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
