Justice for Francesca (Six Paths to Justice #1)

2. Darth Vader Calling

2

DARTH VADER CALLING

Francesca

F rancesca gave the faucet a turn to the off position, and sure enough, her phone was ringing. Not only that, it was the Darth Vader music.

She’d been home less than an hour from her initial debriefing. Her latest undercover assignment had been a bitch on so many levels, not least of which was when she thought she’d been made. Mafia cases were always tricky, but this one had really thrown her for a loop. The players involved had been… unexpected, to say the least.

With a sigh of resignation, she pulled back the shower curtain, wiped her hand on the towel sitting on the toilet seat, picked up the phone off the tank, and answered just as it was about to go to voicemail. “McCabe.”

“Frankie. You know it’s me. Why do you keep answering like I don’t know who I’m calling?”

She wrapped her towel around herself, tucking in the loose end, and glanced at her watch on the toilet tank. Eight twenty-two a.m. “Standard operating procedure, ma’am. Right out of the handbook.”

Her boss, Special Agent in Charge Stella Ortiz, chuckled. “That is so not in the handbook, Frankie.”

Francesca ground her teeth at the nickname. Even here, it followed her. Was there no escaping it? “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

Now it was her boss’ turn to sigh. “Frankie. My name is Stella. You’ve been around long enough to know that you can call me by my first name when we’re not in the office.”

“Again, ma’am, it’s standard?—”

“Standard operating procedure, yes, I know. Do you hear that phrase in your sleep?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I can’t hear myself when I’m sleeping.”

There was a bark of laughter on the other end of the conversation. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say that was an attempt at a joke. Trouble is, I know you too well, and I know it’s crabby snark.” There was a shuffling of papers in the background. Her boss cleared her throat, and instantly, Francesca froze. The woman only did that when she was about to deliver unpopular news. “Okay, Special Agent McCabe , I need you to head to San Antonio.”

Oh, hell no. This woman was nuts! She’d just gotten home from a case. An hour ago! And now the woman was sending her off on another case? And to San Antonio? Uh-uh. No way. That was the last place on earth she wanted to be right now.

“Ma’am, with all due respect?—”

“Immediately, McCabe! And yes,” she cut off Francesca’s attempt at protest, “I know you literally just got out of an undercover job, but…” She paused. The woman’s voice took on a tight tone. “There’s a situation in San Antonio that you have some… expertise in.”

“Expertise? I’ve been undercover with almost every kind of case there is. What could I possibly have any expertise in that an agent in San Antonio wouldn’t?”

Her boss cleared her throat, and her tone became colder. “It’s a sex club. There’s been a murder there.”

Francesca physically recoiled. “As for the sex club, I worked one case two years ago, unsuccessfully, I might add. That’s hardly ‘expertise.’”

Ortiz didn’t deny it. Instead, she offered, “Are you worried someone might question your presence there? Don’t. Your visits to The Library two years ago on that sex trafficking case were sanctioned, and no one needs to know that you understand the kink lifestyle. Any good undercover agent would if they researched their assignment well.” Her voice became laden with suspicion. “Is there something I should know about?”

Francesca hung her head in frustration. It didn’t matter if her boss didn’t understand that Francesca didn’t want any connection of her name to the BDSM world. Her name was tainted more than enough, thank you. Whether a job was sanctioned or not, it didn’t matter to agents or company staff. All they heard was the dreaded acronym, and you were branded as a participant. Too many people were quick to judge those who participated in the community. To them, it would be one more reason she was “undesirable,” which was ludicrous, but when you were trying to turn around the reputation of your family, it was just one more thing.

Those thoughts made it sound as if she was one of those same people, but she wasn’t. The BDSM lifestyle was attractive to her. She truly understood the need for control and to, just for once, let someone else make decisions. Deciding between pepperoni or sausage on her pizza was exhausting enough, let alone decisions in a sexual relationship. She even understood pain as an outlet, whether as a giver or a receiver. Sometimes, feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all. Sometimes, inflicting pain on someone else made you feel more in control.

Was it for her? Eh. She wouldn’t deny most elements of the lifestyle were not for her, but others…? There had been nights during her undercover assignment two years ago when the ride home to her vibrator was sometimes uncomfortable.

She felt herself flush as her thoughts flashed to a six-foot, blond Adonis from her time at The Library. Ethan Evans, or Master Tripoli as club patrons referred to him. No stereotypical black leather pants or snug faded denim for him. A three-piece suit and tie every night. He’d dump the jacket but unbutton and leave on the vest. He’d roll up his sleeves to just under the elbow. Then he’d unbutton the collar of his dress shirt and loosen his tie to leave it hanging around his neck, looking like at any moment he’d whisk you away to a private room and tie you up with it. Not that he’d ever done that to her. She’d managed to avoid participating in any activities at the club other than socializing. A few times, she’d been coaxed onto the dance floor by the man. But just because they’d never done a scene together didn’t mean she hadn’t imagined it once or twice or twelve hundred times.

She shivered.

Yeah… uncomfortable.

Realizing there had been a gap between the special agent in charge’s question and this moment, she cleared her throat. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. I didn’t think there would be. Not only that,” the special agent in charge continued, “but the case has mafia connections.”

“Every agent has worked at least one mafia case. They’re the FBI’s version of a cheeseburger in American culture, which makes it even less of an argument to send me there.”

There was another pause. Another throat clearing. “The victim is Mila Sequeira. The Sequeira principessa.”

Damn. She just got done dealing with the Sequeiras in Dallas. Why the hell not deal with them in San Antonio too?

Her eyes darted to her laptop sitting on the desk in her bedroom as it ran some private searches she was following up on. Technically, her role in the case was done. However, she’d been barely a month into it when she’d stumbled upon something that turned her blood cold. Since then, she’d been carefully poking around in aspects of the case that weren’t technically part of the investigation. She knew she should report what she had found and let it go, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready to divulge what she’d stumbled upon. Not yet. She needed to make sure she was right.

Refocusing on her boss, she grabbed a second towel and began to squeeze the excess water out of her hair. “You think my previous case and this case are connected?”

“It would be awfully coincidental if they weren’t, given the circumstances.”

Francesca grasped at the first thing she could think of. “What about my cover? Unless I go into this new situation undercover, my identity in the Sequeiras’ organization will be blown wide open. I’ll never be able to work another case on them. Not only that, if they discover me working the case as myself, it will send them into protection mode. They’ll know the FBI is looking into them, and it could undo all the groundwork we’ve laid for future arrests.”

“What mafia family doesn’t realize they’re being watched by the FBI at all times? No, you’re going to San Antonio. Everyone else familiar with the Sequeiras is already in Dallas.”

Closing her eyes, Francesca took a measured breath, then opened her eyes to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Her last attempt at getting out of this assignment was going to be a risk. “Boss, I really feel I would be a detriment to any case at this point. I’ve just come out from seven months undercover with the Sequeira family. I’m exhausted. I’m liable to make mistakes if I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Frankie.” Ortiz’s voice became stern. “I realize this, but it needs to be you.”

The hairs on Francesca’s arms rose. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Ortiz detonated the bomb. “You know the owner of the club, so that’s the reason you’ve been assigned.”

Her breath caught. The blond Adonis in the suit flashed across her brain before she could prevent it. This could not be happening. “Which club am I headed to?”

Over the phone, there was more shuffling of papers in the background. Another throat clearing occurred. “A place called Elysium. Right in the center of the city.”

She watched her skin pale in the mirror. Why did the universe hate her so much? She tried to be a good person. She paid her taxes. She recycled. She helped elderly people at the grocery store. Life just sucked.

Now she was scrambling to avoid this new case. “Ma’am, I’m officially recommending that I not be assigned to this case. My past association with Tripoli Evans could be considered a conflict of interest.”

Her boss’ voice went low and cold. “Why? You’re not going undercover this time, Frankie. He was one of your primary connections and sources of information while at The Library. That preestablished contact could make things go much smoother.” Her boss was silent and then asked, “Is there actually a conflict of interest? Were you involved personally with the man beyond what was in your report?”

“No, it’s not that. I never participated in any activities at the club with Mr. Evans… or anyone else, for that matter,” she rushed to explain. “I simply observed the club under the guise of a patron. At best, we were… acquaintances.”

That word left a bad taste in her mouth. They’d been more than acquaintances. Friends? Certainly not more than that. She wasn’t so much of a hypocrite that she hadn’t wondered what it would have been like to give in to the attraction she had felt for him, and she also wasn’t blind to the fact that he gave his attention almost exclusively to her at every opportunity while at the club. However, she’d been hiding out as Fleur, a new submissive at The Library, while she searched for five missing women believed to have been taken while they were at the exclusive kink club. Not once had he tried to contact her outside of the times they’d both been at the club, and she would not have followed through on that type of contact unless she’d felt he was a viable suspect for the kidnappings.

Well, except for texting him when she got home from the club each night. He’d insisted, saying he needed to make sure she got there safe. Then he’d reply with “Sleep well,” and that was it.

When she took on the undercover assignment at The Library, she’d cleared Tripoli of suspicion first, and she refused to acknowledge why that had been her top priority. But because of what she knew from her previous interactions with him during that case, she felt a need to defend the man. “There’s no way that man murdered someone. He’s a former Navy medic. Totally upstanding. I just think it would be unwise to put us in close proximity again due to knowing one another from the previous case.”

“As long as you didn’t have a physical relationship with the man, I see no reason why you can’t be assigned to the case.” The cold tone was back in her boss’ voice.

Yup. Totally going to rewrite the handbook when she got back to work. Thou Shalt Not Work with the Same Hot Man on More Than One Case .

Francesca swallowed and forced out, “Yes, ma’am.”

She wasn’t getting out of this. Her boss was normally movable when it came to assignments for fear that even the slightest link between an agent and people being investigated would cause cases to get thrown out of court on a technicality. She was also a big proponent of decompressing after undercover assignments and had actually blocked Francesca from volunteering for several cases in the past because it was “too soon” to go back undercover. Not because she actually liked her but because Ortiz cared about resolution percentages. If an agent was compromised, success rates might still go up, but results took longer.

Again, she felt a compulsion to correct her boss’ misconception. “For the record, Elysium isn’t the same as The Library. It’s a performance artist club. Like a small-scale circus with vaudeville mixed in and a bar attached.”

Yeah, she wasn’t going to ponder why she knew so much about Elysium either, despite never having been there.

“Are there naked people in this ‘performance artist club’?”

“There is some nudity from the performers, yes, ma’am, but not the patrons.”

“Then it’s a sex club.” The woman turned official with her directions. “Get on the road and get to San Antonio. I’ll have my assistant make you reservations somewhere and text the name and address to you. Go directly to the San Antonio office. Agent Livingston will fill you in and take you to the site. The coroner had a lot to process there.”

“A couple of hours” to San Antonio was four and a half hours, according to a map, but it would be more like six in reality. Traffic in Texas could be a real bitch. Francesca didn’t bother to remind her boss of that.

“On my way there in fifteen.”

There was a “hmph” noise and then a softer tone with her boss’ final words. “Frankie. This one… it’s even messier than usual. I really… really… am sorry.”

What could she say? It didn’t matter if her boss was sorry or not.

Ortiz continued, “Just… be careful, all right? And if you need help… reach out. Damn agents always think they’re impenetrable and that they have to be so bottled up like nothing bothers them.”

This was the first time anyone had shown her more than courtesy since she had transferred from the NYPD to the FBI, first to the Los Angeles office, and more recently to Dallas. Her boss had certainly never shown any real sort of compassion toward her. The older woman was usually very cut and dry, like a strict mom. Francesca felt a little bit grateful.

“I’ve never been afraid to reach out for help, ma’am.”

“No, but your family drama sometimes makes you take bigger risks than you should, as well as skews how you think of yourself.”

The call disconnected, and Francesca put the phone to her forehead. Bringing up her family issues was unusual. She knew her boss didn’t mean anything by it, but the reminder that she sometimes let her family get in her own way didn’t help her overcome it either.

Now there would be Tripoli to deal with on top of the whole situation. Tripoli. Blond. Ripped. Gorgeous. Sweet. Humble. Protector. Navy. Her own version of Aquaman. She shook her head, never understanding why Aquaman was a joke to everyone. Her version was hot as boiling lava, and he made her blood just as volcanic.

“Guess I better get it in gear. Sooner I get there, the sooner this whole shit show is done,” she said to herself. She drifted out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, checking the search on her computer screen. Nothing. Damn. Dead end. She’d start another angle later tonight after she dealt with whatever was at Elysium.

As she packed up her laptop and redressed, her memories drifted back to two years earlier and a sexy, quiet Dominant known as Tripoli who had knocked her off her feet and made her wish for her life to be different than it was. He’d introduced himself to her the first night of her undercover assignment and given her a tour of the club. He seemed to like her enough to hang around all night, and when it came time to go home, he’d walked her to her car, helped her in, made her buckle her seatbelt, and then gave her his phone number to text him when she got inside her home so he’d know she was safe.

He didn’t make a move all night, nor the next night. They’d found a quieter section of the bar and talked. She’d been trying to establish a presence, and he was so nice she basically attached herself to him. He taught her a lot, verbally, about BDSM. They’d argued the merits of it, but the arguments usually evolved into giggle fits of twelve-year-old-boy humor with each drink they had.

She had been attracted to him. When she wasn’t at the club, he popped into her thoughts. Would he find a particular joke funny? Did he like authentic Thai food? What sports had he played in high school? Had he been a hunk of gorgeousness in his uniform? What kind of Dominant was he?

There were times when she had thought he was attracted to her, too, but he’d never made a move. He’d certainly flirted, but he’d never asked her to play with him. She wasn’t sure what she would have said if he had. She’d wanted to, badly, but even though sometimes people had to do things while undercover that they normally wouldn’t or shouldn’t, she didn’t think she would have been able to cross that line. It would have been like lying to him since she was there under false pretenses. She also found it an interesting fact that she hadn’t seen him in a scene or go off with anyone the entire time she’d been on the job at The Library.

At the time, he’d just been a retired Navy medic. Now he was a top five hundred businessman running nightclubs, including The Library, where the fiasco sex trafficking case had erupted. She’d kept tabs on him once the case was over. Not stalking him. No. Spending every Sunday reading everything she could find on him online wasn’t stalkerish at all. After all, she limited herself to all day on Sundays only.

Sighing dispiritedly, she grabbed her suitcase and rolled it back out to the living area. At least she wouldn’t have to repack her clothes and toiletries. When she arrived home, she hadn’t done anything except drop the bag off at her bedside on a nonstop path to the shower. She made a mental note to do an overnight laundry service at the hotel so she’d have clean clothes. Ever present in her brain was the thought that seeing Tripoli Evans was going to dredge up some better-suppressed thoughts and feelings.

Today was not going to be a good day.