in the fingerprint kit.” She squatted before the filing cabinets and opened a bottom drawer. Her still-shaking fingers needed two tries before she dislodged the jeweler’s loupe from its form-fitting plastic slot.
He had to believe her. He had to see that they were fakes. Clever and detailed, but all lies. She respected him. She was trying desperately not to fall in love with him, but she couldn’t think about that right now. She’d stumble over every word she wanted to say to him.
She moved the loupe up and down her thighs in the bed photo. It had to be there. A line, a blurry patch, something the eraser program missed. Nothing. She switched to the kneeling photo. There must be a stray fold of bedsheet. Under her toes, or between her knees— “There. Look.”
Frank bent over the loupe. “What am I supposed to see?”
“Behind my right knee. That’s not my area rug, it’s a piece of my sheet.”
“It’s blue. The rug is blue.”
“It’s a different texture. It’s wrinkled. Don’t you see?”
He flicked away the loupe and the photo. “You’re digging yourself a deeper hole.”
“I did not do anything wrong!” Giulia bit her lips to squelch the shrillness in her voice.
Frank leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “You lied so well yesterday that I can’t wait to hear what you’re about to say.”
“I didn’t lie to you yesterday.” Don’t cry. Absolutely don’t cry. Reason with him. You’re both adults. “Frank, you know me better than this. You know I would never compromise the company. I would never take advantage of your trust.”
“My oldest brother once told me never to trust a nun, because they were out of touch with reality.”
“I’m not a nun anymore.”
“And you’re certainly making up for lost time.”
Try another way. Explain it photo by photo. Forget that they’re nothing more than porn. You have to convince him.
“Where’s the towel one? Here.” Giulia pointed to the left side of the photo. “You were just in my apartment. Look at... aha. Look at the angle of the couch against the bookshelf on the far wall. When Blake pulled his studmuffin act, she must have crouched outside the window with the tomato shelf. That’s why you can see the tomato plant and why the TV doesn’t block him.”
“You’re going to tell me how she—and I do agree that our stalker is responsible for this entertainment—how she took these through closed curtains. You closed them when it got dark, of course, so no one could see in. Because you’re a... lady.”
If he’d slapped her across the face it couldn’t have stung more. “No, um, I was making up the couch. It was hot. I didn’t think about the curtains till I felt a breeze when he came right up close to me.”
“I see.”
“And this one.” She deliberately stared at herself lying on the bed. “I got a book from the shelf because him being on the other side of the wall distracted me.”
Frank emitted a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan.
“Th
e last time I saw a naked male was when my little brother was a baby and I gave him baths. Blake offered himself to me, all naked and wet. He’s, he’s... ” Her tongue chose that moment to bond to the roof of her mouth.
“A walking magazine cover.” Frank’s jaw clenched.
“The image of him stuck in my mind and mixed up with the guy in the park. I needed to think about something else.” She dropped the bed photo and picked up the bookshelf one. “Compare him in this one to the one from the living room. He has the same expression on his face. His image is reversed.”
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Look at it.”
“I got quite an eyeful in the hall, thank you.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Shut up! Stupid broad. Mouth like a scolapasta.
His mouth curled into a sneer, slowly, like he wanted her to catch each muscle twisting into contempt. “You seem to have forgotten the boundaries of polite society. I must admire how quickly you learned to do whatever it takes to please the client. A lie here, an offer of service there. Should I have wished that you offered to please me first?”
He turned his face away a moment and inhaled sharp and deep. When he turned back, he’d adopted an aloof smile. “For example, I’m interested in hearing you try to explain how that’s not Blake Parker’s blonde and chiseled head shoved into your—” He cleared his throat. “Give it your best shot.”
Ten minutes ago, she would’ve sworn he trusted her implicitly. “I got a book and went back to bed. The curtains were closed, but the window was open and they blew in on the breeze. I spread the book on my knees. That’s why my legs are up and why she could make it look like, like...” In her mind, another image superimposed itself on the photo. “She made me look like the Barbie she sent me.”
Frank took the photo from Giulia’s hand.
“Isn’t that nice of our stalker. Now I know what to get you for Christmas. Franciscans wear black, don’t they? I’m sure I’ll be able to figure out the right sizes from the photos. They’re so clear.”
The crotchless underwear and cut-out bra appeared in Giulia’s mind. The hot, airless office closed in on her the way her apartment walls had last Friday.
Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation Page 12