How was Connor Franco shot? Style’s brother didn’t have the details, though the news had traveled through their elite circles like wildfire. By a stroke of luck, Josh’s father had been there. He was part of the inner circle, playing high-stakes poker with Franco and three other associates in a private suite.
According to Josh’s father, Franco had stepped away to the restroom when nature called. Moments later, a muffled gunshot rang out. Franco’s bodyguard, Jimmy, burst into the room only to find his boss collapsed on the floor, a bullet wound in his left chest. There was no sign of a killer.
On Monday afternoon, the team met Jimmy at the club to conduct an on-site investigation.
The club wasn’t the kind of place you could find on a map or via a search engine. It was hidden deep within an abandoned factory, accessible only to an exclusive list of members. The police had already cordoned it off, but since the team was officially representing the Franco family, and Jimmy had successfully persuaded the on-site officer with a quiet word and a cigarette, they were granted entry.
“They won’t keep this place on lockdown for long,” Jimmy whispered as they stepped inside. “The owner is a powerful man; he won’t let a shooting tarnish his reputation or disrupt his business.”
The exterior was hollow and dark—a place so bleak even urban explorers would avoid it.
“At night, staff members guide the way with lanterns, but they’re all off-duty now.” Jimmy switched on a heavy-duty flashlight, leading them to a rusted steel door with a blood-red handle. As the door groaned open, motion-sensor lights flickered to life, revealing a world of impossible luxury. The room was draped in gold leaf and velvet, with murals of Olympian gods adorning the walls. Most depicted the debauchery of Dionysus or the scandalous affairs of Zeus.
“A bit tacky compared to the Salon, isn’t it?” Lady News remarked, her suede boots clicking on the polished floor.
“It isn’t for galas,” Jimmy explained. “It’s for gaming, private performances, and… other diversions. Mr. Franco and his associates were in a private suite at the end of this hall.”
Jimmy led them into the suite. It was expansive: a central lounge connected to a gaming room on the right, with a restroom and a small bathroom on the left. During the night of the shooting, the bodyguards and servants had stayed in the lounge while the bosses gambled behind closed doors.
“Around nine-thirty, Mr. Franco came out and went to the restroom,” Jimmy said, his voice trembling. “Less than two minutes later, I heard the shot. I kicked the door in immediately. He was on the ground. I used my jacket to apply pressure to the wound and shouted for someone to call an ambulance. Gods… he’s still unconscious. What if he never wakes up?”
“Are you certain no one else was in that restroom?” Report Man asked, his pen hovering over his notebook.
“I’m positive. There were eight of us in this lounge the whole time. None of us used that restroom all night. The only person to go in there was a Mr. Stark, but that was half an hour before Franco entered. When I burst in, the room was empty. No killer, no weapon. It makes no sense.”
“No security cameras, I assume?” Spion asked, scanning the ceiling.
“People of this stature value their privacy,” Jimmy said. “No cameras. And the house only takes cash.”
“Cash?” Report Man’s eyebrows shot up. “So they weren’t just playing poker, they were gambling for real.”
Jimmy nodded silently.
“Any other visitors?” Report Man pressed.
“Only staff. The dealer was in the room with the bosses, and two waitresses were serving drinks. But none of them went near the restroom.”
Trevor walked toward the left of the suite. A light turned on automatically, illuminating a small foyer. To the right was the restroom; to the left, a private bathroom. He pushed open the restroom door. The space was bright and smelled of fresh pine, designed for total privacy. A sleek washbasin faced the door, a urinal stood to the left, and a golden toilet—shaped almost like a throne—sat to the right.
“So he was sitting on his ‘throne’ when someone took a shot at him?” Spion followed him in, his tone a mix of disbelief and dark humor. He pointed to a few dark, dried bloodstains near the base of the toilet.
Trevor looked up. There was a small vent in the ceiling, but it was far too narrow for a human to crawl through. It was a textbook locked-room mystery.
“Locked rooms are usually the result of a mechanical trap or a killer hiding in plain sight,” Spion muttered, examining the walls for hidden panels or tripwires.
“We have a long list of people to interview,” Trevor said, realizing the room offered no easy answers. They stepped back out into the lounge.
“Find anything?” Lady News asked.
“Nothing physical,” Trevor admitted.
“The police took photos, but they’re stumped,” Jimmy added. “No gun was found on the premises. The doctors recovered the slug—it’s a small caliber. They think it came from a .25 pistol.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in there? Anything that felt out of place?” Trevor asked.
Jimmy hesitated. “I was panicking. I remember the blood, the hospital, calling Isabel and Victoria… but wait.” He paused, a memory flickering. “I think Mr. Franco was trying to open the Tinderbox when he was hit.”
“He had the Tinderbox with him?” Trevor asked sharply.
“Yes. He took the cash suitcase and my belt bag, where the Tinderbox was kept, into the gaming room. He took the belt bag with him into the restroom. When I found him, his hand was still on the zipper. He was trying to get it open.”
“Where is the box now?” Report Man asked.
“I gave it to Isabel at the hospital. It’s definitely the fake,” Jimmy said. “The original candle had a specific pattern carved into the base, and the box was lined with red velour. This one is just a hollow shell that looks right on the outside.”
“The fake only mimics the exterior,” Trevor mused. “Which means whoever made it had no idea what was actually inside.”
“What does the Tinderbox actually do?” Lady News asked. “It can’t just be for firelighting.”
“I don’t know,” Jimmy sighed. “He never used it in front of me. He just said it was his father’s.”
“It looks like our next stop is a visit with Isabel,” Report Man said, closing his notebook. “We need to talk to her and see that fake for ourselves.”