Justice for Francesca (Six Paths to Justice #1)

9. An Anonymous Tip

9

AN ANONYMOUS TIP

Tripoli

“ J essa, you in there?” Tripoli called out.

He stood in the hallway of Jessa’s apartment. He tried texting her one more time, hoping she just had the volume turned off on her phone. Her car was in her parking spot, so it was most likely she was home.

After two minutes, there was no response, so he knocked hard. After another minute, he knocked even louder with his fist. “Jessa, you okay?” Still no answer.

Debating how angry she’d be if he just entered, he took his keys out of his pocket, searched through them for her key, and let himself in.

The coppery tang in the air, which he knew from his days as a medic, meant what had happened was recent.

Mayhem. Gaping chest wound. Ribs splayed. Organs showing. Blood pooling.

Honcho. Detached arm in the path. Blood streaming from the shoulder stump.

His body jerked back into the present. Careful to skirt the walls to avoid trampling any tracks the carpet might have, he came up to the closed door of her second bedroom. Francesca would likely have his head, but he needed to make sure. If there was any chance Jessa was still alive, he couldn’t wait.

The door to her second bedroom was closed, but the mechanism wasn’t completely latched, so he was able to push it open with his shoulder. Once it opened, he was immediately assaulted with a sight as horrific as Mila’s body at the club. Jessa was definitely not alive anymore as her severed head was sitting on the spanking bench next to the St. Andrew’s cross, where her body was tied.

Keys. Blood from his nose, mouth, and ears. No pulse.

Chaos. Unresponsive.

He felt bile rise from his stomach, and it took everything in him to keep from spilling his guts and contaminating the scene further. “Oh Jesus, Jessa.” His eyes watered for a moment, and then he shoved the emotion down.

Carefully, he went back exactly the way he came, exiting the apartment and relocking the door. He went down the four flights of stairs, then exited out the side door. After debating with himself over which route to go, he pulled his phone from his pocket, as well as the business card he’d “borrowed” from Tilly. He dialed the number.

It rang twice.

“McCabe.”

His throat clogged, and the words wouldn’t come out.

Mayhem. Gaping chest wound. Ribs splayed. Organs showing. Blood pooling.

Honcho. Detached arm in the path. Blood streaming from the shoulder stump.

Keys. Blood from his nose, mouth, and ears. No pulse.

Chaos. Unresponsive.

He cleared his throat. Still nothing. He cleared it once more. Finally, he croaked out, “It’s Tripoli.”

There was a slight pause before she asked, “What can I do for you?”

“One of my employees didn’t respond to our text flash about shutting down for the next week. It’s unlike her. When I got to her apartment… Well, I found out why she didn’t respond.”

He knew he was being vague, but his brain was convinced that if he voiced exactly what he found, it would make it real.

“Are you still at the apartment?” There was a bite to her question.

“Yes. Outside, actually. And before you ask, I didn’t touch anything except the door to get into the building and the elevator buttons. She lives on a floor with only two units, and I used my key to get in.”

“Which employee?”

“Jessa. One of our opening emcees.” Tripoli heard Francesca shuffling through her paperwork, no doubt looking for an address. “On Culebra Road, just off Interstate Ten.”

“Don’t let her leave,” Francesca ordered.

There was a sarcastic laugh in his response. “Trust me,” Tripoli said, “she’s not going anywhere.”

“Ping me so I have the exact address.” There was a pause, and then she asked a question he didn’t expect. “Are you okay?”

He answered as truthfully as he could. “Okay is relative. Jessa was not just an employee. She was a friend.”

Mayhem.

Honcho.

Keys.

Chaos.

The cold was back in her voice. “Stay outside. Don’t touch anything else. In fact, it’s better if you meet me outside.” Then the softness was back. “I’m on my way. Be there as soon as I can.”

She pulled up next to him, cautiously walking around the back of the car, almost as if she was afraid she was going to spook him. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs. Fourth floor. There are only two units on the floor. Hers is on the right. Pretty sure her neighbor—he’s a pro golfer—is out playing in a tournament somewhere. He usually is from Wednesday through Sunday.”

“Okay. I’m going to go up and look around. I want you to go back to your residence at Elysium. Can you get in without being seen?”

He looked at her as if to say “Seriously?”, but he let it go. It wasn’t worth delving into with her over it. Not right now. “Yeah. How are you going to explain being here?”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” she asked.

“No. I didn’t want to cause a panic if it was nothing.”

“All right. I’ll tell them I got an anonymous tip.”

“My number will be in your phone.”

“Go,” she ordered him. When he didn’t move, she said “Go” again, a bit more emphatically. “I’ll check in when we’re done here.”

Nodding, he got in his car and backed out of the parking spot. As he drove out of the lot, he saw her still standing where he’d left her, watching his car leave.