14. It’s Not What It Looks Like
14
IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE
Francesca
H eart racing, Francesca opened her mouth to speak, and the Darth Vader theme music began playing. They lay on the couch, their eyes holding, not speaking. The music stopped.
Within seconds, it began ringing again. “Don’t answer it,” Tripoli whispered.
The phone started again. When it stopped, there was a moment when Francesca hoped it wouldn’t start up again. Unfortunately, it did.
“I have to answer it. It’s my boss.”
Pulling an arm free from her, he threw it over his eyes, muttering something about the message she was sending herself by assigning her boss that ringtone. While part of her found his frustration affirming, she also had to admit that the phone ringing saved her from what she was sure would be a choice that would change her whole world. Making that choice wasn’t something she felt she should do… today.
She extricated herself from Tripoli’s hold and went to her phone in the bedroom where she’d left it earlier today. Without turning on the light, she headed for the nightstand, where it was skittering across the surface. It stopped ringing again. She had just begun to unbutton Tripoli’s shirt when it started up again, but this time it wasn’t her boss. It was a generic ringtone.
“McCabe.”
It was Cruz. “We got another anonymous tip, and Ortiz ordered me to call you.” He paused. “Sorry I had to interrupt you.”
“I took a sick day, Cruz. What would you be interrupting?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tripoli’s silhouette framed in the doorway to the room, his fingertips stretched to the top of it.
“Frankie.” He chuckled, his voice quiet. “I’m not stupid. I know you’re with him, and good for you. I’m guessing you’ve never taken a day off—ever. You deserve the day, you deserve him, and he deserves you.”
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. Admitting nothing, she asked, “What’s the tip?”
“Someone called about an hour ago and reported a man, all in black, going into Mila’s house last night. Ortiz wants you to stake it out tonight. I told her I would go, but she said no. We found the ex-boyfriend, and he’s here right now. She wants me to conduct the interview.”
“You didn’t tell her I was out sick?”
“I didn’t tell anyone… just let them all think you were working an angle somewhere. She would have known in a heartbeat something was up, and I didn’t want to ruin today for you. Then it turned out I had to call you and do it anyway. I really am sorry.”
Francesca felt another lump forming. “It’s okay, Cruz. I…” She started to stutter, took a moment to breathe in deep, and let it out before speaking again. “I appreciate what you tried to do. Just so you know, you didn’t interrupt anything.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why it took four phone calls for you to pick up the phone.”
“My phone was in the other room.”
“Mm-hmm. If you say so.” The squeaking of his desk chair could be heard in the background. “It’s probably nothing, but be careful, okay? Watch your back. I’d tell you to take Tripoli with you, but that really would be breaking the rules.”
“I promise to be careful.”
“Call me if anything comes up.”
“Will do.”
Cruz disconnected the call, and Francesca felt Tripoli’s eyes on her as she redressed in yesterday’s clothes. “I have to go.”
“What’s going on?”
“Tip came in. Ortiz wants me to go check it out.”
“Want me to come with you?”
“You can’t. If it turns out to be something, it would be a serious breach of protocol.”
She heard him sigh. When she finished dressing, she sat on the edge of the bed to put on her socks and boots. “I have to go change, then head to the location.”
“Will you come back here when you’re done?” Her hesitation told him the answer he didn’t want. “Dammit, Francesca. Quit running. Come back here when you’re done. Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want to happen.”
It was time to reestablish distance. “Tripoli… don’t you think this is a sign? We’re just not meant to carry this through.” Completely dressed, she crossed to him in the doorway. With barely an inch between them, her hand raised to caress his cheek. “Please understand. I can’t. Not now. When the case is over…” She blew out a breath. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
He backed off from her so she could get through the door. “Go.” His voice was rough. “But I’m begging you, Francesca, come back here when you’re done.”
She felt herself weakening. “I could be out all night. Then I’ll have to go in tomorrow. I’ll have reports to fill out. Calder’s supposed to have a completed report on Jessa. I have work to do. We need to catch this person.”
“If it’s an hour from now. If it’s tomorrow night when you’re finally done. Whenever it is. I don’t care. I’ll be here.” His message was clear. He’d wait as long as it took. She didn’t deserve that, no matter what anybody said.
Without saying a word, Francesca strode to the elevator. She hit the unlock button, and when the door opened, she stepped inside and turned around. The doors closed, Francesca staring at the seam between them, feeling the lurch as the elevator headed to the ground floor. Tears fell.
All the way to her hotel, Francesca tried to block from her mind Tripoli’s pained final look as the doors of the elevator closed. She felt herself dividing in two. On the one hand, she wanted to immediately begin building her walls to protect herself again. Return to the way things used to be. It would be comforting, although lonely, because she knew what to expect.
On the other hand, she felt this new part of her wanting to tear down those walls faster than she could rebuild them. Could she do that? Being outside her walls was a scary place. Would she be able to let go of everything holding her back to be with Tripoli the way he wanted? The way he deserved a relationship to be?
She changed her clothes to ones suitable for spending the night staking out Mila’s house from her car. She drove to the office, went through her emails, looked at the latest reports from Calder, as well as skimmed the interviews from the day before, including the ones with the ex-boyfriend and her brother. Cruz attempted to apologize again, which she waved off. Before long, it was time to go to Mila’s home.
It was a relatively quiet neighborhood, especially now that it was after ten o’clock. She’d been here all afternoon and evening, ignoring the beeps from her phone. Texts from Tripoli. Texts from Cruz. Emails from the office.
While she sat and watched, she pulled up the searches she’d been doing since the Dallas case. She knew there had to be a link between who she had seen there and the Sequeira don, but she still wasn’t coming up with anything. While she was normally a patient woman, she was starting to get frustrated with the lack of confirmation she needed.
Maybe it had been just a coincidence after all. Maybe there was nothing to find. Something kept nagging at her, though, refusing to let go.
Her phone rang. Glancing down, she saw Cruz’s name pop up. With a sigh, she decided she couldn’t let this call go unanswered. “What?”
“Wow. No regulation answer of the phone. I really did interrupt something today.”
Pinching the bridge of her nose, Francesca put him on speaker. Was it terrible that she found herself hoping Mickie smothered him with a pillow? She didn’t want him to die. Just… be dead until morning.
“What do you want?” she repeated.
“Just checking on you. Anything?”
Francesca took a swig of her energy drink. “I’ve been here for a couple of hours. Nothing yet.”
“But you think it’s something?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a hunch something’s hinky.”
“Ah. The technical ‘hink’ hunch.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “Look, Cruz, I’ll call you if anything comes up, okay? Say hi to Mickie for me.” She disconnected the call, took another swig of her drink, then settled in to watch the street around the building as she simultaneously watched her computer continue to search.
No more than fifteen minutes later, a silhouette appeared out of the darkness, walking down the sidewalk from the north. She couldn’t see any features with the limited streetlights, but it looked to be a tall, athletic man. He was dressed all in black, just as described. What was odd was that he didn’t swing around to the backyard but instead approached the house and went to the front door. The man clearly had a key, which he used to go inside.
Francesca checked her weapon, shut down her laptop, then eased out of her vehicle. She approached the house quickly and quietly as a light appeared in a downstairs room. Looking in a window, she got the surprise of her life.
“Michael? What the hell?”
From her place in the doorway, Frankie called out, “What are you doing here, Michael?”
It hadn’t been difficult coming up on her brother unnoticed. He was so intent on his search through the desk, he was completely not paying attention.
“Frankie!”
“Michael. What are you doing here?” she repeated.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
She sighed. “I really hate that phrase. Everyone says it when it’s exactly what it looks like.”
“I promise, Frankie. It’s not.” He stood up from the chair. “I know we should have told Tripoli about our relationship, and honestly, I didn’t care about him knowing, but I needed to keep it quiet.”
“Because you didn’t want our father and brothers to know you were dating.”
His hand went to his head, mussing up his normally perfectly styled hair, and huffed in irritation. “It was a helluva lot more than dating. Regardless, I have a key. I lived here until we… separated.”
“Jesus, Michael. What were you thinking? It’s not bad enough you followed in our family’s footsteps, but you decide to get in bed, literally, with the mob too?”
“Frankie, look, this really isn’t the time to go into this. For once, I need you to trust me. You know me, sis, or you used to. This really isn’t what it looks like. I swear to all the saints, I didn’t kill Mila, I didn’t kill Jessa, and I’m not…” His eyes pleaded with her. “I’m not what you think I am. It’s complicated, and I can’t explain, especially right now. You really need to leave. I’m begging you.”
“I’m not leaving, Michael. Do you not understand that breaking into this house makes you a suspect?”
“I just told you. I have a key.”
“That means exactly nothing. You could have stolen it. You could have made a copy of her key. Besides that, your name isn’t on the deed, so you have no legal claim. Technically, that’s breaking in.”
“St. Patrick, St. George, and the dragon,” he muttered. “Frankie. I. Loved. Her. My name isn’t on the house because we weren’t public. Ask the neighbors. I’m here all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t kill her. I have to call this in.”
This new wrinkle took her off the case once she reported it. She shouldn’t have even entered the house. Instead, she should have called Cruz.
She’d pleaded her case one last time with the SAIC when they’d met over Michael’s involvement, and the woman had threatened to discipline her if she brought up removing herself again. Now, though, with Michael the primary suspect, there’d be no other option but to ban her from the investigation. It would get her back home until she took another undercover assignment. Plus, she’d be away from Tripoli, which was totally messing with her head.
Why didn’t the idea of being off the case make her happy?
But if she were off the case, didn’t that solve her problem? Being off the case meant she was free to be with Tripoli. There might be some awkward questions at first, but since he’d been cleared for Mila’s murder, he wasn’t a suspect in Jessa’s. She’d be able to stay with him until she took a new assignment. If she wanted a new assignment. Maybe she should take some time off. It wasn’t like she didn’t have the time coming to her.
Later, she would try to blame her lack of attention on Michael’s surprise appearance as the intruder, but eventually, she’d admit it was the thoughts of Tripoli that caused her to be less careful about her surroundings.
“Frankie!” her brother yelled.
The air shifted in the room, and she felt a heavy weight plow into her from behind. She resisted, but she couldn’t get the leverage to flip her attacker over her shoulder. When it became clear that neither individual had the advantage, the person must have decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and she felt a short, sharp, stabbing burn that ran through her body. She heard the knife slide out of her flesh, the blood, muscle, and skin reluctant to let go of the blade. Then she collapsed.
She had no idea how much time had passed, but it was still dark outside. The house was quiet, and all of the lights were out. Attempting to pull herself up off the floor, she felt pain along her side. Her hand pressed down on the floor and slid through something wet. She gently probed the pain-filled area, discovering a horrific rip in the skin. Stabbed and still bleeding. She hadn’t been out that long then.
Pushing the pain down and back into one of her mental drawers, she forced herself to stand. She weaved on her feet. She had to get out of there. Calling an ambulance was out of the question. Calling Cruz would be worse. Michael had said this wasn’t what it looked like. Despite what her head kept telling her about the Dirty McCabes, she had detected no lies or half-truths in what he’d told her, yet if that was the case, Michael had still left her here to die. She knew her family was cruel and sadistic, but even this seemed low for them, especially him.
A flash of insight. Did Michael’s attack have to do with who she saw in Dallas with the Sequeira don? Michael here and connected to Mila Sequeira?
She needed somewhere to think.
She needed help before she made the wound worse and actually bled out.
There was really only one choice that met all those needs.
Francesca couldn’t do anything about the blood for now. She’d have to lock the house and hope no one came to investigate. They’d already searched the house for a will. If Mila had one at the house, they’d turned up nothing. Her uncle didn’t have it either. If she called Cruz and told him there was nothing to see, no one would probably come around for another day or two.
As best she could, she applied pressure to her wound. She looked around the hallway. When she’d gone down to the floor, she’d heard a clatter. Her weapon. It wasn’t anywhere in the hallway.
Suddenly, her eye caught a glint of something underneath the table by the door. Her gun had slid under the table, and no one had bothered to pick it up. It was an unexpected break. Now to make the most of it and get to help.
Francesca hissed in pain as she made her way to the front door. Each step jarred her insides and caused more blood to ooze from the wound. She couldn’t wait another second.
Somehow, she managed to get to her car and drive the eight minutes to Elysium. She texted Cruz that the stakeout had been a bust, and he responded with a thumbs-up, which meant she should have a couple of days before someone decided to go back to the house.
Her phone rang. When she looked at the screen, she noticed there had been several calls from the number while she’d been unconscious, one she didn’t recognize. She answered, but other than an echoing clang over the line, no one spoke, and a moment later, the line went dead.
She stumbled into Elysium’s lobby, managed to get into the elevator, and pushed the button to Tripoli’s apartment. He must have had a notification that someone was on the way up because he was almost to the elevator doors when they opened and revealed her.
“Francesca?”
“I’m sorry. Couldn’t go to the hospital. Couldn’t call Calder because he would report it to Cruz, and then I’d end up there anyway. You were the only person I could think of.”
“Are you hurt?”
She pulled her hand from her side, away from the black hooded sweatshirt she wore. It was then she saw his recognition of the dark, shiny stain along her side and the bright-red blood all over her hand.
“Fuck. What happened?” He swooped in and picked her up, taking her into the bathroom. “How bad?”
Francesca tried to answer him, but words weren’t coming. She was so cold. So tired. Her limbs didn’t feel like they were responding.
Tripoli grabbed a pair of EMT scissors from the drawer and cut her out of the sweatshirt. All she could do was watch his face to see how bad it really was, but neither his eyes nor any muscle in his face flickered.
“You need to go to the hospital.”
“You were a medic. If you can’t fix it, then put me back in my car. I’ll find somewhere to go and just let nature take its course. I absolutely cannot go to the hospital. Not now.”
“I swear to God, when this heals, I am spanking you so hard you won’t even be able to wear clothing because even that will bother your sore ass.”
Weakly, she smiled. “Look at you going all Daddy Dom on me.”
“Too soon for jokes.”
He studied the wound. The only thing that showed her he was analyzing what to do was his probing fingers and his eyes flicking from spot to spot.
One hand on her thigh to keep her in place, he reached down to open another drawer. She heard him rummaging around. “Are you on any medications? NSAIDs, painkillers, blood thinners, anything at all?
“No. I don’t even take aspirin.”
Looking up at her, she thought she saw a tinge of fear in his eyes. That had to be wrong though. He was a former Navy medic assigned to the Marine Raiders. He wasn’t afraid of anything.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” she admitted.
“I’m out of my fucking mind,” he whispered. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a white stick, ripping off the packaging with his teeth and spitting it onto the floor. “Suck on this.” He put the stick in her mouth, then picked her up again, taking her back to the dining room and laying her on the table.
Hazily, she watched him lock the elevator door so that no one could come in unannounced. He turned up the lights over the table to maximum brightness, then went back to the bathroom. She heard him opening drawers and cupboards, but it took too much effort to turn her head, let alone raise it to watch him.
She could smell rubbing alcohol. He wiped down the table all around her and under her the best he could. After washing his hands in the kitchen sink, he came back to her side at the table. His shirt was covered in blood. Leaning over her, he flashed a penlight in her eyes. He had a stethoscope and listened to her heart. He took her pulse.
She was trying so hard to keep her eyes open, but it was getting harder and harder. “It’s okay, Francesca. Just go to sleep. Let it happen. I promise you won’t feel a thing.”
“Ethan?” Her voice sounded foggy and slurred, even to her. She managed to raise her hand just enough to touch his cheek.
He put his own hand on top of hers when hers slipped, leaving a streak of her blood on his face.
“I lied the other day.”
“Don’t talk, sweetheart.”
Her head gave a weak turn to the left, then the right, an attempt to shake her head no. “I have to tell you. Just in case.”
The flash of fear was back in his eyes for just a second. She hadn’t imagined it after all. “Tell me what?” he whispered.
“I don’t just like you an inch. I like you a mile.”
She felt his lips pressing hard to her forehead. “Me too, sweetheart.”
She slipped into sleep.