Tripp

by Irish Winters

  Ashley braced for the words she already suspected.

  “I don’t want to be anyone’s mother anymore. I had my chance, and I blew it. Then he makes it worse by calling me Mom.”

  Ashley swallowed hard.

  “I lost her, and I’d give anything to have her back, and now Alex and Ember… They’ve got brand new babies and...” Her head dropped into her hands. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know you.”

  “Kindred spirits,” Ashley said softly. The office noises still clattered and murmured around them, but for a moment, she and Mother were sisters. “A smart person once told me that pain recognizes pain.” And pain was pouring out of Mother. The worst kind, the loss of a child. A daughter. “I can’t imagine anything worse than what you’re going through,” she said as she pressed her fingers around Mother’s forearm. “But if you ever need to talk—”

  “Who are you?”

  Startled, Ashley looked up into a set of crystal blue eyes so sharp, they could’ve passed for lasers. If looks could kill, she had a feeling she’d already be drawn and quartered.

  “Me? I’m nobody, just Tripp’s n-n-neighbor,” she answered breathlessly. Whoever this guy was, he was bigger than life. Dark haired with a hint of silver at his temples. Ruggedly handsome in a scary way. Stern, tanned, and tall, he towered over her. Dressed in a crisp, gray business suit, he looked like he could breathe fire, and burn the entire building down. Authority crackled around him like electricity.

  “Alex?” Mother croaked, furiously wiping her face. “Damn it, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with Kelsey. Wasn’t her doctor’s appointment today?”

  Ah, so this was Alex Stewart. Tripp’s boss. Oh. My. Heck. He was almost as beautiful as Tripp. Only darker. A whole lot darker, not in skin tone but in a predatory, I-own-the-world kind of way.

  “Sasha, her appointment was this afternoon. It’s evening. Already dark,” he breathed, his gaze riveted to Mother and his face a mix of emotions Ashley couldn’t decipher quickly enough. Remorse. Anger. Tenderness. Hate. Affection. All flashed across his countenance like lightning in a rolling thunderstorm.

  One second, he was on the other side of the counter; the next, he’d grabbed Mother out of her chair, and she was glaring up at him. “Damn you, Alex,” she hissed, her fists clenched on the lapels of his suit jacket. “I miss her! Just like you miss Sara and Abby! Is that so hard to understand?”

  “I know, I know,” he replied, his voice husky, his fingers splayed over her shoulder blades as he held on. “Grief is an ocean. You know that. One minute, it’s a free, easy ride, and you’re on top of the world. The next, it’s a fuckin’ tsunami, and you’re drowning. Trust me, there are days I’m still drowning, Kelsey, too. Everyone who’s lost a child feels the same way. The pain never goes away. You just have to hang on when it hits, and let the people you love in.”

  Ashley stuck her heels in the carpet and shoved her chair backward, away from the scene she had no business witnessing. This intimidating male cared about his secretary, but there was no satisfaction in knowing she’d guessed correctly, that Mother had lost a child. So, apparently, had Alex and his wife. What a way to meet the man who owned The TEAM.

  The meeting Tripp was in must’ve been more important than he’d expected. No matter. Ashley knew her way home.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tucker jerked the chair beside Jameson out from the table, turned it around, and straddled it. “So you think we’re dealing with a male?” he asked, snapping his fingers. “Any idea what age? What he might do for a living? What’s he look like?”

  Tripp tipped his chair back onto its rear legs. Damned if he wasn’t as surprised as Director Chase that Jameson actually had mad ninja skills.

  “Age doesn’t matter, sir,” Jameson replied steadily. “Frankly, neither does this guy’s appearance, though he’s probably as ordinary-looking as everyone in this room. What can you tell me about his previous three murders? You said he struck two years ago, then went silent. Do you know that for sure, or is that a calculated guess? If not, let’s check into all nearby states to see if they have unresolved murders that match this guy’s MO. We should investigate prison sentences and release dates that fit his timeline. Military service records, dishonorable and honorable discharges, police officers who might’ve been fired or injured in the line of duty, who might hold a grudge against Alexandria’s police force. Academy candidates, ones who dropped out or who didn’t make the cut. Obvious indicators like those.”

  “Already did,” Tucker answered. “Even had my team run over the crime scenes, looking for psychic hits. Usually Eden can pick up auras or psychic signatures or something. As far as—”

  “Wait.” This Tripp had to hear. “Psychic signatures? Auras? What kind of team do you operate? A bunch of ghost hunters?”

  “They’re really psychics, Tripp,” Beau answered quickly. “Two are Level Tens. I didn’t believe it at first, either, but these guys are good. You ever hear about Doctor Zaroyin? The mad scientist who came up with a way to mechanize living soldiers, but turned them into mindless drones instead?”

  Who hadn’t heard about Zaroyin? “You’re shittin’ me. He works for the FBI?”

  “No, he’s in a maximum-security federal prison for the rest of his life, but Isaiah, his son, works for me,” Tucker answered without a speck of levity in his tone. If anything, his attitude had turned fiercely territorial, like he dared Tripp to say one more word against his team. “And he’s damned good. So are Special Agents Eden and Ky Winchester, Tate Higgins, Keller Boniface, and Harper Kincaid. You got a problem with that?”

  “No, sir, sure don’t.” Nonetheless, Tripp scanned the room, looking for any hint this was a joke on him. Or something. Psychic FBI agents? Really?

  “Agent Chase, tell me about the recent murders,” Jameson said.

  Scowling, Tucker ran a hand up the back of his neck. “Same MO. Three women, all found in the exact same locations as his first three kills. The bodies were positioned like the originals. He staged them, right down to the white roses he put in their mouths. The only thing different is he targeted college students last time, prostitutes this time. Two years ago, he went after single women living alone. Never any in the dorms.”

  “He’s reenacting those old murders,” Beau muttered. “The sick bastard.”

  “Possibly,” Tripp said, tapping his index finger to his bottom lip, wondering why the change. “But why students then, prostitutes now? Serial killers generally operate under specific MOs. If they take a trophy from one vic, they take one from the rest. Could it be this guy’s not particular, just likes killing women?”

  “No. That’d mark a significant shift in his MO, if—and this is just theory—he committed his earlier murders for the same reasons,” Jameson said, “which we still don’t know. Is there any similarity between the victims? Same hair color? Weight, height, anything?”

  “The only things all six have in common is they were nineteen when he killed them, and all attended the same college,” Tucker replied.

  “Which college?” Tripp asked. “Where?”

  “Northern Virginia Community College, here in west Alexandria,” Mark replied. “And yes, I’ve already checked student rolls and teacher backgrounds for any correlation between the males on campus and the victims. Even dug into NVCC’s maintenance employees, grounds keepers, and delivery personnel. Haven’t found anything that stinks, yet.”

  “This creep take any trophies?” Beau asked.

  Tucker nodded across the table. “You saw the crime scene photos. The bastard cuts their throats, then carves their tongues out, clean and neat. We haven’t found anything yet to corroborate that theory. He used a razor-sharp blade, possibly a scalpel. There was one co-ed who got away two years ago. Can’t find her, either. Suspect she moved out of town and changed her name.”

  Tripp’s gut clenched like his fist had earlier. “There were four victims two
years ago? Three murdered, but one got away?”

  Chase nodded glumly.

  “Could she be in Wit Pro?” Mark asked Tucker.

  “Witness Protection has nothing on her. We just know that two years ago, she checked into the free clinic after her assault. She was bruised and bloodied, but wouldn’t submit to a rape kit. Said she didn’t need it. Dumb asses didn’t get her name or ID. Because it’s a free clinic, they don’t always demand identification before they treat someone. They have no written record of treatment, and all I’ve got is hearsay from the nurse on duty that night, a Miss Glenda Buckler. She retired last year, but according to her, the vic came in alone and left after the on-call doctor stitched her. Said she didn’t need or want any more help. That she’d be okay.”

  “Which free clinic?” Tripp asked. “Where was she hurt? Why the stitches?”

  “The one west on King Street.” Tucker made a slicing motion across his neck. “Same type of cut to her throat. Took twenty-three stitches. Plus, a couple over her right eye where the bastard hit her. Buckler also said her forearms were bruised. She was scared to death. Buckler hated to see her leave. But her description of the attack matches the other three, all except for the way it ended.”

  “Isn’t there at least a police report?” Jameson asked.

  Tucker shook his head. “See, that’s why I have Keller climbing through APD’s files. There’s no record of this assault anywhere. All he’s come across so far is the name of the nurse, and all we’ve got is her word.”

  “Which is only hearsay,” Mark murmured. “Thank God victim four got away.”

  “A fat lot of good it does for the other six,” Tucker grouched. “If she’d at least given her name that day, we’d have someone to talk with. Christ, all we need is one gawddamned witness, and we could break this case.”

  “Can’t blame a survivor for hiding,” Tripp said thoughtfully. “She panicked. What woman wouldn’t after being assaulted? At least she got the medical help she needed. That’s what counts.”

  “She paid cash,” Tucker hissed. “Five-hundred forty-four dollars. We don’t even have a money trail or insurance records to follow. Shit.”

  Jameson cocked his head. “She was attacked during the day? Was every other attack at night?”

  “Yes. All of them.”

  “Why did our killer change his MO? Or did he? Why carry out most of his work at night, then deviate that one time? Does time of day even mean anything to him?” Tripp asked, his heart on the timid woman he’d left sitting with Mother. Ashley’d had one helluva panic attack today, and she’d been scared to death Friday night. He could only imagine—

  Exactly what he was imagining right damned now. Son of a bitch! What if she was the woman who’d escaped this same serial killer two years ago? What if Friday night wasn’t the first time she’d been assaulted? It’d be the biggest coincidence in the universe, but her need to hide sounded eerily familiar. Those tells of hers fit a survivor of a vicious attack. Tripp bolted to his feet, needing to make sure that missing victim number four was not Ashley Cox.

  “Hey! We’re not done here. Where are you going?” Chase called after him.

  “To talk with someone,” Tripp yelled over his shoulder. Chase could wait. Ashley could not.

  Shoving Mark’s office door open, he flew down the short hallway to Mother’s counter and ended up nearly running over her. “Where’s Ashley?” he demanded.

  Mother swiped a finger under her red nose. “I thought she was with you. I asked her to order dinner, but it already came and—”

  That was no damned help. Tripp had no patience for Mother’s attitude. Stalking past her, he took quick stock of the work bay. Most agents were laid back, eating sub sandwiches and soup. Talking. Taking a break. But no Ashley.

  Out of that mess of men and women agents, Connor stood. “You lose someone, Tripp?”

  “The woman I came with. You seen her?”

  Connor jerked his head toward the elevator. “Think she left. You need help looking for her?”

  Tripp didn’t answer, just ran for the elevator, and stabbed level one. Why didn’t she do what he’d told her?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ashley blinked in surprise at the two men squared off across from her. Who would’ve guessed there was a boxing ring in the basement of an office building in downtown Alexandria? No wonder the guys upstairs were all physically fit. She’d intended to sneak away after that emotional scene between Alex and Mother. She’d used the restroom first, hoping no one would notice when she made her escape. But when she’d hit the call button for the ground floor, the elevator brought her here, to the basement. But what a basement.

  Curiosity got the best of her. She stepped out of the car and into the most unexpected world she’d ever seen. A high ceiling extended throughout this level. All walls were a bright, glossy white, some darker where the lights weren’t on. To her left stood a full fitness gym in muted darkness, complete with treadmills, recumbent bikes, elliptical machines, weight benches, barbells, an impressive set of heavy-duty weights, and other equipment she couldn’t begin to name.

  An impressive parkour workout course, complete with various sized wooden platforms, vertical beams, as well as horizontal beams that literally climbed one entire wall, filled the expansive, dimly lit room to her right.

  She could smell the chlorine of a nearby swimming pool, but couldn’t see it. Straight ahead, dancing on his toes inside a full-size boxing ring, with ropes, a bell, and everything, was Tripp’s boss. Alex Stewart must’ve come straight down while she was in the restroom. There he was, bobbing and ducking, dancing, and pummeling the heck out of the extra-large, bronzed, bald man in the ring with him. Neither man wore protective head gear, but the other guy was heavier muscled and a tiny bit taller than Alex.

  Both of their white, short-sleeved t-shirts were darkened with sweat. Alex was in red boxing shorts, the other guy in black. They grunted like sweaty, angry bears, both hitting the other’s chin, belly, shoulders, and, well, everything. Alex ducked a wide swing from his opponent that should’ve connected with his head and might’ve knocked him out. The other guy growled something she couldn’t quite hear. But the sound of their leather gloves smacking all that skin and muscle like they meant to kill each other...? Ashley cringed at the pain they eagerly inflicted. How could men stand to do this?

  Tripp’s boss had the other guy in the corner against the ropes. It looked like Alex was winning, until the man ducked his punch. When Alex’s glove skimmed the bigger guy’s head, the guy’s left glove came up under Alex’s chin and nearly knocked his head off. Alex stumbled back, spit, and hissed, “Son of a bitch!”

  How embarrassing. Ashley felt bad for Alex, him being the boss and all. She considered climbing back into the elevator. He didn’t need to know she’d seen that. But he didn’t go down, and he didn’t slow down, either, not even to catch his breath.

  Charging forward, Alex dished out a wicked volley of punishing blows. Smack. Thud. Oomph, oomph, oomph! Like a pissed-off panther against a hefty Rottweiler, he went bonkers on whoever the poor, poor other man was until the guy started laughing behind his raised gloves. “You had enough yet, Boss?”

  “Damn it, Zack, you know better. I don’t give up,” Alex growled, and bam, bam, bam. He beat the crap out of his friend.

  Zack still laughed!

  At last Alex hissed, “Shit! Why can’t I bulk up like you? Son of a bitch, we’ll never be evenly matched. You’re as solid as a bull elephant, just like when we were in the Corps.”

  “And yet you keep beating the hell out of your fists and face.”

  Just that fast, Alex dropped into a three-point crouch, kicked one foot out, hooked it around his bronze opponent’s ankle, and knocked Zack off balance. He’d very nearly righted his much bulkier weight, when Alex was back on his feet. He charged and wrapped both arms around Zack. BOOM! He landed on his back, which made him laugh harder. Pushing Alex off, he leaned
flat to his back, still chuckling. “Should’ve known you’d cheat, you dog. What happened to playing by WBF rules?”

  “Thought those were just guidelines,” Alex huffed while he slipped his gloves off, then leaned over and offered a hand to help his friend to his feet.

  With a bounce off the mat, Zack cuffed Alex’s glistening shoulder. “You still hit like a son of a gun. What’s got you pissed this time?”

  “Same BS.” Raising one arm, Alex swiped it across his forehead.

  “Mother again?”

  “Yessss,” he hissed. “Her ice princess routine is getting old.”

  “Then stop trying to bring her around. Let her go. She hasn’t been happy since she came back anyway.”

  “Can’t. Something’s eating her. She needs us.”

  “Not sure that was ever correct, Boss. Dempsey’s life and death proved it. Mother’s a chameleon. She only shows what she wants us to see. You ever thought of limiting her access? Might be time to consider taking protective measures to keep the company safe.”

  Alex ducked between the ropes, then lifted the top rope for Zack to climb through. “Not going to happen,” he said as he dropped to the floor. “I’m actually considering granting her more access. I’ve got a plan.”

  “You bought that property out west, didn’t you?”

  By then the men were standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling, wire storage shelf that partially blocked Ashley’s view, stowing their gloves into an array of shelves. Each grabbed a white towel from the same open shelving.

  Zack wrapped his around his neck.

  Alex slung his over his shoulder. “Bought that place and the farm to the south of it last month. Already started building.”

  “How many acres?”

  “More than enough for our needs.”

  “You burning through Pops Delaney’s inheritance?”

  The men paused to talk. They still hadn’t noticed Ashley.

  “Hell, no, that’s blood money. If it goes anywhere, it’ll go to the Police Officer Family Survivor’s Fund. They need it. I don’t. My attorney’s working the details. Let him figure a way forward.”