Page 23 of Justice for Francesca

AN ANONYMOUS TIP

Tripoli

“Jessa, 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.”

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