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

one where you have to speak French or you could end up ordering steamed DVDs.” He grimaced. “Bad joke.”
    “Yeah.” She could relax. It wasn’t related to last night in the park. It was just a weird coincidence.
    “The women got gabbing and stayed late. Pamela’s friends went to the parking garage, and Pamela realized she left her cell phone on the table. Then she got stupid and decided to take the garage stairs rather than the elevator.”
    “Is she all right?” Please. Please.
    “Fortunately, yes. The guy grabbed her at the landing and ripped off her shirt, but her friends were still on that floor. She screamed and they came running and he took off.”
    “Thank God.”
    He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Blake called me at 6 a.m. I’m whipped. He thinks it’s connected. I don’t.”
    Good. Then neither was hers. “Why?”
    “Too typical. Pretty girl alone in an empty downtown stairwell after dark? She might as well have had a target painted on her back.”
    Say something else. Act normal. “Did she see his face?”
    “No. Too dark on the landing, she said. Blake gave me a summary of what she told the police. He was taller than her, and she’s something like five-eight or -nine. All she remembered clearly was his breath. Like he’d eaten a garlic pizza and smoked a joint after.”
    The couch lurched. Frank receded like a movie special effect. His voice wobbled through the buzzing in her ears.
    “Giulia? What’s wrong?” His hand patted her cheeks. “It’s okay, Giulia. She’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Blake and her family will keep her under lock and key now.”
    The room came back into focus. “That’s not—” She cleared her throat. “That’s not it.”
    His eyebrows scrunched together. “Tell me why you freaked out in the car.”
    “Last night.” How to say it? “I was walking in the park last night.”
    “At night? Here?” His voice ratcheted up several notches. “Alone? Are you nuts? Do you have a target painted on you, too?”
    “Stop, Frank.” She heard the tremble. Freaked out didn’t begin to cover her mental state. “I needed air.”
    “Giulia, you don’t go out in this neighborhood alone at night. You—”
    “Shut up, Frank. Just shut up. I know it was stupid.” She couldn’t tell him why she needed air. One hundred percent guaranteed he’d never understand. “I wasn’t going to tell you—keep personal and business separate, you know. But we can’t be sure anymore that the stalker is one of the exes.”
    “Since when? Where’d you get this idea? And what does this have to do with the punk on the corner?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Then what do you mean about not one of the exes?”
    “Because—” The words wedged in her throat.
    He paced the length of the coffee table and back. “Giulia, it’s after midnight, I had Blake screaming in my ear at 6 a.m., and I’m the walking dead. Do you have anything useful to say?”
    A flicker of anger, enough to open her mouth. “I must apologize. I wasn’t able to take notes last night. Next time I’ll be sure to bring the Day-Timer. Listen: Pamela’s attacker had a busy night. Straight from the garage downtown to the park on the corner here.”
    Frank stopped in front of the tomato plant. “What?” Sharp, not critical.
    “Let me finish my report, Mr. Driscoll. I have a head for detail, remember? He dragged me in the bushes and called me a slut—you’ll have to check to see if he used the same insult on Pamela. His breath smelled like pot and garlic. Now do you see? He kicked me and ripped off my shirt and grabbed my—” She dug her fingernails into her palms and barreled on before he could interrupt.
    “I tried to get him off me but he straddled me and—” The rush of words choked her for a moment. “I bit—him. He rolled off and I got my clothes and ran back here and locked the door and that’s what’s been bothering me all night, okay? He stank like pot and garlic and he tried to