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

run through your music anyway.”
    Giulia stepped around her music stand to the First Cello’s chair. “See you Monday, Frank.” She dug into her wallet and counted out exact change for the bus ride home. She hadn’t needed bandages for the thorn-pricks, and her hands weren’t injured anywhere near enough to interfere with her flute-playing.
    Frank scanned the theater seats as the Saturday night audience exited. “Yeah.” His frown disappeared when he looked at her. “New shirt? Aren’t you hot?”
    Giulia glanced at her high-collar, long-sleeved henley. “Not really.”
    “Mmm.” Frank tapped his cello case as the usher kicked the doorstop away and the swinging door closed. “Where is she?”
    “Have a date?” She’d have to haul to make the 10:12 bus—the crowded one. Safety in numbers.
    “With Yvonne and the new pizza joint on Main Street. The one with the unpronounceable name. It’s supposed to have authentic Sicilian pizza—the thick kind.”
    “Have you asked an authentic Sicilian? What kind of sauce do they use?”
    Good. Her light post-performance conversation sounded almost normal. She had all day tomorrow to get her act together for Monday morning.
    “Dunno.” Frank checked his cell phone. “No messages. Where is she?”
    “Maybe she’ll call tomorrow. ’Night.” Giulia picked up her flute case.
    “Giulia, wait.” Frank put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched hard enough to knock against a music stand. “Yvonne threatened to stand me up, but I didn’t think she’d really do it. Would you commit a huge breach of professional etiquette and get pizza with me? I want to pick your brain.”
    Bad idea. She was still a walking freak-out. “I have to catch the bus.”
    “I’ll drive you home. Please? I promise not to mention Barbies or the Bible. Besides, I’m hungry. Are you part Sicilian by any chance? Can you pass judgment on the pizza?”
    He’ll wheedle till I cave. I’ve got no reason not to go with him; he won’t come on to me.
    She hoped her smile looked genuine. “I’m all Sicilian. Twenty generations of women make me qualified to judge any pizza. Let’s go.”
    _____
    “Yvonne is hot, you know? But that’s about all she is. She doesn’t read anything in the paper besides the lifestyles section, and she only watches chick flicks.” Frank swallowed a quarter of his beer. “And she gossips.”
    Giulia sipped Chianti. “Then stop seeing her.”
    “It’s not that easy.”
    The waitress set the pizza between them. Frank dug out slices with a miniature spatula and set them on their plates. Without smiling once, Giulia looked the pizza over with one eyebrow raised, measured the height of the crust with finger and thumb, and tasted the sauce. Then she bit through cheese, sausage, and green peppers and chewed. Slowly.
    Aglio e Olio —quite an ethnic name choice for a new restaurant—certainly piled on the Old World charm. Empty Chianti bottles on red-and-white checked tablecloths held candles with artistic wax drippings. Waitresses dressed in “authentic” peasant costumes. Sinatra and Dean Martin crooned from ceiling speakers. And, of course, bunches of plastic grapes on dried grapevines hung from a trellised drop ceiling.
    Why, of all places Frank wanted to try, did he pick a restaurant with “garlic” in its name? She knew she’d have to deal with garlic again sometime—she loved garlic, always bought it fresh and chopped it herself. But too soon, too soon.
    Stop. Focus on not making Frank suspicious. Swallow this pizza and say something clever.
    “It’s a presumptuous little offering, but it has merit.” She’d heard that on a wine-tasting show once.
    Frank’s worry lines faded, and he laughed. His first bite took half his slice. “This is great. Don’t be such a pizza snob.” He drank more beer and finished the slice. “See, Yvonne is like a tenth cousin twice removed. When I break up with her, a couple relatives won’t speak to me anymore.” He