7. An Invitation
7
AN INVITATION
Tripoli
J acket off, vest unbuttoned, collar opened, tie hanging loose around his neck, and sleeves rolled up, Tripoli tried to concentrate on finalizing the upcoming payroll report. Concentration was not happening, especially when a glance at his security camera feed on the computer monitor showed that Francesca was leaving the trapeze room and headed upstairs. Something had upset her based on the set of her jaw and her ramrod posture. He wondered what Livingston said to her to cause the color to drain out of her face and her body to go even more rigid. If the woman got any more wound up, she was going to snap.
He followed her progress to the elevator, his fingers tapping the habitual Morse code messages on the arm of the chair until he realized she was coming his way when she pushed the button for floor three. Triumph, Tilly, and Michael were all on the same floor as her, so that could only mean she was coming to him. He clicked out of the security cameras and waited for her arrival, his heart speeding up.
A knock came. His body immediately responded to knowing she was just outside his door, and that he was about to be alone with her. It didn’t matter that there was a dead body on the ground floor of his club. She was here, and his body didn’t care how inappropriate its reaction to her was. It simply responded to her. It had always been like this. No matter how much he tried to prepare himself, even two years ago, his physical response was immediate. Nothing had changed in all of their time apart.
He attempted to adjust himself so that she wouldn’t be aware of his physical reaction. “Enter,” he called out as he pushed the button to unlock the door, forcing himself to pretend to be immersed in the report on his desk. Internally, he groaned. He smelled her clean scent before he looked up, realizing that the self-adjustment he’d made was pointless because now it was worse. “Special Agent McCabe.” He put his pen down that he hadn’t been using. “The second interrogation begins?”
She clearly did not waste time when she wanted something. “Michael Murphy. How long has he been working for you?”
Tripoli sat back in his chair, elbows on the arms, creating a nonchalance he didn’t really feel. “You mean your brother.”
Her cheeks held bright spots of red. “How long?”
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t know until about twenty minutes ago. He must have seen you and knew that he needed to tell me.” Tripoli reached for his keyboard and pulled up Michael’s personnel file. “He was hired by Rye, the lead bartender at The Library, on November seventh two years ago, and he began work the next day as a barback.”
“And how did he manage to make his way here to San Antonio?”
He noticed she wasn’t writing anything down in her notebook, which meant this questioning was personal.
“He quickly became invaluable. Worked extra shifts. Never turned down work, and he often volunteered for more. Someone needed to switch shifts, he was always willing. Wanted to learn anything we were willing to teach him. Quickly, I discovered he had charm with the patrons. The employees loved him. When I decided to open Elysium, I offered him the job as bar manager.”
“And you trust him.”
Tripoli heard the venom behind the words she threw back at him. She definitely had issues with her brother.
“Michael has been a model employee. He told Rye in his interview about his family’s history. Apparently, it’s come back to haunt him more than once in his search for a place in the workforce. I’ve always been about how a person makes their own way in life, regardless of what’s around them. People make their own choices.” He hoped she was transferring this information to her own situation as well. Her family meant nothing to him, just as Mila’s hadn’t. “He has never given us the slightest opportunity to doubt him.”
“Give him time,” she muttered. She shook herself and took out her notebook. “I have a couple of quick questions about the trapeze room.”
“I’ll answer what I can, but if they’re about the technical aspects, Triumph would be the best to ask as most of it is computerized.”
“Noted. These are basic questions right now. Where is the control room?”
“It’s behind the wall directly to your right as you walk into the room. There are cameras from six different angles up above the walls, mostly hidden in the glare of the lights or camouflaged by everything being black in the rafters. The operator follows the performer through the cameras. Each performer has their routine, and they practice with the operator, so both are intimately aware of the mechanics of the act.”
“Is there any way to access the controls without entering the control room?”
“Not to my knowledge. The mechanics for several rooms are the spokes of the control room, which serves as the hub of a wheel. There are three control rooms throughout the maze, each controlling four different rooms, each room with a different performer, sometimes two who trade off. I can give you a tour if you’d like.”
“I can ask Mr. Zelinski to do that after I question him.”
It did not go unnoticed that she was avoiding being alone with him and that she was attempting to put up walls by using people’s given names instead of the ones they commonly went by. Tripoli decided to try and throw her perfect control out the window by suddenly changing the direction of the conversation. “Have you eaten?”
“Excuse me?”
“Have dinner with me.”
“No.”
“You haven’t eaten, neither have I. You have questions for me, and I have answers. Why not ask me those questions over dinner?”
“That would be highly inappropriate, Mr. Evans.”
“Tripoli. I’d prefer you call me Ethan, but I’ll settle for Tripoli right now.”
“My answer, Mr. Evans , is no.”
“If your brother isn’t a conflict of interest getting you knocked off this case, having dinner and interviewing me certainly won’t.”
“I haven’t seen my brother or had any contact with him or my family in fourteen years. He’s a veritable stranger, whether we share DNA or not.”
He shrugged. “Be that as it may, you want information. I’m willing to allow you to ask, but dinner is the price.”
“I can ask you to report to headquarters and question you there.”
“Why? I’ve offered to answer your questions here.” He was playing dirty, and he knew it, but he also didn’t care.
“No one will question a request for a subpoena,” she assured him.
“But it will take hours, even days, to get it. I’m offering you the opportunity to get your questions answered right now without the formality of a request to appear or a subpoena.” He leaned forward. “Special Agent McCabe… dinner or days?”
“Dinner with a person of interest in a murder case is against the regulations. No dinner.”
He sat back, feigning indifference. “I call bullshit, but fine. You want to play by some mythical set of rules? I’ll wait for the subpoena.”
The color reappeared on her face, along with a spark of something in her eyes. Anger? Frustration? Respect? Attraction? He wasn’t sure, but something had aroused emotion of some sort within her.
“If you’re refusing to answer questions, then I need immediate access to your computers and files.”
Tripoli stood from his desk. He grabbed his suit coat and came around the front of it, gesturing for her to take his spot. “The sticky note to the left has my login and password should you need it in case you come to view the files and my computer’s shut down. Feel free to poke around in any file you want. I’ve nothing to hide.” He walked to the door. “I’ll be in my apartment on the fourth floor if you need me. Just come on up. No need to call ahead.”
He exited the room, but after he shut the door, he gave a mighty exhale and let the tension out of his shoulders. He headed to his apartment, already thinking about what he’d make for dinner when she showed up. It wouldn’t be tonight. She needed time to come to grips with his condition before she gave in. He had a sense she would get pressure from someone —Special Agent Livingston?—once they learned she had an opportunity and didn’t take it. That dinner would be the first round of battle. He grinned as his brain began making plans on how to speed up the process.