Tripp

by Irish Winters

  “You’re that profiler Alex hired?” Chase’s dark eyes glazed over Jameson as if he found him wanting. Which Tripp certainly did. Could the guy even fire a weapon and hit something besides the broad side of a really big barn? Could he hit anything at all? Protect anyone?

  “What else do you know about our killer?” Jameson asked without answering.

  Chase huffed, then rolled one massive shoulder and loosened the knot in his black tie, as if he needed more air—or patience. He shot his next question at Mark. “Honestly, this is all the help you’re going to give me? I’ve got a psycho in town, and you think dumping a visually impaired agent on me is going to—”

  “The word is blind, Director Chase. Visually impaired is just PC speak. May I call you Tucker?” Jameson asked evenly, his face devoid of emotion, his round dark glasses now facing Chase. “And yes, I’m blind as the proverbial bat. So, ask me how I knew your victims are all female?”

  Chase raked that same hand over his head. “Jesus Christ, call me shithead for all I care. I don’t have time for this bull—”

  “Excuse me, but I’d never disrespect another former SEAL by calling him names.” Jameson leaned into the bigger, wider man standing across from him. “Asshole, maybe. Never shithead. I’ll be honest, sir. It’s in the tone of your voice, the way you and every other male around this table breathed while you clicked through those slides. But mostly…”

  He paused and turned, aiming those dark spectacles at Tripp, almost as if he could see him sitting across from him. “It’s in your heart rates. All of you. Decent men react differently when the victim is female. You’re offended and disgusted by what you’re seeing, which means each murder scene is brutal and graphic, because face it. We’ve all seen our share of death. Simple observation. Nothing magical or mysterious about it. I’m offended, too, but I’m missing the visual stimuli that makes a decent man stiffen with rage, makes him breathe hard, or stop breathing all together. Makes him sweat, crack his knuckles when he clenches his fist, so tight, he could scream. When he’s angry enough to want to kill.”

  Tripp looked down at his white knuckles, blown away that Jameson had pegged him so accurately. “I would kill to protect women,” he admitted quietly. “Any woman. Any child. Young men, too.” But especially Ashley and my mom. Okay, Trish, too.

  Jameson cocked his head onto his other shoulder. “Trust me, Tripp. I would, too, though I suspect your reasons are more… personal.”

  He paused, his nostrils flared, as if he could scent Tripp’s real reason for wanting to put this mad dog down. As if he sensed Tripp’s need to avenge the crime against Abdul Ikram, and Tripp’s love for his stupid, missing sister. His sudden feelings for Ashley. He moved his fists under the table, in case Jameson could scent his sweaty palms, too.

  “I pick up on things only an observant, dumb, blind man can, Director Chase.” Jameson had turned back to Tucker. “Which is why I also know this murderer lives or works in the immediate area. This location means something to him. It’s important, maybe because he can see it from wherever he lives or works. We’re definitely looking for a male.”

  Man, that was the wildest guess. Tripp looked to Mark, expecting a quiet rebuff for Jameson’s speaking to an FBI director like he had. But Mark was leaned back in his chair and smiling, one long leg sprawled alongside the table, and tapping the eraser end of a mechanical pencil on the tabletop.

  Tucker’s eyes turned black as sin. “You’re the one who took out Lucy Delaney during that sting at Boston Harbor, didn’t you?” he pointedly asked Jameson.

  Tripp’s neck snapped as he turned to face his friend. He’d heard about that risky, awesome take-down when he’d been in Seattle. “That was you?”

  Jameson didn’t answer that question, either. Just sat there tapping his finger.

  “I never said you were dumb,” Tripp breathed, in case this peculiar agent could read minds. Now I’m worried I’ve completely underestimated you.

  “Think about it, gentlemen.” Jameson addressed the room with the quiet resolute confidence Tripp had only witnessed a couple times in his life. Once in Kabul. Again with Alex Stewart. “I live in a world without color, light, or shadow. Also without the distraction of those visual stimuli. Because I’m blind, the universe opens up to me in ways it doesn’t open to you. Trust me, I’ve worked my ass off to acquire these observation skills, but I also pay damned close attention. I focus on details others miss or might pass off as insignificant. Would I rather have my sight back? Absolutely. But I’m still useful, and I intend to end this motherfucker once and for all.”

  Finally. A king-sized curse from this meeker than shit agent. Tripp liked the sound of that. Guess a SEAL still lived behind that pretty exterior after all.

  “And he can kick your ass any day,” Mark added drily, directing that comment at Tucker. “Jameson is our resident Krav Maga expert. General Ben Amin trained him. Your own agent saw him fire those three shots into the precise location where Delaney was hiding that day, and I’ll have you know that each of those rounds hit their mark. Check the ME’s report. Jameson acted purely on muscle training and his uncanny sense of spatial awareness. That’s what ended Delaney. She never expected a blind man would be the one to take her down. She thought wrong. Jameson works as hard now as he did active-duty. He might not be psychic, but he might as well be. He’s as deadly as you, Tuck. Maybe more so.”

  That put the final nail in Tucker’s ‘this is all you’ve got?’ coffin. The muscles in his stiff neck worked as he swallowed whatever remark lingered at the tip of his tongue. Finally, he sat down and began working with The TEAM.

  Chapter Twelve

  The only reason he’d found her again so quickly was pure destiny. He’d simply followed the guy from his apartment in Olde Alexandria, and, just as he’d suspected, she was with the fool she’d called a hero. See? Patterns and promises and destiny.

  He’d watched as the brute from Friday night’s gallant rescue parked his equally large, yet unimpressive, truck at the curb. Unintelligent jocks tended to like big, big trucks. Penis envy and all. And bingo, his elusive little minx had fallen out of the truck into the brute’s dirty hands. Which made him angry, that another man should touch her so brazenly. So intimately. But if there was one trait he excelled at, it was patience. After all, good things came to those who waited.

  Which brought him to this bench in the King Street Gardens Park, a tiny triangle of green space caught between Diagonal Road, Daingerfield Road, and the ever-busy King Street. Where he could watch the comings and goings of everyone who entered that five-story, brick building across the way. The building where she was now.

  A sliver of cool, deep, dark shade during the summer months, the park was known for its quaint touristy touches. It boasted a small sunken pool hidden within a massive hanging garden of climbing wisteria, the vine held up by an artistic rendering of stainless-steel pipes. The bricks underfoot supported the spiraling metalwork that, in turn, supported all those creeping vines and their ugly, dirty-purple flowers. It was said that George Washington laid out the streets that confined this little piece of history. Too bad he hadn’t chosen better greenery when he did.

  How he hated wisteria. Once it rooted, a man simply could not kill the tenacious woody weed. It had to be hacked to death, its roots poisoned, burned, hacked some more, then poisoned again. Even after all that, one could never be sure it was dead until the following spring. On second thought…

  Maybe there was room in the world for the obnoxious plant. It wasn’t completely unlike Ashley Cox. She had proven hard to kill as well. Hmmm.

  This cold, metal park bench was a wretched place to watch the world go by after the sun set. But people watching was a lot like fishing. It took patience most didn’t have the time nor the brains to develop. Most everyone these days wasn’t intelligent. A wise man could bank on that. They just lived and lived and lived until… Oops, they didn’t.

  The way the metal arbor contained t
hose twisted, wretched, woody branches, reminded him of cold, slimy snakes in a wire cage. Their flowers gave off a heavy, pungent stink. He much preferred cherry trees. Their blossoms were fragrant and sweet. Just like Ashley Cox...

  A nasty curse caught his ear, then his eye. A tramp. A real slut, this time. Short, skanky leather skirt. Hard, mean eyes like all the others he’d entertained. She was crossing the street against traffic and in such a hurry. Stupid bitch didn’t have a clue he was there.

  A smile curled his lips. Maybe tonight wasn’t about Ashley Cox after all. No matter. He’d found Ashley once. He could find her again…

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Sit,” Mother ordered the moment Tripp stepped away with Jameson and Beau. “Ember’s on maternity leave. Grab her chair. Everyone’s working late tonight, which means we have to feed them. I’m busy, so you need to place an order for soup and subs.”

  “I can do that,” Ashley answered cheerily. Might as well keep busy while Tripp was in his meeting. Like him, both those other men he’d left with were so darned handsome, either could’ve stepped out of GQ or off a Chippendale calendar. All the guys in this office she’d seen or met so far were that kind of polished and ripped.

  “Thanks,” the petite, silver-haired woman with the odd name answered. She pointed one lovely, manicured nail to the list of phone numbers below the edge of the countertop. “Dial nine to get an outside line, then call the Soup Bowl over on Prince Street. Number’s right there. Here’s the order.” She handed Ashley an eight-by-eleven sheet of ruled paper with a couple dozen sub-sandwiches, chips, and soup orders listed. “Include something for yourself. Tripp usually gets a twelve-inch steak and swiss, salt and pepper with oil and vinegar. No tomatoes. Extra onions. If Harvey answers, tell him he still owes me a gallon of chicken noodle soup.”

  Ashley nodded as the phone rang in her ear. It took a few minutes to order, then to verify the lengthy list, but Harvey was a kick to work with. He seemed to already know the list by heart, and ended with a sassy, “Thank you, thank you! You tell that sweetheart, Mother, I’ll send her two gallons of soup. One frozen for later, one piping hot for tonight. Tell her she still owes me a dance and a kiss!”

  Ashley glanced sideways at the taciturn woman at her side. She danced? “Sure, I’ll tell her. When will everything be ready for me to pick up?”

  He all but squealed, “You must be new! I always deliver to my best customers. Give me forty-five minutes. I’ll hurry. Tell Mother that, would you?”

  Ashley passed the message along. “Harvey says everything will be here in forty-five minutes, and he’ll hurry.”

  “Tell him it’s about time. I’m tired of him being late.”

  Which Harvey overheard, judging by the delighted laugh at his end. “One lightning quick order, coming right up!” he declared as he disconnected the call.

  “That man,” Mother huffed. “Just like every other. All talk, no action.”

  Ashley wasn’t sure what to do with that comment, so she placed the phone back into its charger and took a moment to absorb her new surroundings. The customer service desk seemed to be the central hub in this wide-open bay, dissected by three-foot walls and desktops of granite with polished steel accents. Each cubicle held one high-back leather office chair, two smaller wooden chairs, a credenza that ran the length opposite the doorway, and file cabinets. There were no walls for hanging pictures, but most desktops were cluttered with framed photos and personal items.

  “He also said you owe him a kiss and a dance.”

  Mother clucked. “What I owe him is a foot up his ass. But just like every other man in my life, he doesn’t use those two things flapping on the sides of his head. Don’t know why the Lord wasted time putting ears on men. They don’t use them. Name me a single guy who ever really listened to you. Humph.”

  Tripp came to mind, but Ashley opted for silent observation instead of active participation. Mother was as prickly as a porcupine.

  “Men don’t have any idea what we women go through for them. Take my boss, for instance. I’ve served, damn it, maybe not in the military, but I’ve worked as hard and as much as anyone on this TEAM. I’ve given my heart to these people. All of them! But what do I get in return? Nothing but more work and… and…” She turned away, but Ashley caught the covert index finger swipe under her nose. “He won’t even consider my suggestions. Dumb ass thinks he knows everything. Never mind. Not your concern.”

  “This is a big office,” Ashley replied thoughtfully, not sure what else to say. “I work for the city. We don’t have anything as nice as this.”

  “And that’s another thing. Alex is a good businessman, but foremost, he’s a hard charging Marine. He wants to be out in the field, working with his men and women, not holed up here in meetings all day, or over on Capitol Hill, negotiating with senators and White House staff. I could do all that for him, and I’d be glad to, only… Sheesh. Why am I telling you?”

  “Because you need someone impartial to talk to,” Ashley said, as she leaned closer into this obviously upset woman. Working alongside Health and Human Services professionals, currently with Doctor Frankel, who oversaw the testing and treatment of STDs, including AIDS patients, she’d had some experience with distraught mothers and fathers.

  Mother’s eyes shot bright-blue daggers at her. “I hate when he calls me Mom,” she hissed. “He thinks he’s being clever, but he’s not, and it… it…” There went that slender finger again, as her other hand delved into a nearby box of tissues and pulled several out. “Men!” she huffed.

  “It hurts when we think no one understands us,” Ashley sympathized, though she still wasn’t sure why Mother found that nickname offensive. It wasn’t much different than what everyone called her now. When Jameson said it, it sounded like an endearment, not a sting. “That was Jameson, right?”

  “Yes, that’s him, and I know he’s not trying to be an ass, but…” She blew out another hiss. “He is. They all are.”

  Ashley found herself cocking her head the same way the agent in question had done moments earlier. Maybe that’s what was going on. He already knew what Ashley now suspected, but didn’t dare say. The word Mom was a trigger, yet he kept pulling it. Why? The only answer Ashley could come up with was that Jameson recognized the pent-up anger boiling behind Mother’s temper. Was he purposefully goading her? Did he understand how close she was to the edge? More importantly, would he know what to do with her when she fell apart?

  “I have PTSD.” That was the last thing Ashley expected to confess when she’d tagged along with Tripp. Yet here she was, playing counselor to his emotionally distraught secretary. Giving it her best shot.

  Mother hmphed. “Join the club. Everyone around here does. Even Alex. Damn him.”

  “Even you,” Ashley dared breathe.

  “Me? No, I most certainly do not, and don’t you start on me. That’s the trouble with everyone on this TEAM. They all think they’re smarter than me, that they know what I’ve been through, and what I should do. But they don’t. They don’t know a damned thing about me.”

  Which, to Ashley, meant that Mother thought she was not only smarter than everyone else, but that she didn’t need anyone. Which was just plain sad. Ashley tread extra carefully.

  “I was attacked once,” she murmured, swallowing hard as the memory came roaring back. Talk about a trigger. There was hers, a heart-stopping recollection that could still push her over the edge in a heartbeat. But this trigger had nothing to do with what happened Friday night. Not a thing. This attack happened two years ago. Yet she continued. Sometimes sharing helped others. “He said he came to fix the thermostat in my apartment. I was in college. In between roommates. Instead, he was only there to hurt me.”

  Mother stopped what she was doing. “Oh, you poor thing.”

  Ashley nodded. Yes, for a long time she’d been just that, a poor, poor broken little thing, afraid of her own shadow and scared to death of men. All men. But she’d
taken advantage of the experts she now worked with. She’d gotten a referral for a good counselor, and she was earnestly working to not be the frightened puddle of fear she’d been after that awful moment in her past life. Past was the key she clung to. That kind of brutal event would never happen again. It couldn’t. The statistics were stacked against that. Lightning did not strike in the same place twice.

  Friday night was proof positive of that. Her attacker had just been a kid, a young man hooked on drugs. Not a malevolent killer like that other guy. Sure, the kid Friday night had cut her, but he hadn’t meant to. It was the drugs. He was sick. He needed help, not the beating he’d ended up getting, and all because an angry angel had appeared out of nowhere and saved her. No matter what she thought about his brand of justice, she was alive today because of that masculine, potty-mouthed, handsome as heck, avenging angel.

  Was she stupid or what? Ashley almost fanned herself thinking of the man behind that grease paint. Where was he tonight? Saving someone else? No doubt. He probably did that all the time.

  “But I’m not a poor thing anymore,” she told Mother, firmly shoving the more painful recollection of the two assaults into her past. “I still have panic attacks, though. Had a nasty one earlier today, but Tripp was there, and, umm… he helped me through it, and I guess what I’m trying to say is…” She’d lost her train of thought, so she reached out and took Mother’s hand. “I don’t know what happened with you. Heck, I don’t even know why everyone calls you Mother. But I didn’t get the sense that Jameson meant to be mean when he called you Mom. He doesn’t strike me that way.”

  “He’s not,” she breathed, her voice so soft Ashley had to lean in closer to hear her. “He’s sensitive and sweet, most days. He’s thoughtful, and he always brings me something he thinks I’ll like. Nothing big. Just knick-knacks. Junk mostly. Sometimes a flower. It’s just that…”