Page 19 of Justice for Francesca

“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.”

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