Page 6 of Justice for Francesca

“Then it’s a sex club.” The woman turned official with her directions. “Get on the road and get to San Antonio. I’ll have my assistant make you reservations somewhere and text the name and address to you. Go directly to the San Antonio office. Agent Livingston will fill you in and take you to the site. The coroner had a lot to process there.”

“A couple of hours” to San Antonio was four and a half hours, according to a map, but it would be more like six in reality. Traffic in Texas could be a real bitch. Francesca didn’t bother to remind her boss of that.

“On my way there in fifteen.”

There was a “hmph” noise and then a softer tone with her boss’ final words. “Frankie. This one… it’s even messier than usual. I really… really… am sorry.”

What could she say? It didn’t matter if her boss was sorry or not.

Ortiz continued, “Just… be careful, all right? And if you need help… reach out. Damn agents always think they’re impenetrable and that they have to be so bottled up like nothing bothers them.”

This was the first time anyone had shown her more than courtesy since she had transferred from the NYPD to the FBI, first to the Los Angeles office, and more recently to Dallas. Her boss had certainly never shown any real sort of compassion toward her. The older woman was usually very cut and dry, like a strict mom. Francesca felt a little bit grateful.

“I’ve never been afraid to reach out for help, ma’am.”

“No, but your family drama sometimes makes you take bigger risks than you should, as well as skews how you think of yourself.”

The call disconnected, and Francesca put the phone to her forehead. Bringing up her family issues was unusual. She knew her boss didn’t mean anything by it, but the reminder that she sometimes let her family get in her own way didn’t help her overcome it either.

Now there would be Tripoli to deal with on top of the whole situation. Tripoli. Blond. Ripped. Gorgeous. Sweet. Humble. Protector. Navy. Her own version of Aquaman. She shook her head, never understanding why Aquaman was a joke to everyone. Her version was hot as boiling lava, and he made her blood just as volcanic.

“Guess I better get it in gear. Sooner I get there, the sooner this whole shit show is done,” she said to herself. She drifted out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, checking the searchon her computer screen. Nothing. Damn. Dead end. She’d start another angle later tonight after she dealt with whatever was at Elysium.

As she packed up her laptop and redressed, her memories drifted back to two years earlier and a sexy, quiet Dominant known as Tripoli who had knocked her off her feet and made her wish for her life to be different than it was. He’d introduced himself to her the first night of her undercover assignment and given her a tour of the club. He seemed to like her enough to hang around all night, and when it came time to go home, he’d walked her to her car, helped her in, made her buckle her seatbelt, and then gave her his phone number to text him when she got inside her home so he’d know she was safe.

He didn’t make a move all night, nor the next night. They’d found a quieter section of the bar and talked. She’d been trying to establish a presence, and he was so nice she basically attached herself to him. He taught her a lot, verbally, about BDSM. They’d argued the merits of it, but the arguments usually evolved into giggle fits of twelve-year-old-boy humor with each drink they had.

She had been attracted to him. When she wasn’t at the club, he popped into her thoughts. Would he find a particular joke funny? Did he like authentic Thai food? What sports had he played in high school? Had he been a hunk of gorgeousness in his uniform? What kind of Dominant was he?

There were times when she had thought he was attracted to her, too, but he’d never made a move. He’d certainly flirted, but he’d never asked her to play with him. She wasn’t sure what she would have said if he had. She’d wanted to, badly, but even though sometimes people had to do things while undercover that they normally wouldn’t or shouldn’t, she didn’t think she would have been able to cross that line. It would have been like lying to him since she was there under false pretenses. She alsofound it an interesting fact that she hadn’t seen him in a scene or go off with anyone the entire time she’d been on the job at The Library.

At the time, he’d just been a retired Navy medic. Now he was a top five hundred businessman running nightclubs, including The Library, where the fiasco sex trafficking case had erupted. She’d kept tabs on him once the case was over. Not stalking him. No. Spending every Sunday reading everything she could find on him online wasn’t stalkerish at all. After all, she limited herself to all day on Sundays only.

Sighing dispiritedly, she grabbed her suitcase and rolled it back out to the living area. At least she wouldn’t have to repack her clothes and toiletries. When she arrived home, she hadn’t done anything except drop the bag off at her bedside on a nonstop path to the shower. She made a mental note to do an overnight laundry service at the hotel so she’d have clean clothes. Ever present in her brain was the thought that seeing Tripoli Evans was going to dredge up some better-suppressed thoughts and feelings.

Today was not going to be a good day.

3

GHOSTS

Tripoli

When Tripoli arrived at Elysium, Michael was waiting for him at the main entrance, looking extremely agitated. The two men headed for Tripoli’s penthouse on the fourth floor while Lobo and Steel faded into the darkness of the club space to scout out the situation.

As they rode up in the elevator, Michael filled him in on what was going on. “The coroner and Axton are still downstairs poking around.” They had just exited the elevator directly into the apartment when Michael gave him a backward slap to the chest, halting him from going past the entryway. “Trip… There’s a hitch. The medical examiner called in the FBI. Some agent named Cruz Livingston.”

“Why would they call in the FBI for a local murder?” Tripoli asked, surprised.

Michael had the grace to look guilty at the admission. “I couldn’t figure that out either, so I had Triumph give us live feed into the crime scene.”

Tripoli almost groaned. “You better hope the police or FBI don’t ask for surveillance files. If they find out you two were spying?—”

“Live feed only. No recording.”

“Bullshit. Triumph records everything, even if he never looks at it again. Holdover from his tech days in the NSA. Sneakiest bastards on the face of the planet.”

The poor man looked pretty green around the gills, and he wouldn’t look Tripoli in the eye. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the man was upset, or even hiding something, but Michael was usually unflappable. “Yes, well… We overheard the coroner talking to the police officer. They fingerprinted the woman on scene with some fancy tech device, and she came back as Mila Sequeira.” His voice croaked on the name.

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