Tripp wanted to kick his own ass. Once again, he’d frightened her by charging full-speed ahead without thinking. His rough-and-ready style might work in combat and on the streets at night, but it sucked boulders in relationships. Not that he had a relationship with Ashley, but—
“Yes. You do,” Jameson whispered, so damned quietly that Tripp wasn’t sure he’d heard the guy right. Had he just answered Tripp’s unspoken question. Was he clairvoyant?
“Yes, Jameson and I would like to talk with you, Ashley,” Tripp admitted more easily once his lungs filled with air and his head with cool, calm enlightenment. Since the moment he’d seen her, he’d known Ashley was different, that she was tiny and timid and special. It was time to admit that much, at least to himself. He punctuated that calm affirmation with the exclamation point of his most sincere smile.
Her eyes lit up when he did that, which soothed him more than she could possibly know.
Mark, Director Chase, Beau, and several agents were now gathered around the customer service desk, watching Jameson usher Ashley away from them, toward the opposite hallway.
“I’ll make sure Tripp keeps it short, Mark,” Jameson said. “We’ll be right back.”
Tripp held his hand out to Ashley when she rounded the corner, but Jameson intercepted him with the ease of a jungle cat and pulled her into his side with a firm, “You’ll be fine, girlfriend. I’ve got you.”
Girlfriend? Like hell! You’ve got her? Shit, damn, and son of a bitch! It was a struggle keeping his inner Neanderthal on its leash, with Jameson taking control of his girl—err, ahh, neighbor—as smoothly as he had. Who the hell did Jameson think he was?
Walking behind the visually impaired agent, who seemed to know a helluva lot more about women than most sighted guys, was one hell of an endurance test. Tripp rolled his neck, not sure why Jameson was getting on his last nerve. The guy was engaged. He’d seen him with Maddie. They adored each other. But he was… So. Damned. Smooth!
Chapter Seventeen
Tripp’s friend Jameson was as calm as he was expressive. They were mismatched bookends, both seated kitty-corner from her at one end of the conference table, both in TEAM black, and both handsome. But where Tripp was deeply tanned and sandy-blond with a definite windblown, rough-and-ready look, Jameson was dark-haired and as neat as a pin. He’d even interlocked his fingers on the table in front of him, when he’d taken his seat. They were both dressed business casual, but Jameson had yet to capture the essence of the word. If anything, he was James Bond elegant, even in jeans. Although scruff shadowed his jaw, Jameson appeared more focused. Intense. Controlled, but in a kinder, gentler way than Tripp. Even his dark hair was under control, parted, and combed like a choirboy’s.
Tripp did casual like a scruffy tomcat on the prowl. He was reactive, make that, over-reactive. Everything he did seemed based on intense emotion. On his heart.
Still not sure why they wanted to talk with her, Ashley splayed her sweaty fingers on the table top to calm her jittery nerves. She needed the strength emanating from the cold, hard granite, as well as a barrier between her and the guys, to keep that sneaky panic attack at bay. Wow, this one had come on suddenly. Poor Tripp had only asked where she’d gone to college. It wasn’t as if he’d asked, even hinted about what happened that day.
The opposite wall was one huge, floor-to-ceiling window facing the sunset. The King Street Metro Station and the George Washington Memorial Masonic Temple loomed over busy autumn traffic to the west. The King Street free bus had just lumbered out of the metro parking lot. She wished she were on it.
Jameson’s calmness instantly set Ashley at ease. She’d settled down the moment he’d pulled her into his side. Tall, dark, and handsome, he leaned over his interlocked hands now, his face turned toward her. “Ashley, I meant what I said. This won’t take long. You can leave any time you choose. Just say the word.”
“W-w-what’d I do?”
Tripp rested his hand on the back of her chair. “Nothing. Sorry if my question startled you.” He cleared his throat. “Just want to ask something in private. That’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
“Why was everyone looking at me?”
Jameson’s face cracked into a sincere, open smile that made it easier for her to breathe. “We do come across like gangbusters once in a while, don’t we? Sorry about that. But the FBI has asked us to assist them in a murder investigation, and we’re on a short suspense. Stop us if we get too personal, okay?”
She nodded but then said, “Sure,” when she remembered he couldn’t see. “Have you always been blind?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Lost my sight courtesy of a stinky, little donkey and two deaf boys taking a joyride in the middle of the Afghanistan desert.” His right hand skimmed the dark shadow on his jaw. “My SEAL team and I were in the middle of a firefight. Couldn’t let those kids get themselves killed, so there we were, chasing after the donkey those boys were taking a joyride on.”
“I didn’t know that,” Tripp muttered, his brows furrowed and his face turned to his partner.
“Never mind. It was a stupid question,” Ashley breathed. “Of course, you weren’t born blind, or you wouldn’t have been a SEAL.”
Jameson nodded. “I still am. A SEAL, that is. Anyway, after a couple of us guys charged out to save those boys, little Eeyore got scared and set off a string of buried IEDs.”
“Improvised explosive devices,” Tripp translated.
“Oh, no.” Ashley didn’t want to hear the rest of this story.
“Oh, yes.” Jameson’s lips pinched. “The ISIL soldiers we were fighting had set the perfect trap. They knew Americans wouldn’t let those kids die. Guess we’re dumb like that. Lost two friends and two perfectly good retinas that day. But let’s talk about you. Where’d you go to school? You are from around here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I grew up in—”
The door slammed open, banged into the wall, startling everyone.
“Boss?” Tripp cranked his head around. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Director Tucker Chase,” Jameson said calmly, gesturing to Ashley. “May I introduce Tripp’s neighbor, Ashley Cox?”
The fierce-looking guy with black eyes and dark hair, the same one who’d glared at her from Mother’s counter, growled, “Nice to meet you, Ashley Cox. Guys, APD has another vic. Move out with me or sit tight, I don’t care. But I’m leaving now.”
Wow, he was rude. Ashley stood because Tripp and Jameson did.
“We’re going with you,” Jameson replied. “Ashley, we’ll be back later to talk with you if you don’t mind.”
“Move it!” the rude man bellowed. “Hustle! I’ll be in the garage, waiting. Be there in five, or I’m leaving without you.”
“Go. I’ll be fine,” Ashley told Tripp and Jameson, fluttering her fingers to make them hurry and leave.
“Stay here,” Tripp ordered, but then he added, “Please,” more gently.
She gave him her best smile, then watched them race after Director Chase. A flurry of activity followed them. More men. More urgent chatter. These people took their jobs seriously, and she liked that. By the time she walked into the hall, the office was quiet, and Tripp was gone. So were Mark and just about everyone else. Two agents, a man and a woman she didn’t recognize, were the only ones still at their desks. Even Mother was nowhere in sight. Sandwiches lay half-eaten. The debris from their late dinner over-filled the trash can beside the customer service counter.
Ashley drew in a deep breath, proud of herself for having taken her first successful step back to normalcy. She’d done it. After two long years, she’d finally cracked the shell she’d been hiding in. She’d left her apartment, and she’d done it at night. Okay, so she’d had another tiny, sneaky panic attack, but she was feeling better now.
The agents still in the office were engrossed with whatever was on the huge monitor behind Mother’s desk. She wasn’t there, so Ashley figured, why not? She’d m
eant what she’d told Tripp. She didn’t need a babysitter, and she didn’t want to sit around until he returned. He had important work to do. She was in the way. It was time to go home.
Chapter Eighteen
Tonight sucked. Another murdered hooker, from what APD dispatch relayed. An elderly couple out for their evening walk found her on the walkway behind the Chinquapin Park Rec Center. Same MO. Same bloody scene. APD cordoned off the area.
Tripp’s gut had churned enough while he and Jameson geared up in The TEAM armory before charging to the scene. Tucker had left without them, the ass. He was already on-site, asking terse, pertinent questions, gathering names, times, and details. A man in an ankle-length winter coat, had to be APD’s crime photographer, snapped photos from all angles of the scene, the shadowy surroundings, even the boisterous onlookers. Some gawkers videoed him and Jameson as they walked to the death scene. Others had their backs to it so they could capture selfies, ‘live-on camera.’ Which, no doubt, would be on YouTube within minutes.
Disgusted to the depths of his warrior’s soul at the crass antics, Tripp headed for the heart of the scene, to the poor woman who’d been murdered. He’d never understand this new generation. Refused to try.
“Steady,” Jameson murmured, toggling his white cane back and forth on the lawn ahead, his chin up and his nose in the air. It was as if he could scent where they needed to go. Without Tripp saying anything, Jameson had zeroed in on the location of their target, inadvertently tapping Beau’s leg when he passed by.
“Hey, guys,” Beau muttered when he looked up and saw them. “It’s bad. Real bad. This one’s not much older than us.”
Most hookers these days weren’t. Seemed as if women started working the streets younger every year.
“We’ve seen real bad before,” Tripp replied, elbowing his way to where Tucker now stood over the vic with his hands on his hips. Damn, he was an arrogant son of a bitch.
The big guy glared at Jameson when he and Tripp cleared the police tape, and that pissed Tripp off. Tucker Chase might be an FBI director at the Bureau. He might run the only FBI psychic team. But Jameson was a TEAM agent, damn it. That made him a brother, and brothers stood together. Tucker could take his high and mighty SEAL attitude and shove it where the sun didn’t shine.
Reaching his free hand out, Jameson grabbed Tripp’s elbow, which was annoying, but okay. Tripp got it. The blind guy needed help getting through the crowd of APD officers, detectives, and EMTs, as well as the over-active photographer.
“Coming through,” Tripp announced, until he and Jameson were finally within gagging distance.
Beau was spot-on. Gruesome was too generous a word. The woman lay face up. She’d been brutally beaten. Her face was hamburger. Her throat had been cut, and there was so much blood on the grass under her. Beside her. Everywhere. For the most part, she was still dressed, but her tiny leather skirt was torn. Oddly, four EMTs, two on each side of her, were working furiously to save her.
Tripp couldn’t believe it. “She’s alive?”
“Yes,” Tucker replied grimly. “The old guy interrupted our killer in the act. He’s a Vietnam vet. Scared him off with his Smith and Wesson. His wife called 9-1-1 while he started first-aid. If not for them, this vic would be on her way to King Street Junction.”
Tripp glanced sideways at the older couple, separated now from each other. Both were silver-haired, each talking with different officers. Tripp pegged them both close to seventy years old, but they looked spry and bright-eyed. That was good. They’d be credible witnesses.
“She’s fighting to live,” Jameson murmured, his dark glasses focused downward as if he could see and hear the victim. “Do we know her name?”
Tucker shook his head. “These gals don’t carry more than a shittin’ tiny purse big enough to hold a couple prepackaged baby wipes, maybe a few bills. Lipstick. Stupid shit like that. But no ID.”
“Did our Good Samaritan get a good look at the killer? Are we sure it’s the same guy?” Jameson asked.
“For hell’s sake, look at the vic’s throat, you moron. What do you think?”
Tripp didn’t answer, but Jameson couldn’t see to look at the vic’s throat, damn it. And Tucker knew that. He needed to back off.
“Tell me what you see, Tripp,” Jameson said evenly. “Lend me your eyes. What are we looking at?”
“Blood,” Tripp replied as he crouched alongside one of the EMTs. Jameson crouched with him, then hooked a hand over his shoulder. “Adult female. Weight, maybe a hundred pounds. Five feet tall. Throat’s been cut. Fingernails are bloody and broken. Looks like she fought back.” Except… “No…” breathed out of Tripp. “It can’t be. No-no-no!”
He shrugged Jameson’s hand off, then batted it away when Jameson couldn’t leave well enough alone and grabbed his jacket sleeve. The few fingernails not broken on this vic were painted a garish, flat black—Trish’s signature shade. The tarnished pewter ring in the shape of a coiled snake with green glass eyes on her right hand cinched what he didn’t want to believe. Middle finger. Her continual fuck-off to him. To her mom. To the world.
“Shit, no, no, no,” he hissed, as the universe narrowed down to the ravaged woman bleeding into the ground in front of him. “It can’t be her. Shit, damn, and son of a bitch! No!”
But it was her. His obnoxious twin. Trish McClane.
Tripp leaned forward, desperate to cradle what was left of his sister, to protect her from the gawkers and reporters. From every gawddamned one! No one had a right to—
Jameson caught him. Held him tight. Held him back. “I’ve got you, brother,” he growled, his voice hard, and his hand on Tripp’s shoulder so damned steady.
“Get the fuck off me, Tenney!” Tripp roared, elbowing Jameson hard in his ribs, ready to fight to protect what little he had left of his one and only sister. His twin, for God’s sake! “You’re not my brother. Can’t you see? That’s my sister, gawddamnit! Tripp and Trish, that’s us. That’s who we are. Were! We were born minutes apart and…and…” He forgot what he’d needed to say. Of course Jameson couldn’t see!
“I know, I know,” Jameson replied gently, his head bowed, but his fingers still holding on. “You can’t touch her, Tripp. Not yet. We have to follow protocol, or we’ll never catch the man who did this to her. Let the EMTs and police do their job first, then—”
“But it’s…it’s her. Can’t you see?” He couldn’t help asking that stupid question! “I can’t just leave my sister here, Jameson. Not like this.” He couldn’t think straight. God, his mom! This would kill her. How could he face her, tell her that Trish had been attacked and nearly killed? That she might still die? It’d been hard enough that she’d disappeared like she had, that she’d ever thought hooking was smart or sexy or worth the cash she made from selling her body. Her soul!
“I’m not going anywhere, Tripp,” Jameson said as firmly as ever. “I might not be your flesh-and-blood brother, but I’ve got you.”
He needed to shut the fuck up! “You’ve got nothing,” Tripp roared, pissed that this guy kept saying his name like he knew anything about him or his sister. Like they were friends. They weren’t! “You can’t even see her! What do you know?!”
“I know death is a cheating, motherfuckin’ bitch with no heart,” Jameson murmured, his voice so low Tripp had to shut up to hear him. “It doesn’t ask permission, and it doesn’t care who it takes or how. It just takes and takes and—”
Tripp whirled on his knee, cocked his fist back, ready to knock the shit out of Jameson’s sanctimonious big mouth. And he would have. Could have easily pounded the blind guy, who’d just hit the nail in his heart on its gawddamned head, until—Tripp caught the sparkle welling behind the bottom rim of Jameson’s dark glasses.
Tripp’s bluff and bluster evaporated into the cold, thin air. Shit. This awful scene had impacted more than just him. It was killing Jameson, too. For the first time since he’d hired on with The TEAM, Tripp liked the
mild-mannered guy. Lowering his fist, Tripp leaned back on his butt, and sucked in a deep breath. Swallowed. Looked at the bloodied body of the once-upon-a-time innocent little girl he might never get to argue with, tease, hug, or worry about again.
Gawddamn her. Why couldn’t Trish have made different choices?
Watching the medics work on her was hard on his heart. They’d stuck two IVs into each arm, one saline solution, the other blood. Which meant the trauma to her throat was so critical that a local doctor was on duty, right here, working alongside the EMTs to save her life, maybe prepping her to be life-flighted to the nearest trauma ward. Most EMTs didn’t stock blood. It was too hard to store and had a short shelf life. But the guys and gals that flew Air Med did. They were affiliated with specific hospitals and saw more trauma. The truth hit Tripp like a knock-out punch. Trish might not make it this time.
God, he needed a miracle.
He wiped away the bitter tears he hadn’t realized were dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. Looking closer, it registered how profound Jameson’s grief was. His cheeks were wet, and that made Tripp think of his poor mom. Andy had a soft heart. But mostly, Tripp wished it was him lying on the grass instead of Trish. Because that was how Andy would take this death. She’d be losing her baby girl, and somehow, Tripp thought that would hurt his mom worse than her losing him. He’d been a warrior. She’d been prepared to lose him. But Trish? God, Andy had spent nearly all these past years trying to save Trish.
“Come on,” Jameson urged gently, his arm now crooked around Tripp’s neck, his elbow under Tripp’s chin. Not strangling or squeezing, just blocking him from moving further into the horrific scene and taking over. Just holding him back. Like the brother Tripp never had. Like the father he’d never known. Funny how little things, like why his dad had died young, mattered when the world fell apart.
“The last thing I told her was I was working, I was busy. I didn’t have time for her,” he confessed through blurry eyes. Somehow, knowing Jameson couldn’t see his meltdown helped. He’d said that years ago. Hadn’t heard a word from Trish since the day Ikram was murdered. What a fucked-up world, that murder and blood connected people, families, and days like it did.
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