Page 4 of Justice for Francesca

Yeah, it had definitely been “like that.”

2

DARTH VADER CALLING

Francesca

Francesca gave the faucet a turn to the off position, and sure enough, her phone was ringing. Not only that, it was the Darth Vader music.

She’d been home less than an hour from her initial debriefing. Her latest undercover assignment had been a bitch on so many levels, not least of which was when she thought she’d been made. Mafia cases were always tricky, but this one had really thrown her for a loop. The players involved had been… unexpected, to say the least.

With a sigh of resignation, she pulled back the shower curtain, wiped her hand on the towel sitting on the toilet seat, picked up the phone off the tank, and answered just as it was about to go to voicemail. “McCabe.”

“Frankie. You know it’s me. Why do you keep answering like I don’t know who I’m calling?”

She wrapped her towel around herself, tucking in the loose end, and glanced at her watch on the toilet tank. Eight twenty-two a.m. “Standard operating procedure, ma’am. Right out of the handbook.”

Her boss, Special Agent in Charge Stella Ortiz, chuckled. “That is sonotin the handbook, Frankie.”

Francesca ground her teeth at the nickname. Even here, it followed her. Was there no escaping it? “What can I help you with, ma’am?”

Now it was her boss’ turn to sigh. “Frankie. My name is Stella. You’ve been around long enough to know that you can call me by my first name when we’re not in the office.”

“Again, ma’am, it’s standard?—”

“Standard operating procedure, yes, I know. Do you hear that phrase in your sleep?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I can’t hear myself when I’m sleeping.”

There was a bark of laughter on the other end of the conversation. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say that was an attempt at a joke. Trouble is, I know you too well, and I know it’s crabby snark.” There was a shuffling of papers in the background. Her boss cleared her throat, and instantly, Francesca froze. The woman only did that when she was about to deliver unpopular news. “Okay,Special Agent McCabe, I need you to head to San Antonio.”

Oh, hell no. This woman was nuts! She’d just gotten home from a case. An hour ago! And now the woman was sending her off on another case? And to San Antonio? Uh-uh. No way. That was the last place on earth she wanted to be right now.

“Ma’am, with all due respect?—”

“Immediately, McCabe! And yes,” she cut off Francesca’s attempt at protest, “I know you literally just got out of an undercover job, but…” She paused. The woman’s voice took ona tight tone. “There’s a situation in San Antonio that you have some… expertise in.”

“Expertise? I’ve been undercover with almost every kind of case there is. What could I possibly have any expertise in that an agent in San Antonio wouldn’t?”

Her boss cleared her throat, and her tone became colder. “It’s a sex club. There’s been a murder there.”

Francesca physically recoiled. “As for the sex club, I worked one case two years ago, unsuccessfully, I might add. That’s hardly ‘expertise.’”

Ortiz didn’t deny it. Instead, she offered, “Are you worried someone might question your presence there? Don’t. Your visits to The Library two years ago on that sex trafficking case were sanctioned, and no one needs to know that you understand the kink lifestyle. Any good undercover agent would if they researched their assignment well.” Her voice became laden with suspicion. “Is there something I should know about?”

Francesca hung her head in frustration. It didn’t matter if her boss didn’t understand that Francesca didn’t want any connection of her name to the BDSM world. Her name was tainted more than enough, thank you. Whether a job was sanctioned or not, it didn’t matter to agents or company staff. All they heard was the dreaded acronym, and you were branded as a participant. Too many people were quick to judge those who participated in the community. To them, it would be one more reason she was “undesirable,” which was ludicrous, but when you were trying to turn around the reputation of your family, it was just one more thing.

Those thoughts made it sound as if she was one of those same people, but she wasn’t. The BDSM lifestyle was attractive to her. She truly understood the need for control and to, just for once, let someone else make decisions. Deciding between pepperoni or sausage on her pizza was exhausting enough, letalone decisions in a sexual relationship. She even understood pain as an outlet, whether as a giver or a receiver. Sometimes, feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all. Sometimes, inflicting pain on someone else made you feel more in control.

Was it for her? Eh. She wouldn’t deny most elements of the lifestyle were not for her, but others…? There had been nights during her undercover assignment two years ago when the ride home to her vibrator was sometimes uncomfortable.

She felt herself flush as her thoughts flashed to a six-foot, blond Adonis from her time at The Library. Ethan Evans, or Master Tripoli as club patrons referred to him. No stereotypical black leather pants or snug faded denim for him. A three-piece suit and tie every night. He’d dump the jacket but unbutton and leave on the vest. He’d roll up his sleeves to just under the elbow. Then he’d unbutton the collar of his dress shirt and loosen his tie to leave it hanging around his neck, looking like at any moment he’d whisk you away to a private room and tie you up with it. Not that he’d ever done that to her. She’d managed to avoid participating in any activities at the club other than socializing. A few times, she’d been coaxed onto the dance floor by the man. But just because they’d never done a scene together didn’t mean she hadn’t imagined it once or twice or twelve hundred times.

She shivered.

Yeah… uncomfortable.

Realizing there had been a gap between the special agent in charge’s question and this moment, she cleared her throat. “No, ma’am.”

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