“You got it,” he said as he bolted after Beau and Jameson.
Mark stood at his open office door with another guy as big, wide, and dark-haired as he was. Could’ve been his twin. The resemblance was uncanny. “Guys, FBI Director Tucker Chase. He called this meeting.”
“This all you got?” Director Chase barked. “Three guys?”
Whoa, the sarcasm. Mark saved Tripp from jumping straight into a fist fight with this jerk when he replied, “These three will be more than enough. Come in. Take a seat at my table, guys. How’s the little one, Tuck?”
That mellowed the bastard out. “Growing like a baby pig,” he purred, his fatherly pride evident. “Mel says to tell you she needs another night out with Libby and your girls.”
“Libby will like that. Okay, let’s get started.”
Chase changed back into an ass the second he took command of the opposite end of Mark’s small conference table. He was dressed in the official black on black FBI attire, black tie stark against crisp white dress shirt. Everyone else was TEAM casual: black jeans, black TEAM polo, whatever boots or shoes they wanted.
Office scuttlebutt was that Chase had married Melissa McCormack, billionaire Jed McCormack’s former daughter-in-law. How Chase had snagged the likes of her after Brady McCormack passed, Tripp had no idea.
Chase leaned in like the gorilla he was, braced his fingertips to the table top, and glared down at Tripp, Jameson, and Beau in turn. “Okay, guys, this is going to be quick and dirty, so listen up. We’ve got another serial killer in town. We’re sure it’s the same guy that struck two years ago, then went silent until last weekend.” He snagged the remote to the big screen across the office, clicked it on, and—
“Holy shit,” Beau breathed.
“Jameson,” Mark said. “What we’re looking at is a recent crime scene here in west Alexandria, along Interstate-395, I believe. Right, Tuck?”
“Yes. King Street junction.” Chase clicked again. And again. With each click of that remote, he revealed one bloody death after another. All women. All in skimpy skirts pushed up over their hips, and glittery bras pushed up to their necks, where their throats opened into ghoulish smiles. Their arms and legs were spread wide, and each was displayed like a macabre, pornographic mannequin. There was no doubt the scenes had been staged. A single, long-stemmed, white rose lay across each woman’s bloody, open mouth.
Tripp’s heart stuttered into freefall. King Street extended westward from the Potomac River, through Alexandria for a little over five miles. At King Street Junction, it crossed over Interstate I-395. The junction was an organized snake’s nest of declaration lanes that led to on or off-ramps headed in every direction but up. Coincidentally, King Street Junction, the Winkler Botanical Preserve, the free clinic slash Health Department, and Northern Virginia Community College, were all within walking distance of each other. The young men Tripp had rescued at the Preserve went to NVCC. Worse, any one of these women could have been Ashley. Or Trish. Where the hell was she?
“All bodies were left within the declaration lanes of King Street junction.” Mark provided what Jameson couldn’t see. “Are those southbound, Tuck?”
“Yes. All within this area.” Chase pulled a laser pen from an inside suit jacket pocket as he brought up a map of the I-395 junction. The bright red light ran a circle around one of three small triangular patches of grass between the southbound and the declaration lane of the interstate, which Tripp knew was exit five to King Street. Three patches of grass occupied this quadrant of the busy junction. Three ramps ran between the grassy areas. The far-right off-ramp put a driver immediately west on King Street. The far-left off-ramp went beneath the King Street overpass, where it merged, either onto I-395 or circled back onto King Street. The third spur fed traffic from westbound King Street, across an overpass above I-395, then back around to the southbound on-ramp.
“Which may mean he lives somewhere north,” Beau said.
“Which doesn’t tell us squat,” Chase snapped.
“But why that specific site?” Jameson asked.
Chase ran a hand over his head, “You tell me. It’s out in the open where drivers from at least five different ramps and two busy highways could see him.” He meant the frontage road and the interstate.
“Except they haven’t,” Jameson murmured, “have they?”
“Nope.” Chase popped that P, giving it an impatient, exasperated ring. “Which means he’s an arrogant son of a bitch.”
Jameson tapped his index finger on the table. “Or he’s thumbing his nose at APD and the Virginia Highway Patrol.”
“But that’s not where they were killed,” Mark added. “This guy moves the bodies after the fact, then displays them where everyone can see them. Rigor and lack of blood at the scene verify that much. This is his stage. Damn. That’s hard to look at.”
“Three women,” Jameson stated, not asked. He’d taken the corner chair nearest Chase, facing the screen he couldn’t see. His head canted in what Tripp thought must be his much-touted mad ninja way. Junior Agent Walker Judge, another former SEAL, was the guy who’d recommended Alex hire this sightless agent. He’d coined the silly descriptor, said Jameson had mad ninja skills. Tripp had yet to see any.
“Yup, women,” Tripp told his fellow agent. Like them being female was a big surprise. Then he asked Chase, “All hookers, right?”
The FBI Director’s big chest heaved. “Yes, but what’s concerning is the timeline. He’s murdered two more women since eighteen-hundred hours Friday night. Total time between each murder, at least between each discovery, approximately twenty-four hours.”
Oh, shit. Eighteen-hundred hours was six pm, civilian time. “He struck Friday night?” Tripp asked. “Are you sure?”
Stupid question. One of Chase’s eyebrows spiked to the ceiling. “Of course I’m sure. He murdered victim number one early Friday, but waited to dump her body until right after dark, why?”
Because this creep had been in the same area, at the same time, as Ashley Friday night, possibly while Tripp was with her.
