Justice for Francesca (Six Paths to Justice #1)

8. Bleach and Oranges

8

BLEACH AND ORANGES

Francesca

F rancesca knocked on the door to the staff break room. The door was answered by one of the agents who Cruz had brought along earlier that day to keep spaces clear and people separated. She flashed her badge at the agent who let her in.

She nodded at Triumph, who was sitting on the leather sofa. He was working on a laptop, and Tilly’s head was on his shoulder. “Hello, Miss Moll. My name is Special Agent McCabe. I need to ask you a few questions.”

The girl sat up straight. “It’s Tilly.”

The girl was a witness. In a professional capacity, she was asking to be called by a version of her name. No different than calling someone named Bill, whose legal name was William. She could do that and still remain detached. With a nod, she gestured to a nearby chair. “May I?”

Tilly nodded. Triumph shut his laptop, then offered the girl support by taking hold of her hand, threading their fingers together, and placing their hands on his thigh. Francesca noted the gesture and took her notebook out of her pocket as she sat.

The redhead looked closer at Francesca. “Fleur?”

Francesca nodded and offered a small smile.

Other than Tripoli, Tilly was the one she had spent the most time with. Cultivating the girl’s friendship had been frighteningly easy. Some would call it poor little rich girl syndrome—a girl with everything yet somehow felt she had nothing. For her part, Francesca had just found her easy to like. Two years ago, she had been a tad immature and caught up in herself at times, but it was hardly surprising. When she had lived in Los Angeles, she’d had a job as an assistant to some prominent businessman, but she had supplemented that income by parading herself on social media pushing products, everything from romance novels to makeup to clothing lines and more. That meant she had to look her best and play a part at all times. A lot of pressure for a young woman. Now she had a different sense to her—older, wiser. Likely due to her experiences as the victim of a kidnapping.

Painful memories began to batter at the surface of Francesca’s conscious self, a reminder that it was she who had realized the girl was gone. That she was the one who had felt panic and reported Tilly missing. Not to her superiors and not to an officer of some sort, but to Tripoli. The man who had taken her concern seriously the moment she’d voiced it, no questions asked. Who had barely left her side at the club for the weeks prior and never left it after until?—

Tilly whispered, “I’m sorry you were taken. You’re okay?”

“Yes, Tilly, I’m okay. How have you been doing?”

Tilly looked quickly at Triumph, who nodded at her. The girl turned her attention back to Francesca.

“I still have nightmares. Home was becoming suffocating. My parents… they were taking a lot of my choices from me in an effort to protect me. When Tripoli offered me a chance to start over in San Antonio, I took it. I hoped it would help me recover.”

“And has it?” Francesca asked.

Tilly shrugged.

Triumph cut in, “Tripoli got her into therapy with some specialist here—part of the reason he wanted to bring her along. She’s also in a group for people who suffered traumatic events, but she’s the only one who has been kidnapped, so the group isn’t really super helpful. We support her as best we can, so yes, she’s in a better place than she was, but she has a long way to go yet.”

“What’s going on besides the nightmares?”

Tilly hung her head. “I can’t go out at night. Someone has to be with me all the time if I do go out, or else I have panic attacks. Can’t sleep in the dark either. And I can’t do small spaces—elevators, narrow hallways, that kind of thing.”

“I know it’s hard.”

Triumph squeezed Tilly’s hand, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of her head. Francesca’s heart beat triple time at the sweet gesture, and it also panged at the wish that she had that kind of support. Unfortunately, she had no one close enough to her to offer encouragement. Work offered counseling, but it wasn’t the same as having someone in your life every day who was there for you without question.

“Okay, let’s start with the basics. What time did you arrive this morning?”

Tilly took a huge breath, then let it out. “We got here just before seven a.m.”

“Why did you get here so early?”

“There was a big party last night,” Tilly explained. “A law firm held an event. Damaris, the event coordinator, would have the particulars. They booked the entire space for the specialty dinner and shows. Normally, we only do those on Wednesday or Sunday nights, but this was the firm that handled the London property, so Tripoli made an exception.”

“You didn't clean up last night?”

“Each act is responsible for their own space, so they do basic cleanup in the showrooms, wiping down equipment and everything, but we leave the hardcore cleaning until when the crew comes in around two p.m. Last night, the party was going until we closed, and despite herding people to the doors fifteen minutes earlier, Tripoli knew it would take extra time for stragglers. He sent me home at midnight since I said I would come in to help with cleaning up. I like being here in the quiet by myself. It’s soothing.”

Triumph inserted, “No one can be the only one here in the building, so I offered to come in. We had some minor issues with lighting in another act, and I wanted to reprogram the system. It’s easier to do that when no one, including employees, is here.”

“Okay, so you arrived at just before seven a.m. Walk me through to when you found Mila.” She noticed Tilly’s recoil at the name, but she said nothing. While Francesca worked to maintain distance from people on a personal level, she refused to do it to the victims she aimed to help. Her reasoning, she told herself, was twofold. One, it sometimes helped ferret out deceit in interview subjects, even if it was simply romanticizing the victim because they didn’t want to speak ill of the dead. Two, it allowed her to remember that she was dealing with a person, not a thing.

Her conscience gave a twinge at how hypocritical that sounded, even to her. Was she relegating Tripoli, Cruz, and everyone else in her life to the status of things because if she allowed them to be seen as people in her mind, they’d get too close? Mentally, she shook her head. This wasn’t the time to ponder that philosophy.

“We entered our door codes. Triumph went into the maintenance closet to turn on the lights in the warehouse and get the rolling crates for glass pickup. I started a general walk-through to ensure there were no personal items from guests that were inadvertently left behind. As soon as I walked through the opening of the trapeze room, I saw her.”

Tears spilled from her eyes, and then she buried her head in Triumph’s chest. His arms went protectively around her, another kiss pressed to the top of her head.

“It’s okay, Tilly. You’re safe,” he whispered against her hair.

He flashed a troubled look at Francesca. Unfortunately, she had to press further. “Tilly, I’m sorry. I have just a few more questions.”

Tilly sniffled. Without lifting her head, she turned it so she was looking at Francesca.

“Did you recognize the victim?”

Tilly’s tears returned. “No,” she said through the sobs. “She was so battered. I didn’t really register anything beyond it being a woman with dark hair. I started screaming, I think. Triumph came, and the next thing I remember, I was on the couch in Tripoli’s office.”

“Before you entered the trapeze room, did anything seem off? Wrong? Out of place?”

Wiping away the tears, Tilly tried to gather herself to answer the question. “I didn’t notice anything. Well… nothing really out of the ordinary.”

“But something wasn’t right,” Francesca concluded.

“It was a smell,” the girl admitted. “Citrus mixed with bleach.”

Triumph supplied, “We use bleach to clean, especially in the performance rooms, to prevent bodily fluids from contaminating the patrons.”

Francesca looked up from her notes. “I thought Elysium wasn’t a sex club.”

“It’s not. But the performers sweat, and it gets warm in there if we’re booked solid, like we were last night, so the patrons overheat sometimes as well. After we clean, we turn on the units that recirculate the air to remove as much of the cleaning smell as possible before new patrons arrive. Then we pump in a citrus scent, which usually masks any of the remaining bleach smell. Common practice in casinos that suffer from lingering smoke. I just assumed that someone had dumped the fluid last night to get ahead for today. She’s right though. It was stronger than it should have been.”

Francesca made a note to check with the CSI that a floor sample had been taken and the concentrate from the air filters. She sat back, crossed her legs, and considered Triumph. “Did either of you know the victim?”

“I know the name. Everyone in San Antonio does. However, I did not know her personally. Tilly?” he asked, looking down at her.

Tilly shook her head. “She’s a member and owns a small percentage of the club, but I haven’t seen her here since the grand opening.” She noticed that Tilly and Triumph refused to look at each other. There was a story there.

“Your turn, Mr. Zelinski. I got the basics from you earlier. Anything you noticed out of place? Odd?”

He frowned. “It’s probably nothing, but the security booth door was unlocked. I was the last one out of there last night, and I’m almost certain I locked it. You know how that is though. It’s like closing a garage door or turning off the oven.”

Francesca nodded. “It's a kinesthetic habit, but later, we can’t remember if we actually did or not. Did you touch anything in the booth this morning?”

“Railing to go up to the booth. Narrow steps and they’re metal, so last night, I likely slid down the rail and then probably used the rail to go up the steps. Door handle. Light switch. Nothing looked out of place. Wait. My chair was pulled out and not pushed back in, which I always do. My prints will be all over the keyboard, mouse, and controls, but they would be. I practically live there.”

“Anyone else in the booth with you?”

He sucked in his lower lip. “Michael was there briefly. He didn’t sit down or touch anything inside the booth to my knowledge. Wouldn’t have a need to. I doubt he knows how to do much more than turn on the light switch there. Outside? No clue, but I’m sure he touched the rail, and obviously the door handle to come inside.”

Francesca shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs, then recrossing them in the opposite direction. “Michael. Tell me about him.”

With a laugh, Triumph shook his head. “He’s your brother, isn’t he? What could I possibly tell you that you don’t already know?”

“How do you know that?”

“He told us a short while ago. Well, he told Tripoli and Cosmos, who then texted me. Michael saw you and was in a panic.”

“I haven’t seen my brother in fourteen years. Lots of things change.”

“He’s not a criminal if that’s what you’re asking.” Triumph’s tone was like acid. “I dove deep on everyone’s background checks, or they never get hired here. I saw his arrest fourteen years ago, but I also saw it was thrown out for lack of evidence. He’s one of the hardest workers I know and one of the most honest. The club and our employee family come above everything else for him. Always have, ever since he started here. Don’t paint him with the same brush as your family, any more than you want to be or should be.”

She felt her spine stiffen at what he meant as an argument and not an insult. It didn’t matter the reason. The accusation still stung. “I’m simply asking because the man is a veritable stranger to me. What about Tripoli?”

“The boss is a former Navy medic who worked special operations with the Marines. What do you think?”

“Marines can do bad things too. Often do.”

“Definitely not Tripoli.” He gestured with his head down to Tilly. “Does bringing her here smack of anything other than decency? Or how he watched over you in the hospital? He was there for a week, Fleur.” It did not escape notice how easily he slipped into her alias from The Library. “He didn’t have to do that, but he felt responsible for your abduction. There was no way he was going to leave before he knew you were okay.”

That week had been a hazy blur in Francesca’s memory. She had thought she’d heard Tripoli’s voice through the sedatives and fogginess of pain medication, but she’d convinced herself it was a hallucination.

“Doesn’t mean that he can’t be a murderer.”

Triumph shook his head, anger clear on his face. “Then you don’t know him at all, and you certainly don’t deserve?—”

“Deserve what?” Francesca asked.

“His attention. He’s never forgotten you.”

When did she lose control of this interview? To hide her irritation, she stood. Before she left, she considered the broken girl in front of her. Her mouth offered the piece of personal information before she could stop it. “I dream about being buried alive. Not as often as I used to, but when I’m overtired or stressed, the dreams come back.”

Tilly’s face reflected surprise and recognition. It was what Francesca expected. Spending too much time in the confined coffin-like container had not only given the woman claustrophobia, but it had also narrowed specifically into taphophobia. Francesca’s therapist had told her it was normal in cases like hers. Wanting to let the girl know she wasn’t alone, Francesca pulled her card from her pocket and handed it to Tilly. “I’m available if you need to talk to someone who went through it with you.” Once offered, she couldn’t retract the promise. While she didn’t exactly regret what she’d done, it opened a door she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted open. Now she could never close it.

“Thanks,” Tilly whispered, her face flooding with gratefulness that someone seemed to understand.

Francesca spoke to both of them, her special agent persona locked back in place. “You’re free to go for now, but don’t leave the city. We may have more questions.”

With that, she turned on her heel and exited the room. Her thoughts were completely jumbled. Triumph had to be mistaken. Tripoli might have been attracted to her, but he never gave any overt hint he was interested in a date in all of the weeks she was at The Library. Afterward, he could have tried to find her. It’s not like it would have been difficult to find her if he’d tried hard enough. Not that she would have taken him up on a date or something more. He’d been part of an active investigation. That went against the rules. While she would never admit it out loud to anyone, to herself in the moments she’d allowed herself to think about him, she’d always felt hurt that he hadn’t.

She stuffed that problem into another drawer and went to find Cruz.

Cruz was interviewing Michael. Since she couldn’t enter the room and keep herself on the case, she decided to wait in Tripoli’s office and review the guest list from the party the night before. Pulling the list in front of her, she then went to the computer registry and searched for the files she’d need to access the membership list. She began her scan of the names. Tripoli, Cosmos, Triumph, Mila…

Made sense that he’d include the employees' names on the membership list. Tripoli didn’t seem like the type of person to skip that fine of a detail. She bit her lip, her teeth pulling it to the side, as she considered her next action. It made sense, but she wondered if her choice was entirely professional.

She scanned the list for any other Sequeira family members or their associates. Nothing. Only Mila.

She clicked on Mila’s name and read through the membership application, health history, purchase receipts, and everything else that was included. The basics of it was information she knew from the initial research done on her previous assignment. She tried to ignore that the woman’s frequency to the club, alcohol orders, and purchases from the shops at the clubs were irrelevant to anything but personal nosiness about Tripoli’s ex-girlfriend, who he claimed wasn’t really a girlfriend.

She’d been looking at the reports for almost forty-five minutes when Cruz found her, her face scrunched up, her pencil making marks in the margin.

“Find anything interesting?” Cruz asked as he sat across from her.

“Just trying to get the lay of the land. Last night was a private party, so very few of them were actually members.”

Cruz grunted. “That makes things more complicated.”

“Not necessarily. I mean, as long as the club’s security measures were in place with scanning and matching IDs, they’ll be easy to find. Plus, an outside guest would be unlikely to know enough about the club to pull this off in less than two and a half hours, leaving our hunt to a member, an employee, or a former employee.”

“True. What do we know so far?”

She shuffled the papers into a neat stack and consulted her notes. “The club opens at seven p.m., Thursday through Saturday, and the club hosts private events on Wednesdays and Sundays, which it appears they do quite a bit of. They used their normal system to admit guests, with one exception. There was a group of fifty individuals who were invited to a special signature dinner the club does. Seven-course foodie thing. That started at six p.m. Those individuals started mixing in with the other guests shortly after seven p.m. when the first group of guests—thirty people—entered and were shuttled into the bar up front. An emcee named Jessa entertained them with a musical number, then gave them directions for navigating the labyrinth. The last group was admitted at eleven p.m.”

Cruz grunted. “Thirty people every fifteen minutes? That’s six hundred people, plus staff. That’s a huge group of people.”

“And that’s just the night before the murder.”

“What did you learn from Triumph and Tilly?” he asked.

“Nothing much. A couple of things out of place. Both could be nothing but might be something. They mentioned that there was an extra strong odor of bleach. Considering they did no deep cleaning the night before, it’s suspect.”

“Odd. If the murderer used bleach to clean up evidence, why not clean up all of the blood, then? There was certainly still enough around the body. Why leave any if he bothered to clean up somewhere?”

Francesca leveled Cruz with a look. “Maybe blood wasn’t what he was worried about.”

He blinked at her. His lip curled up in disgust. “You think he was cleaning up his DNA?”

Francesca shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time some guy beat off to a dead body. Or even during torturing someone.” She reached for a folder of photos from the scene and flipped through them. Finding the one she wanted, she pushed it toward him on the desk. “I noticed there was an odd void in the blood at her feet. If the CSI didn’t think to, we should test the floor in that spot.”

“Huh.” Cruz chewed on his lip. “Calder will run a rape kit as a matter of form, and he’s pretty thorough checking everywhere for DNA, but I’ll make sure to run that idea past him so that he’s extra thorough. What else did they mention?”

“Strong citrus odor. It’s used to cover the remaining bleach smell before patrons arrive. They said it was extra strong. I checked, and it’s orange-scented.”

“Someone who didn’t have time for the system to run its normal course, so dumped in extra.”

“Likely. I mean, our killer only had maybe two and a half hours, really, to get in, do what they wanted, and get out.”

“Not a lot of time,” Cruz continued.

“No. Another clue that this should be someone very familiar with the club.”

“Doesn’t narrow it down to only employees, though, but more likely.” He drummed his fingers on the chair arms. “What about past employees? Someone with a grudge, maybe?”

Francesca made a note in her notebook. “I’ll add cross-referencing the employee list to my tasks. I’ll look at past employees since the club opened and members who are here more often than others—see if anything shakes loose.”

“Anything else?”

“Zelinski mentioned that he’s not sure, but when he went into the master control booth this morning, the door was unlocked, and he was pretty certain he locked it when he left. He also said his chair was pulled out from his station, and again, pretty sure he would have shoved it under the desk.”

“Zelinski is Triumph, right? Lot of fuckin’ names to keep straight,” he complained.

Feeling guilty that she was contributing to the problem, she decided to compromise. “Yes. Sorry.” She stiffened her spine at the concession she was about to make. “I’ll use the club names in conversation since that’s how they’ll refer to each other and keep the legal names for the reports.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“As to prints inside the booth, I’m guessing he touched everything in there without thinking. Although, his prints would be all over everything in there since he’s the head of technology here. By the way, you were correct. He admitted to watching through the cameras when you were processing the crime scene.”

Cruz sighed. “Why can’t people resist the urge to snoop?”

Francesca let a grin slip. “Isn’t that an odd question from someone who chose a profession where he’s required to snoop?”

“I stand accused,” he said with a chuckle.

She grimaced. “Murphy was also in the booth for a bit. However, everyone’s singing his praises like he’s the second coming of the club.”

Cruz studied her for a moment. “You really don’t like your brother, do you?”

Sighing, she put her pencil down and leaned back in the chair. “It’s not Michael, so much. My older brothers? They’d do what was done to the victim in a heartbeat.”

“Lucky they’re in New York City, then, isn’t it? Doesn’t make sense why you’d have such a hard-on for your younger brother though.”

She ignored the statement. “What about this Cosmos guy? He runs security for all of the clubs.”

With a raised eyebrow, showing he knew she was trying to deflect, Cruz let her ignoring of his comment pass. “Has a locked-tight alibi. He was with a client at the Chicago Cubs’ game the day before. Last night, he was at The Lucky Rabbit, the cosplay club in Chicago that the guys own. We’ve got video of him entering the club, including the young lady he escorted there, and then to a local hotel. He got the call just after seven a.m. We checked the duration of the call and the number and pinged the tower, so everything matches up there. He headed back to the city within an hour.” Then he hit her with an issue she didn’t want to talk about. “Tripoli?”

“Father figure to the employee family. Claims he was at The Library until after two a.m., then at his residence on the top floor until he left to come here. It should be easy to verify that.”

“Mmm.”

Francesca sat forward, picked up her pencil, and turned her attention back to the reports rather than meet Cruz’s scrutiny.

“So… you and Tripoli Evans.”

“There’s no me and Tripoli Evans.”

“That’s not what I’m seeing.”

“Well, you’re seeing wrong, so I’d make an appointment with your optometrist.” She looked up at Cruz. “I was undercover at The Library for almost three months. We got nowhere. Evans and I spoke regularly, but we had no contact, physical or otherwise, outside of the club.”

“Thought you agreed to use his club name so I don’t get confused.”

She heard the zing in his comment, although he did everything he could to keep a straight face. “Fine. Tripoli and I spoke regularly, but we had no contact, physical or otherwise, outside of the club. And nothing physical inside the club either,” she emphatically added.

“Seems like he wishes it were otherwise.”

“He’s a suspect, Cruz.”

“He’s clear of suspicion, Frankie. His alibi has been verified. First thing I did.”

She huffed. “He’s still connected to the investigation.” She threw her pencil on the desk and sat back in the chair again. “He’s refusing to answer questions.”

“What? He’s given us unlimited access to everything here so that we don’t go get a warrant. Why would he refuse?”

“I have no idea. I take that back. He didn’t refuse outright. He actually had the nerve to give me an ultimatum. Said he’d answer questions if I had dinner with him. Otherwise, I’d have to get a subpoena to haul him to the office to question him, and then I’m guessing he’ll lawyer up. That means hours, possibly days, of work to get simple answers. Colossal waste of time and resources.”

“So… have dinner with him.”

Francesca felt her mouth fall open. She could only imagine the shocked expression on her face. “Are you fucking nuts?”

Cruz smiled; she assumed because of the swear word. She never swore on the job. “Knew there was a human being in there,” he teased.

“That’s crazy talk. Why would I have dinner with him?”

“You need to eat. We have questions. Why waste time bothering a judge?”

“Exactly what he said,” she muttered, rubbing her forehead.

“Smart man.” Cruz leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them. “Seems like a no-brainer to me. If it makes you feel better, if Ortiz or anyone asks, I’ll vouch for you and say I approved for you to have dinner with him. I’ll tell her we decided it would be a good way to lull him into a false sense of security and see if we could get him to slip and tell us something.”

“You just said he was clear of suspicion, so that won’t work. Why can’t you talk to him?”

Cruz’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t think the dinner invitation was extended to me, Frankie. Just you.”

“You know, just because you met your girlfriend Mickie on a job doesn’t mean everyone else should flout convention and rules to do the same. Maybe if I’d met him somewhere else?—”

“Ah-ha! You are interested in him!” The smile on Cruz’s face was from ear to ear.

“St. George and the dragon?—”

“Don’t even bother to deny it.” Cruz stood up. “Enjoy your date.”

“It’s not a date, Cruz.”

Over his shoulder, he threw back, “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep tonight.” He looked at her after he opened the door. “Relax, Frankie. You’re not breaking any rules. You’re going to be questioning him, so it qualifies as work even if someone thought you were fraternizing. I know you’re a rule monger, and I understand why. It’s time you realize the only one who thinks you’ll ever succumb to the ‘McCabe tendencies’ is you.”

Cruz shut the door. Frankie threw Tripoli’s stapler at the closed door.