Justice for Francesca (Six Paths to Justice #1)

3. Ghosts

3

GHOSTS

Tripoli

W hen Tripoli arrived at Elysium, Michael was waiting for him at the main entrance, looking extremely agitated. The two men headed for Tripoli’s penthouse on the fourth floor while Lobo and Steel faded into the darkness of the club space to scout out the situation.

As they rode up in the elevator, Michael filled him in on what was going on. “The coroner and Axton are still downstairs poking around.” They had just exited the elevator directly into the apartment when Michael gave him a backward slap to the chest, halting him from going past the entryway. “Trip… There’s a hitch. The medical examiner called in the FBI. Some agent named Cruz Livingston.”

“Why would they call in the FBI for a local murder?” Tripoli asked, surprised.

Michael had the grace to look guilty at the admission. “I couldn’t figure that out either, so I had Triumph give us live feed into the crime scene.”

Tripoli almost groaned. “You better hope the police or FBI don’t ask for surveillance files. If they find out you two were spying?—”

“Live feed only. No recording.”

“Bullshit. Triumph records everything, even if he never looks at it again. Holdover from his tech days in the NSA. Sneakiest bastards on the face of the planet.”

The poor man looked pretty green around the gills, and he wouldn’t look Tripoli in the eye. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the man was upset, or even hiding something, but Michael was usually unflappable. “Yes, well… We overheard the coroner talking to the police officer. They fingerprinted the woman on scene with some fancy tech device, and she came back as Mila Sequeira.” His voice croaked on the name.

Tripoli felt his eyes go wide in disbelief. “What the hell was she doing back in San Antonio?”

The phone buzzed, and when Tripoli hit the speaker button, Triumph’s curt voice came over the line. “The FBI are back, boss.”

“Thanks, Triumph. Show them up.”

Tripoli had known they were here because he watched them approach on his computer monitor, which currently showed a view of the main entrance. At around two o’clock, the original agent had left. Now, just after four o’clock, he was back, only this time, he had a woman with him, and something about her seemed familiar. She was willowy. Blonde hair. Her face was turned away as they approached the door, so he couldn’t tell if it was actually someone he knew.

Tripoli sat, lost in thought. He was reclining in his desk chair, one arm bent at the elbow, leaning on the hand that cradled the side of his face, and one finger crossed his lips. The other hand gripped the arm of the chair, fingers tapping out Morse code messages, a habit from long ago, the beat helping him think.

When the knock came, Tripoli stood to cross around his desk as the door opened, buttoning his suit coat out of habit. Triumph entered the room with an odd look on his face, causing Tripoli’s inner alarm to go off. “Boss, Special Agent Livingston and Special Agent McCabe to see you.”

The two agents walked in as Triumph introduced them, but Tripoli couldn’t take his eyes off the blonde.

“Fleur!” It just popped out unconsciously. He quickly corrected himself. “My apologies. I thought today’s surprises were done.” He held out his hand. “Special Agent Livingston. Special Agent McCabe. It’s good to see you again,” he added to her.

She nodded at him, her cheeks tinged the slightest pink. “You as well.” Francesca’s grip was firm, but the skin was soft.

Two years since he’d felt her skin under his touch. Just the touch of her handshake now brought him instantly back to those moments when her skin had been exposed and he’d had the ability to feel just her beneath his hands. His hand to the small of her back when guiding her from one place to another. Her hand when he’d pulled her out onto the dance floor through the crowd. When they’d danced—her hands and arms, an occasional exposed back, a rare gentle grip to the back of her neck, a drag of his fingertips up her thighs to her waist, or to grip her hips when he’d been behind her.

He tried not to groan at the visceral memories. Instead, he forced himself to focus on her short, well-manicured nails with just a clear coat of polish. Unfortunately, that turned his thoughts to fantasizing about those fingernails raking along his scalp as he kissed her into oblivion.

A hand to his forearm. He turned.

“Master Tripoli, do you have a moment?”

“I always have a moment for you, Fleur. More than one if you need it.”

“I’m worried. Tilly went to the bar to talk to Master Lobo, but she never came back.”

Her glance darted to Livingston as she let go of his hand, probably hoping the comment would pass without remark. However, when you worked with law enforcement, things rarely slipped by without notice. Livingston clearly observed that Tripoli held onto Francesca’s hand a little longer than necessary, and he certainly felt the tension in the room.

Had it been obvious he’d flashed back in time? Had the pause in conversation been too long?

Obviously, Cruz wanted to confront the elephant in the room because he explained what he knew. “Special Agent McCabe is consulting on this case since she has some experience, I understand, with you and the club scene.”

Tripoli gestured to the seats in front of his desk. “Please, sit. I’m sure you have more questions for me. Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Coffee?”

The two FBI agents moved to sit. “Not for me, thank you. Frankie?” Livingston asked.

She shook her head to the negative.

Unbuttoning his suit coat, Tripoli sat behind his desk. “Yes, to answer your previous question,” he confirmed. “Two years ago, we became acquainted while she was working on another undercover case. The Library is a BDSM club in Los Angeles, and at the time, I was a partial owner of the club. Some women went missing, and The Library was the common denominator. Luckily, the situation was resolved with a successful rescue of the missing women and the shutdown of the early opening of a sex trafficking ring.” He refrained from mentioning that she had been one of the women taken as an opportunistic kidnapping. While he guessed that it wasn’t unknown, he was fairly confident she wouldn’t appreciate him mentioning that fact.

A single high-heeled shoe on its side in the parking lot. Her car door open. Her purse under the car.

“Yes,” Livingston confirmed, “Officer Axton and Dr. Stonewall asked for the FBI due to the nature of our guest downstairs. Frankie shared your history over the trafficking case. Since you weren’t directly involved with each other, our special agent in charge, Stella Ortiz, decided that she could be a valuable asset in this investigation.”

“I agree. Saves a lot of getting to know your primary suspect as well, I’m guessing.”

Cruz smiled at his attempt to lighten the moment.

Tripoli continued, “Obviously, we would like this to be resolved as quickly as possible, particularly for the woman’s sake. I have instructed my staff to be as cooperative as possible. Triumph is currently downloading all of our security footage of the past twenty-four hours for you. If you need us to go any further back, just let me know.”

“Thank you. I will.”

“Actually,” Francesca interrupted, “I’d prefer to go back a week. We might not need it, but it will prevent us from having to come back later and request it. We’ll also need whatever records you have of who has been a guest of the club or worked at the club for that same time frame.”

Tripoli nodded. “Certainly. My bar manager has already pulled yesterday’s and today’s data, including employees.” He clicked a button on his phone and held it up to his ear. “Michael. Pull the customer, member, and employee data for the six days prior to what you’ve already done and send it to me, and could you please ask Triumph to do the same with video footage?” He disconnected the call. “It will be just a few minutes before he has that information to me.”

“Fast work,” Livingston observed.

Tripoli replied, “When we have a private party like last night’s, we scan IDs at the door and make sure they match the invites. Every invited guest gets a wristband, and that wristband is scanned at every door they go through—entrance, exit, restroom, what have you—and each wristband is connected to their credit card of choice, tracking all purchases and tips. Members have a badge they swipe instead of a wristband, as do the employees. Their entries to the building, movements through doors, and exits from the building are also recorded, twenty-four seven.”

“Including you?” Livingston asked.

“Including me,” he acknowledged.

“That must be annoying.”

“I’d rather be annoyed than leave my workers and guests unprotected, at least as much as I can protect them. Security cameras can’t see everything, and at least this way, we can trace people’s last known movements.”

Livingston asked, “Members don’t find that invasive?”

Tripoli shrugged. “It’s in their contract, and we review it with them verbally when they sign in front of us. Guests… If they don’t like it, they don’t get in.”

“What if people enter or exit in groups? I hate to stereotype, but women have a tendency to use the restrooms in groups.”

“Honor system. We push the concept of everyone swiping their card, and we’re very clear why we do it. Are there people who don’t follow through? Yes. We can’t possibly have guards at every door inside. There are several security staff monitoring the club at all times, and if they notice infractions, they work to identify the individual, and we issue warnings. In addition, we have two staff at all outer doors, with the exception of emergency exits, requiring a scan. An exit there triggers an alarm, and our security staff proceed as if it’s a nonscan or a true emergency. Also, if it's an employee-only door, those are coded to only open for employee IDs, and they know the penalty for entering a room without complying.”

“Is this the same system used in all of your clubs?”

“Yes, we figured it was best since sometimes employees travel to different locations. It helps if the systems are all the same.” He added, “It also prevents guests from wandering into areas they shouldn’t.”

“I’m impressed. Not all businesses are so thorough,” Livingston said. “About that or the speed you can get information. You’re also more accommodating than most. I usually have to argue over search warrants.”

“Trust me when I say that I want this cleared up as quickly and quietly as possible. That means cooperating without fuss. I trust my staff implicitly and know that none of them would be connected to this.” He held up a hand and qualified his statement to the agent, who was opening his mouth to speak. “I also know that you don’t know them and cannot take my word for it, so it’s better to just give you what you need and let you have at it. However, I hope you understand that while I’m handing over names and dates without fuss, I cannot let our clients’ personal files leave our premises. Special Agent McCabe”—he caught himself—“or whomever you designate is welcome to look at the files here. I have to protect our patrons.”

Livingston’s eyes narrowed. “I can get a warrant for those files.”

From his chair, Tripoli returned his stare. “Yes, you could. But why? I’m offering you full and unlimited access as long as the materials don’t leave our building.”

“Ease of access is the reason.” Livingston flashed a quick look at Francesca before continuing, “I’ll allow it… for now. If a higher-up asks, though, I’ll have to get that warrant.”

“Understood,” Tripoli replied.

“We do have a few questions for right now.”

“I’m at your disposal.”

Livingston began. “I understand you were not here yesterday or today. Can you tell us where you were?”

He watched Francesca remove a notebook and pencil from her pocket. “Certainly. Yesterday, I was at The Library in Los Angeles starting around eight a.m. until the club closed at two a.m. this morning. We had a private party that I needed to be present for, so my bar manager was in charge here. By two thirty, we closed down, my staff left, and I went to my apartment above the club. Michael, Elysium’s bar manager, called me at around five a.m., Los Angeles time, to tell me about the body that was found, and then he had Triumph call the police as soon as he got off the phone with me.”

“The staff who are present in the building now. Can you give us each their full legal names and what they do for you?”

“First, you should know Cosmos, given name Christopher Reynolds, is on his way here from Chicago and should arrive this evening. Owner of twenty-four percent of the club, he is the head of security across all of our clubs. In his everyday life, he owns Reynolds Protection, a security company that specializes in bodyguards for politicians, celebrities, whomever. I asked him to come down in case you had questions about our systems.

“Triumph is considered the third true owner of the club at twenty percent, and he’s our technology expert. He does everything from background checks of members to hiring the staff to programming electrical equipment. If it’s connected to a computer, it’s him. His real name is Mason Zelinski.” Tripoli drummed his fingers, a clear look of consideration on his face. “I’m sure you’ll figure out quickly that Triumph is missing from most databases. The NSA turned him into a contractor for them as a gray hat, and when he decided to leave, he came to work for me.”

Livingston looked to Francesca.

“A type of hacker,” she explained. Her voice was quiet and smooth, like honey or a good bourbon, just like he remembered. All the time they’d been apart, he’d hear that voice in his head, and he hadn’t lost its flavor. “White hats work within an organization to test its systems, whether they work for a company itself or they are a contractor hired from outside the company to test its systems. Black hats are outsiders who work for financial gain or with criminal intent. Gray hats do not have permission to hack into systems but often do just to see if they can. They rarely cause damage. When we catch them, sometimes we offer a select few jobs and pay them incredible salaries to be white hackers. Although,” she admitted, “some are hired as contractors to keep at their gray skills. Like Zelinski.”

Tripoli nodded at her explanation, then moved on. “Tilly is our… girl Friday. Real name is Matilda Moll.”

Livingston asked, “Daughter of Nathan Moll, correct? The Silicon Valley space guy?”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t call him the ‘space guy,’ but his technology is used in space, yes. Made his fortune and never looked back.”

Francesca spoke up. “Tilly was the fifth woman taken at The Library.” She turned to Tripoli. “I didn’t realize she was here in San Antonio.”

“Lobo. Sorry to interrupt, but Fleur was just telling me that Tilly is missing. She thought Tilly was heading over to their table after talking to you, but she never arrived. Did she mention going anywhere when she left you at the bar?”

With a frown, Lobo looked to Fleur. “I definitely sent her back to your table. I saw her get bumped into by someone in the crowd, and he was helping her regain her footing when the crowd poured in from the dance floor. Are you sure she’s not at the bar?”

Fleur answered him. “No, Master Lobo. I looked. She doesn’t seem to be anywhere.”

“Is Cosmos here tonight? They’re on contract for another month yet. Maybe they’re in a scene upstairs?”

“No, Sir. Cosmos is in London until next week on business.”

“Where else did you look?”

“I went to the Dungeon, but she wasn’t there. I checked the locker room, and her locker was locked, all of her things in it. I know her combination and checked it.”

Tripoli returned from the remembered conversation. “Yes. She had an especially difficult time recovering from her abduction. Her parents love her and want only the best, but as you can imagine, she sees villains around every corner now. She feels safe with me and my guys, so when I decided to open a club here in San Antonio, I offered her a chance to start over, as it were. She helps with a variety of tasks and was gifted with a five percent interest.”

“My bar manager is Michael Murphy. He started as a barback under the previous management at The Library and worked his way up the ladder. I made him the bar manager here when we opened Elysium. He has a three percent stake in the club, gifted to him with his promotion to bar manager.”

Livingston turned his attention back to Tripoli. “And you?”

“Everyone calls me Tripoli. My legal name is Ethan Evans, and I am the majority holder with twenty-five percent of the club. When I graduated high school, I joined the Navy, became a medic, and shipped out on numerous deployments from 2004 through 2020 when I retired.”

“What division?”

Tripoli sat quietly for a moment, leveling his gaze at Livingston. “I’m afraid that’s classified, and you will need a warrant for that.”

Livingston looked at his partner, who responded to the unasked question, “That means he was with the Raiders. Basically, Spec Ops for the Marines.”

“How old are you?” Livingston asked incredulously.

“Forty-four at the end of the year.”

Livingston snorted derisively. “You don’t even look close to your forties.”

Tripoli shrugged nonchalantly. “Good genes.”

Livingston looked for confirmation at Francesca, who read out of her notepad, “Ethan Ezekiel Evans, born December thirty-first, 1980. MBA earned in 2016. Discharged from the Navy in 2020.”

“Damn. I have to say I’m impressed.”

“I did my college courses one at a time online while in the service, so it took longer than normal. Currently, I have five clubs in the United States, which I own with Cosmos, Triumph, and the staff. In February, we open a sixth property in London. All cater to particular clientele’s tastes that can’t be met easily. We’re not your typical nightclub.”

“I gathered that by the trapeze,” Livingston commented.

Tripoli laughed out loud. “Ever been to a circus, Special Agent Livingston? Just add a top-shelf bar, a dance floor, mix that with a hint of the erotic—suggestive to some nudity—and adult humor, but no live sex.”

“But that’s not true of all your locations.”

“No,” Tripoli agreed. “I own three clubs that fall under the BDSM genre. The Library in Los Angeles, the Regency Era-themed club in London that opens in February, and The Lucky Rabbit just outside of Chicago, which caters to the cosplay niche within the kink community. I own a second club in Los Angeles called Identity, a traditional LGBTQ+ club—not a sex club—with a private membership. You don’t need to be part of that community to belong, but it’s what we designed it for. A safe space. And now there’s Elysium, a semi-private club here in San Antonio, where we took a chance on something a little playful and avant-garde. And before you ask, all of the clubs have different percentages for their individual ownership. The only constant is that Cosmos, Triumph, and I are the majority owners of all six.”

“That’s only five locations,” Francesca pointed out.

Tripoli smiled at her. “Clever girl. I tried.” He crossed his legs and brushed imaginary lint off of his dress pants. “The sixth location is in New Orleans, and it’s probably less accepted than the kink clubs. It’s called Fantasy.”

Livingston once more turned to Francesca.

How would she explain this one? “A… themed hotel.”

Livingston frowned at her.

“For adults,” Francesca hinted.

The agent’s eyebrow went up. “The kind I might take my significant other to on a special occasion? Or the kind I might take someone who wasn’t my significant other?”

Francesca looked at Tripoli.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No comment on either angle. I don’t interfere as long as people follow the house rules.”

“The victim downstairs was a highflier in society. Any celebrities on your membership list? Has to be hard to keep that a secret. People love to gossip.”

“Because the members want their own privacy respected, they respect each other. If they out someone, they also out themselves.”

“Reciprocity,” Francesca defined.

“Exactly. We have a rigorous application process. Background checks. Medical exams and regular testing are required for the BDSM clubs and Fantasy.” He held up his hands. “No HIPAA violation, I assure you. They just have to provide a signed affidavit from a doctor that they are healthy, drug-free, and disease-free every six months. We have ironclad NDAs, which we have never had to challenge in court. It also doesn’t hurt that our membership fee is high. Money talks.”

“How high?” Livingston asked.

“High.”

Livingston sat, waiting.

“Four figures high.”

“Four figures a year?” Livingston clarified.

Tripoli shifted in his seat, sitting a little taller in his chair. “Per month. Contingent on their medical report and a new background check.”

Livingston whistled. “Steep.”

“Identity and Elysium come with significantly lower membership fees, which are yearly. It costs a great deal to run an exclusive club like any of my properties. Especially if I need to guarantee people’s privacy.” Tripoli reached into his middle desk drawer and withdrew a flash drive. “Triumph made a copy of all our holdings and financials for you.”

Livingston and Francesca stood, and Livingston reached across the desk to take the proffered drive. Tripoli stood and held out his hand again. As Livingston took it, he gave Tripoli a gentle warning of their plans. “We’ll have more questions for you, and today, we’ll need to interview your staff who were here when the body was discovered. Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk to the rest of the staff as there’s a lot to go through here. Then we’ll work our way through the members as needed.”

“We’ll cooperate in any way we can. It probably goes without saying that our members would appreciate your discretion. Elysium is not a kink club, but some of the individuals may be members at our other clubs, which are a bit more unorthodox.”

“Understandable,” the agent replied. “We try to be unobtrusive whenever possible. Gawkers and publicity tend to muck things up when investigating.”

“I assumed that we would be shut down here for a bit while you’re working to find out who did this. I apologize, but I have to ask. Any idea how long you anticipate us being shut down?”

“No. It depends on what we find here.”

Tripoli nodded. “Understood. I just want to make sure my employees are taken care of for the duration. For some of them, this is their only income.”

“I assure you, we’ll work as fast as we can,” Livingston replied. “But we also can’t rush an investigation.”

Tripoli waved the comment aside. “I can afford to pay my employees their salaries while we’re shut down.”

The agent smiled. “Pays to be successful.”

“I try to be a good boss. Finding people you trust is difficult, and I don’t want to lose anyone due to a shutdown they didn’t create.”

Livingston nodded. When he turned to his partner, his smile disappeared. “I’m heading downstairs to check in with Calder. Make arrangements to view the records, then come downstairs.” He turned on his heel and showed himself out of the office.

After Livingston left, Tripoli rounded the desk to be on Francesca’s side again. As he looked at her, the silence in the office was like a heavy weight. Her work attire screamed empowered but was not the typical black-suited FBI gear. She wore a cream-colored blouse that looked like it was silk, chocolate-brown pants, and ankle boots that matched almost exactly. Her long blonde hair coiled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She was just as beautiful to him as she had been two years ago. Maybe more so. Still, as beautiful as she looked, an aura of exhaustion and wariness swirled around her. There was something else too. Something about her appearance, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “I meant what I said. It’s good to see you again.”

Blonde hair hacked short. Skin pale. So pale, the blue of her veins showed through the skin. Track marks up her right arm. She whimpered in her sleep. His hand reached out to brush the backs of his fingers down the side of her face. Monitors beeping. IV pumping fluids into her dehydrated body. She looked so small and tiny lying there.

She pocketed her notebook and pencil. “Triumph looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“I bet he felt like he had.” There was a pause. “We missed you. We hoped we’d see you again when everything died down, but you didn’t come back. You ghosted us. Never even came back to ask questions.”

“We?”

“Well, yeah. Triumph, Cosmos, Rye, Tilly, even Frost, the resident ice queen, and she hates everybody. Everyone was worried as hell when you went missing.”

“Everyone? I think that’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Well, some of us were more worried than others.” He let that comment hang in the air between them.

“Mr. Evans?—”

“Tripoli,” he corrected.

“Mr. Evans,” she emphasized. “It was a cover… not my lifestyle.”

He felt rejected somehow. As if she was reminding him that the whole situation hadn’t been real. Maybe the reason for being at the club hadn’t been, but the attraction between them had definitely been real.

“Regardless, I wasn’t allowed to be part of the investigation on-site after I was taken because, essentially, I became a part of it. Once I was released from the hospital, I was debriefed and put on administrative leave.”

“For being kidnapped? They disciplined you for that?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘disciplined.’ However, it doesn’t look good when an agent on a case becomes one of the victims. It implies carelessness. Don’t worry,” she assured him. “While I’ll probably never advance beyond the rank of special agent because of it, that’s more than fine with me. I’m not really meant to lead people.”

They continued to stare at one another. Tripoli’s thoughts were all over the place. The circumstances were shit. When they’d met the first time, he could tell she was holding back from acting on the attraction, so he hadn’t pushed. When he found out she was undercover, it made sense as to why. This was his second chance with Francesca, and he was going to grab at it by any means possible. Pursuing her would definitely walk the lines of being unethical, but he couldn’t let the opportunity pass without trying.

Before he could get control of the conversation again, he watched her demeanor completely change. In a split second, she morphed into someone less personal, more stiff, and completely closed off. Her posture went rigid, her voice impersonal. Even her gorgeous liquid silver eyes appeared to shutter. “When can I come view the files?”

“Anytime you want. Just let me or Triumph know when you’re coming. I’ll have him make a badge so you can come and go as you please after that.”

“That’s awfully trusting.”

“Like I said, I want this person caught as much as you do. Probably more. After all, it’s my people who are at risk here.”

“Not to mention your club, your reputation, and your livelihood.”

He shook his head. “Businesses are built and die every day, but they can be rebuilt. Reputation means little to me because I know I didn’t have anything to do with this murder, and the only person’s opinion that matters to me is my own. However, even if Elysium burned to the ground, I wouldn’t be hurting by any means. There’s plenty of real estate out there to create another club, if I choose to do so. My staff, however, need my protection. They’re my family.”

For just a moment, the coldness she’d affected a couple of moments earlier appeared to vanish. The look she gave him was part surprise and part admiration. “Like Tilly. What you did for her? That’s way more than anyone else would have. You’re a good man, Tripoli Evans.”

He smiled. “Just a man who tries to be good, Francesca McCabe.”

Francesca seemed to suddenly remember herself, and she returned back to the cool, efficient agent. “I need to join Special Agent Livingston.”

Tripoli gestured toward the door. “Triumph will escort you down.”

Never again, if he could help it, would this woman walk somewhere alone. He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.