Nun Too Soon (A Giulia Driscoll Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Two

Giulia parked her eight-year-old copper Saturn Ion—secretly dubbed the Nunmobile—in the last open space in Airi’s parking lot. The deceptively beautiful March day appeared to have lured out every office worker in Cottonwood, Pennsylvania.

The decibel level of the combined conversations in the small Japanese restaurant stopped Giulia cold in the doorway. There wasn’t a free booth or table in the place. She inhaled garlic and tuna and ginger and barbecued beef.

A hostess appeared before her just as she saw a close-shaved black man in a sober gray suit waving from a booth near the front windows.

“I think I’m with him,” Giulia said, pointing.

“Right this way, miss.” The hostess weaved through the tables and Giulia followed, apologizing twice to diners for bumping the backs of two chairs.

The lawyer stood and held out his hand. “Ms. Driscoll. I’m Colby Petit. Pleased to meet you.”

They shook hands and Giulia slid into the other side of the two-person booth. A waitress set glasses of water and menus in front of Giulia and the lawyer. They studied the Guaranteed Ready in Five Minutes lunch specials without conversation until the waitress returned.

“Tempura vegetables with miso soup, please,” Giulia said.

“Spicy beef with seaweed salad, thanks,” Petit said.

The moment the waitress turned away, Petit smiled at Giulia and she understood how he charmed judges and juries.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I don’t know if you’re aware of the history of the case?”

Giulia debated on taking out her iPad to make notes. Too deceptive. Instead, she put on her polite face. “Not any longer, no.”

He nodded. “That might be good. You’ll have a fresh perspective. In brief, last April first my client and his girlfriend went to sleep together and when he woke up she was out on their balcony, strangled with one of my client’s neckties.”

Their food arrived. The ambient noise remained at a level above one of Frank’s rec league basketball games. Good thing Giulia’s ears had two years of navigating that kind of racket.

She started her soup. Petit talked through his salad.

“He was arrested immediately and called me that same morning. Forty-eight hours later, the police released him because all the evidence was circumstantial.”

Giulia resisted the temptation to tilt her soup bowl up against her lips to catch every drop. Instead she dipped a battered slice of bell pepper into the restaurant’s signature wasabi and closed her eyes against the moment of flame in her sinuses. Wonderful.

“You eat their wasabi? You’re a brave woman.” Petit blinked at his first mouthful of spicy beef. “This is as hot as I can take. It’s delicious, but I’ll be eating plain rice and Maalox for dinner.” He swallowed. “Every bite is worth it. To continue. For the past eleven months, the police have been, shall we say, less assiduous than I would like in trying to discover the actual killer.”

“Did you think they were convinced your client was in fact the murderer?” More wasabi. Giulia breathed through her mouth for a few heartbeats.

“Damn skippy. For my part, I’m convinced my client is innocent.” He chased a particularly saucy rib with several gulps of water. “After the usual tests and evidence gathering,” he panted slightly from the spices, “my client was indicted for first-degree murder twelve weeks ago.”

Giulia finished the last piece of tempura with regret. On any other day, this quirky, charming man might convince her to add another case to DI’s two-ton workload. This despite his disparagement of the local police, since she assumed good intentions on his part. He must have done his research and known that Frank’s knee rehab and return to the police force as a detective—and transfer of DI to Giulia’s control—happened last June first. A smart lawyer like Petit would surely have those facts and would not include Giulia’s husband in his blanket condemnation.

Petit must have picked up on her body language, because he shifted tactics. Giulia reminded herself never to underestimate any lawyer ever.

“Here’s the thing, Ms. Driscoll. The prosecution’s piled up a tower of evidence, and it’s pretty convincing. Locked-room mysteries play well on stage and in cozy novels, but in real life twelve random adults are going to make only one equation out of it.”

“I can hazard a guess,” Giulia said. “One man plus one body in one room minus anyone else around equals the man in the room committed the murder.” She finished her water. Restoring her taste buds from wasabi numbness took precedence over this sob-story. Her conscience poked her with vigor. She had eaten at this man’s expense without any intention of agreeing to his request.

On second thought, she hadn’t. Her wallet had enough cash to cover her own lunch. Her conscience has no grounds for reproach.

“That’s exactly the solution they’ll come up with.” He signaled the waitress. “It’s what I want to prevent, but even I see how absurd any other conclusion sounds.”

Giulia said as though she hadn’t already figured it out, “I don’t quite see what you brought me here to ask.”

“Coffee and plum wine for me,” Petit said to the waitress. “Ms. Driscoll, let me recommend the ginger ice cream. I understand it’s won local awards.”

Giulia saw no reason to mention she’d eaten their ice cream many times. “Thank you. Green tea also, please,” she said to the waitress.

Petit continued, “My client insists he’s the only one who can prove his innocence. He knows he’s trapped in a clichéd mystery and he has to try everything possible to extricate himself. He says everything includes hiring you.”

Giulia frowned. “Hiring DI to do what?”

“To go over everything from before, during, and after the murder to find the real killer. He says that despite the DNA evidence, despite the circumstantial evidence, despite what the police and
The Scoop
and her relatives and his relatives say, you can pluck justice from the morass he’s trapped in.”

“Mr. Petit, I can see why juries love you.”

His earnest expression didn’t crack. “Juries can sense when I believe in the clients I represent. It’s that simple, Ms. Driscoll. I believe in Roger Fitch’s innocence.”

They leaned away from the table to let the busboy clear their dishes and the waitress set out their desserts.

Before Giulia had a chance to reply to Petit’s proclamation, he said, “Mr. Fitch has set aside funds to hire you. His assets are frozen but the judge has authorized this particular expenditure.” He drank half the small glass of plum wine in a gulp. “I’ve researched Driscoll Investigations. You have a reputation for championing the underdog.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean I’m a pushover.” She dipped her spoon in the ice cream. “We’re up to our necks in work right now. I’d need a lot of convincing before I commit myself and my staff to more work.” Giulia knew she was lying. Petit was
already working his way under her skin.

“Convincing?” Petit smiled. “You just said my favorite word. It’s—” he pulled out his cell phone and checked the screen— “quarter after one. My office is ten minutes from here if we avoid the construction on East Main. May I take up another hour of your time?”

Giulia did a quick calculation.

“I have a report to fine tune and two appointments starting at two forty-five.”

“Challenge accepted. I’ll finish what I have to say in less than an hour.”

“Deal.” She scooped more ice cream, free to enjoy it now. The extra hour would allow the lawyer to give her the full performance and feel that she hadn’t dismissed him out of hand.

She took out her phone and typed in an alarm for ten a.m. Confession on Saturday. Nothing short of world destruction would make her skip this week. The number of half-truths she’d spoken in the last hour alone...

Three

The offices of Creighton, Williams, Ferenc, and Steele commanded half the fifth floor of the newest glass building designed by the town’s architects
du jour
. Giulia once drove by them on a sunny summer day and the afterimages from the tinted glass nearly caused her to rear-end a Hummer. The Nunmobile would’ve lost that encounter for sure. Today she and Petit went around the back way to avoid any potential glare problems from the angle of the early spring sun.

The lawyer held the building’s glass door for her. “Damn architects are going to get sued when someone blames a T-bone accident on their five-story mirror.”

Giulia followed him to the elevators. “It’s still better than another giant box o’ cinderblocks.”

The left-hand elevator
pinged
and they entered.

“Agreed.” Petit pushed the button for the fifth floor.

Unlike most elevators Giulia had experienced, this one shot up so fast her stomach took several long seconds to catch up. She regretted lunch for those seconds.

Petit led the way to another glass entrance. Tasteful gold scrollwork outlined the double doors, the scroll pattern repeating in the pattern of the maroon carpets. The receptionist’s desk looked like real wood. The receptionist’s suit looked like it cost three times as much as any outfit in Giulia’s closet.

She needed to get a grip. She now ran her own successful business. Success outweighed fancy clothes any day. She also needed to disregard the little fact that the receptionist was younger and prettier than her, too. She was her own woman.

Giulia ignored the fact that every word of her lecture was much too familiar. Self-image issues much?

Petit led her down a slate-blue hall accented with watercolor landscapes. The office they entered differed only in its pearl-gray walls and watercolor winter scenes. And the man with surfer dude hair sitting at the Roycroft-style table waiting for them.

“Morning, first flute.” He stood and held out his hand. “Haven’t seen you since we shared an orchestra pit for
Working
last September. Remember those three actors who kept asking for their cues to be accented harder? Black Joe, White Joe, and Gay Joe.” His laugh was half an octave higher than his voice.

Giulia remembered why she hadn’t regretted his absence at the community theater. She smiled and returned the pianist’s “I spend six days a week at the gym” grip. Professionals didn’t let their personal opinions interfere with work. “That was an enjoyable show, Mr. Fitch. The Joes’ various solo lines certainly added to the overall production value.”

Professionals also knew the art of the subtle dig.

Petit pulled out a seat for Giulia before sitting at the table himself. “Roger, Ms. Driscoll has several other commitments this afternoon, so we’re on the clock to win her to our cause.”

Fitch grinned. When Giulia didn’t respond, he wiped it off and went for the serious look.

Giulia mentally smacked herself for ascribing ulterior motives to everything he did based on eight weeks of rehearsal and performance for four musicals over the past few years.

If she factored in possible ulterior motives from that other interfering issue, however...Roger Fitch might not be a killer, but he could very well be a thief.

Petit slid a file folder over to Giulia. “I’ve prepared some photographs to encapsulate the problem.” He gestured for her to open it. “Please.”

When she did, the face of a smiling woman greeted her.

“That’s Loriela Gil, the woman Roger’s accused of murdering. She and Roger had been out to celebrate Roger’s birthday last April first. They returned late and, frankly, shouldn’t have operated a motor vehicle.”

“Come on, Colby,” Roger said. “Dodging a DWI is chump change. They’re gonna pump me full of poison and my neighbors’ll celebrate my execution with popcorn and beer if we can’t prove I’m innocent.” His voice lost its cocksure quality halfway through the last sentence.

Petit nodded. “Of course. That night, Roger and Loriela decided to end their celebration in bed.”

“Sex. It’s what’s for dessert.” Fitch winked at Giulia.

Petit’s body jerked slightly in Fitch’s direction. Fitch jerked a second later. Based on Giulia’s observation of similar jerky motions at Frank’s extended family dinners, the lawyer had kicked his client under the table. Petit cleared his throat. “Roger has deposed that both of them were so drunk they fell asleep right afterwards, and Roger slept through their alarm. He didn’t wake up until a co-worker called to see if he was coming to the office that day.”

Giulia studied the photographs as she glanced at the pianist from under her lashes. Perhaps the eleven months between the murder and now was an excuse for his callous attitude. It didn’t make her any more sympathetic to him.

A smidge more persuasion crept into the lawyer’s voice. Giulia had to be giving off neon-bright disapproval signals.

“You’ll see the photos beneath that one are evidence of Roger and Loriela’s enduring relationship.”

Giulia dealt them onto the table like cards. The couple kissing on New Year’s Eve. Dancing at someone’s wedding. Cutting birthday cake. The photos could’ve been a montage from any one of the last dozen romance movies Giulia and her friends had seen on a girls’ night out.

Giulia added “Ramp down the cynicism” to her internal to-do list.

“All right, Mr. Petit. What next?”

“The next set of pictures shows several angles of the apartment she and Roger shared, taken the morning after the murder. If you’ll take a closer look at the fourth one, the one that shows the balcony from the outside, you can see the footprints in the landscaping mulch below the balcony.” He waited for Giulia to deal those photos on top of the first set. “One of the prosecution’s contentions is that Mr. Fitch deliberately planted those footprints to mislead the police.”

Giulia picked that one up again. This type of evidence wasn’t her area. Frank’s eyes on these pictures would give him buckets full of information.

Her hands set down that print and picked up another one, giving it the same apparent scrutiny. What really captured her attention was her brain trying to pull off an internal shift from “DI has no time for another case” to “What is the truth at the heart of this?”

“Roger,” the lawyer said.

The pianist switched attitudes as though the lawyer had snapped his fingers.

“Ms. Driscoll, when I talked Colby into contacting you, it wasn’t just Driscoll Investigations I wanted to see. It was you.”

Giulia set down all the photos.

“Bet you didn’t know the orchestra pit started a pool when you took over the agency. The Second Violin ran it like one of those baby pools at work. We bet on the month and day you’d screw the pooch and declare bankruptcy.”

Giulia’s smile stiffened.

“Don’t get mad or anything.” Fitch’s return smile all but sparkled. “All in good fun. Besides, the money’s still in the safe in the conductor’s house because you didn’t fold.” He leaned across the table. “The conductor said you’d succeed because you’re the opposite of those old-movie detectives. You have what modern people want. Women in charge, but who aren’t pushy or bitchy or too masculine. That’s what I need: The right kind of woman.”

Giulia put as much distance between them as she could while still sitting at the same table.

Fitch spoke faster. “You’re going to hear that Lori and I used to fight. You’re even going to hear that we were quits. It’s a load of crap. Sure we had fights. Who doesn’t? But we always made up. I bet you and Frank fight sometimes.”

“I don’t see how this is relevant to the issue, Mr. Fitch.” Giulia turned over her wrist to check her watch.

Fitch reached out for her hand, but stopped before he touched her.

“It’s the only relevant part of the issue. They’re going to say that Lori and I were splitting up. They’re going to talk about that stupid restraining order her bitch of a mother talked her into getting. They’re going to say our friends were worried about her. Colby’s shown me video footage of the prosecutor in action. He’ll pick a fact here and an old email there. When he’s done cherry-picking, he’ll point to me and imply that I’m ‘Fitch the Ripper’ because of that stupid bar fight Lori and I had the week before my birthday.” His eyes never left hers. “I didn’t kill Lori. I swear to you. You might not like me too much, Ms. Driscoll, but that doesn’t matter, right?”

Giulia didn’t unbend. “What does matter to you, Mr. Fitch?”

“Justice. I didn’t even consider talking to another private investigator. You’re the only one who’d even try to find it at this point.” He slid the photograph of Loriela Gil over to his side of the table and stared at it.

Giulia’s inner cynic rolled its eyes at the theatrical gesture, despite its kernel of truth. Her inner realist wrote Fitch’s entire mess off as hopeless. Her inner bookkeeper catalogued the extra time this case would add to their weekly schedule. Her traitorous hard-nosed inner business owner—a tiny aspect of herself she usually kept squashed under her sensible shoes—whispered that DI could find a reason both Fitch issues weren’t a conflict of interest after all.

Her real self, the one controlling all those miniature Giulias, knew she couldn’t walk away from this. All of her selves wanted to curse.

She turned to the lawyer. “Mr. Petit, Driscoll Investigations will take this case.”