Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation Read Free Page A

and scribbled Sandra’s list of Blake’s qualities. As she wrote, an image of Sandra’s dusty-rose nails superimposed itself on Giulia’s short, practical, unpainted ones. Her pen stopped as she wrote a description of the house. Her nails matched the roses on her couch. Good Lord .
    What would the other four be like? If Frank thought he was out of their social league, she was no more than a kitchen maid.
    She reread the three pages of notes she’d just written. Had she forgotten anything important? This taking-notes idea wasn’t going to work. What if the others were worse? She punched the radio’s ON button and surfed till she found a New Agey station. Lutes and ocean waves filled the car, and she leaned her head on the steering wheel.
    A tape recorder. Her high school students sometimes brought them to final-exam reviews. No. She understood their open use, but she’d have to hide it in the Day-Timer. If Sandra hadn’t wanted her to write verbatim responses, guaranteed the others wouldn’t want to be taped.
    How else was she going to do this job? It wasn’t like she’d post the transcripts on the Web.
    No. She remembered reading an official-type printout in one of the filing cabinets. Something about two-party consent to record a phone call. It probably applied to face-to-face conversations, too. Anyway, she couldn’t do it. Not after living through ten years of her mail being read and her phone calls being monitored. She was not about to turn into Sister Mary Hezekiah. The way that woman used to sneak around corners...
    But someone was sending Blake Parker and Pamela van Alstyne borderline-psycho letters and packages. She didn’t know which was worse—the clinging vows of passion or the veiled threats of scandal. All the signs pointed to an ex-lover on the edge. Most likely one of the five on her list. What if Ms. Scorned decided to prove the truism of Hell and fury?
    A mellow DJ announced the next song, and birdsongs with harp arpeggios began.
    Giulia banged her hand on the dashboard. Suck it up. You have a good memory. Focus on what they say and ignore the attitude.
    Her mouth twisted. She would ignore it. Fourteen nuns and one priest couldn’t beat her into submission with attitude her last year in the convent. Half-hour interviews with five society queens were nothing.
    She worked the zipper around the sticky corner and back again. She certainly wouldn’t try to exploit this snippet of authority like Father Mitchell did.
    The zipper jerked too hard and stuck again. Get over it, Giulia. It happened more than a year ago. You’re past it.
    She eased the zipper pull over the bent tooth. And she was over it. Really. Until the memory surfaced and she’d see herself weeping in the face-to-face side of the claustrophobic Confessional, trying to explain why she thought doubting her vocation was a sin. Father Mitchell scooted his cushioned chair closer to her uncushioned one and rubbed her back. Then he crowded both of them onto the wooden floor and held her. So comforting. So kind. Until he pushed her against the wall and her veil slid sideways and his mouth crushed hers so hard that her lips were swollen for three days.
    She sneered at her reflection in the windshield. She’d bitten through his bottom lip and escaped, but she hadn’t even tried to report him. Everyone loved Father Mitchell. He was on the fast track to Monsignor. They’d say substitute-teaching censored Sex Ed classes had warped her.
    If the snide notes in her mail slot were any indication, no one missed her after she walked out of Queen of Martyrs Convent, released from vows and still a virgin. Thank God.
    A commercial for Super Summer School replaced the harp-and-bird song.
    Of course. Mnemonics. She’d taught them to review classes every June. They were just what she needed for the rest of the exes.
    11:10. Twenty minutes to the second interview. She popped the glove compartment, found the keys, and started the car. The mall was only