Next step: Take a breath. Quick glance right. Quicker glance left. Make sure you’re still unseen. Keep working.
His diamond pick came next. Then a lifter. He raked each pick with delicate precision, adjusting the tension wrench as needed. But slowly. Carefully. With every cautious breath, the universe narrowed down to the genius—him—and this one final game.
He cocked his head to listen, both to the pins inside the lock, and for sounds of life on this floor. There were four apartments on each level. He now knew the one directly opposite Ashley Cox was vacant, but in need of new flooring in the bathroom. An older woman occupied the one up the hall, next to the vacant apartment.
But imagine his surprise when he’d broken into the apartment next to Ashley Cox and discovered a photo of the gorilla, who he now knew was Former Army Ranger Tripp McClane. My, my, but his blonde smiling mother didn’t look old enough in that picture to have a son his age, nor a daughter as nasty as that slut he’d left behind the Chinquapin Park Rec Center.
That had been a damned close call. He’d almost been caught and attacked himself. The murderous light in that old fart’s eyes and the way his wife had screamed when they’d seen him and what he’d done to the tramp, had nearly unnerved him. Like a novice, he’d panicked and run. The old bastard had a gun. Jesus, people these days!
But now that he’d settled down, he wondered about the sheer coincidence of it all. The destiny. Brother? Sister? Mother? All caught in the same trap as Ashley Cox? How sweet this particular game was ending. Andrea McClane might just bear looking into… as soon as he was done playing with Ashley Cox.
Maybe this wasn’t the endgame after all, but the match point to the more-deadly game with an Army Ranger. What would that sound like? The scream of a trained soldier when he found his girlfriend and his mother displayed on the gameboard of death? Without any way to tell what happened to them or who tortured them. All games ended in death. Surely a warrior understood that. If Tripp McClane didn’t now, he soon would.
At last, all pins were up. Time to break the lock. Enter his specialized locksmith drill. Inserting the finely machined tip into the lock’s aperture, he squeezed the sensitive trigger. The keyway spun as surely and as quietly as planned. Mission accomplished. No deadbolt could keep him out. Once again, Ashley Cox was vulnerable. Accessible.
Patiently, he stored the tools of his trade, lifted to his feet, and swept the flapping sides of his trench coat behind him. It was time to play—for keeps.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“What do we have?” Tripp called out, as he ducked under the streaming, yellow FBI tape surrounding the latest crime scene.
Several police and city cars lined the opposite side of the street, where he’d parked. A dark gray EZ-up had been constructed over the scene. The ME had already removed the body, but white privacy sheeting still draped three sides of the pop-up tent. APD detectives and police officers were on-site, doing their thing. As were a few local reporters. No surprise there. Vultures always showed up when there was blood.
Cocking his head, no doubt with the frequency of his ninja radar ears turned up extra-high this afternoon, Jameson already faced the direction Tripp had come from.
“Here!” he called out, waving Tripp over. Jameson didn’t have a clue how to dress casually. Back at the hospital, he’d been in TEAM black like everyone else. This afternoon, he was ‘business professional’. Gray suit, matching gray tie, white shirt, thick-soled, blavck work shoes. No doubt he carried at least one pistol under that jacket. How the hell did a blind guy coordinate his wardrobe as well as this guy did? Jameson had to be as OCD as Alex. That actually made sense.
Four heads turned at Tripp’s boisterous approach, three male agents, one very lovely, blonde female agent, all with FBI shields on their belts. Director Chase intercepted them the moment they’d headed toward Tripp. By then, Tripp was already with Jameson.
“Chase has been on my ass since I arrived,” Jameson murmured under his breath. “He’s antsy as shit about this murder.”
Tripp shot the asshole in question a glare over his shoulder. “What’s his problem? Besides his big head?”
“I get the impression he’s frustrated that his folks can’t peg our killer, that maybe we can.”
“We can?” Tripp leaned in closer. “What do we know that Chase doesn’t?”
“That there’s enough forensic material in that well-used body bag to nail this son of a bitch. We were first on the scene. Alex has the county ME on speed-dial. He signed off the evidence trail with the ME. That’s when Chase called FBI bullshit. Claims this is his crime scene, that he’s got total jurisdiction, not Alex.”
“Then why’d he ask for a TEAM assist?”
“Agent McClane! Hello, Agent McClane!” The blonde FBI agent called, as she approached with long, elegant strides on his six.
“Here,” he answered, lifting one hand to acknowledge her.
She was a looker. Long-legged and lean, dressed in black like her buddies, she made that suit look a hundred percent better. Long, golden curls ruffled in the breeze, creating a gentle wake behind her. And right behind that wake, another agent followed on her six. Sandy-haired and built like a brick shithouse, he had her beat by a good foot in height. Maybe a solid hundred pounds in weight. Straight spine. Erect as fuck. If he wasn’t former military, Tripp was a fairy godmother.
Jameson commenced introductions while they were still in transit. “Tripp, FBI Special Agents Eden and Ky Winchester. Winchesters, my friend and teammate, Tripp McClane.”
“Ma’am.” Tripp extended a hand to Eden when she was within reach.
But damned if the male-half of the duo didn’t grab his hand first, a grin cracking his ugly face and his grip
