When A Stranger Calls (New York State Trooper Series Book 7)

by Jen Talty

  She turned around, clutching her chest, wondering if she should get her license and registration out. She’d been pulled over before. Most cops were nice enough, even if they did give you a ticket, but since her night behind bars, all cops gave her heartburn.

  “Ma’am,” the trooper said, resting his hand on the door.

  She blinked, mustering up the courage to look at him.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  She nodded, gripping the steering wheel, prying her eyelids open. “Sorry, I’ve had a bad day,” she whispered as she turned her head, opening her eyes. She gasped at the deep color of his eyes. Intense, dark chocolate eyes.

  “Are you okay?” He arched a brow, leaning a little closer.

  She blinked a few times, mesmerized by the richness of his stare.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Umm…yeah, I’m okay.”

  He cleared his throat. “Not to be rude, but you look like you’ve been crying. Did something happen back at the store?”

  “What?”

  “I noticed you talking with a gentleman before peeling out of the parking lot. Did he upset you? Hurt you?”

  She shook her head, shifting her gaze, making damn sure she didn’t focus on his pupils, which was like staring into the eyes of a cobra, but one that didn’t want to strike. Or maybe he did. “No. I was upset before I ran into that ass…Mr. Ramsworth.” She wiped her cheeks.

  He cracked a smile, which annoyed her, but hopefully he didn’t notice her scowl.

  “Is there something I can help you with? Did someone cause these tears that might need a visit from a Trooper?”

  Biting down on her tongue, she kept herself from crying…or knowing her, it would come out as a laugh. “I’m fine, really.” She snagged her purse, pulling out her wallet. “I’ve honestly had one of the worst weeks of my life.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  She leaned across the car, flipping open the glove box, contemplating on how to answer. Was it home? Her grandfathers? “Home,” she said.

  “You live on Cleverdale?”

  “Side street by the marina.”

  He placed his hand on the side of the car. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  She shook her head. “I just need to get home.” She held up her license and registration papers.

  He looked between her face and her hand. “Drive home without peeling out or going over the speed limit.” He tipped his hat. “I hope you start having a better week.”

  “Yes, sir…um…thank you.” She stared at the trooper while he sauntered away as casually as he’d arrived. He took his hat off, put his shades on, and slid into his car. When he drove past her, he nodded.

  Sucking in a few deep cleansing breaths, she put the car in gear and looked over her shoulder before easing out on to the road and drove exactly one mile under the speed limit, half excepting the trooper car to be tucked behind a group of trees somewhere.

  As she passed Ramsworth Manor, a chill prickled her skin. Turning onto Mason Road, she told herself she’d gotten over everything that had happened between her and Michelle. That the rush of anger and hurt was a combination of grief…about a lot of things.

  She pulled into the gravel driveway and parked under the car port, forcing her mind to think beyond the last few days.

  Looking around, she saw so much potential to her grandparent’s place. It had never been a thing of beauty, but since her grandma had passed, it had become too much for her grandpa and things had gotten run down. She’d begged him to sell it, even offered for him to come live with her and Larry, though Larry told her ‘over my dead body.’ That should have been the first sign, but sadly, she ignored it, like she ignored so many tell-tale signs of the pending doom of her relationship.

  Fumbling with her keys, trying to hold the case of beer and ice cream in her hands, she gave the door a good hip check and stumbled in, tripping over something. “Crap,” she muttered doing her best to stop from falling on her face. She looked around the small family room and a new level of indignation filled her already bottomless pit of sorrow. The cushions from her grandparent’s antique sofa had been tossed haphazardly on the floor. Her grandmother would have a fit if she saw the armoire desk drawers hanging open, while personal papers littered the chair.

  “Again!?”

  She kicked one of the cushions and stomped off to the kitchen, putting the ice cream in a small cooler with some ice. She cracked open a fresh beer, enjoying crack-sizzle as the metal separated. The bubbles tickled the back of her throat as she guzzled half the can, then coughed, some of it coming back up.

  She put the other eleven cans in the cooler, closing the lid tight and leaned against the counter, contemplating if she should even bother to call the cops again. They’d probably think she was one of those women who called regularly because either she was nuts or needed attention, which was crazy in another way.

  A discolored corkboard her grandmother used to keep track of important things, but her grandfather used for absolutely nothing, held a single business card, tacked at an angle, taunting her. She racked her brain, trying to remember if it had been there the last time she had visited and seen her grandfather.

  Two months ago.

  How could she have let that much time pass without seeing him? The fact that she talked to him every week via FaceTime wouldn’t make up for the lost moments she could have spent with him had she not been so wrapped up in making a name for herself, and trying to get her now ex-boyfriend, to marry her. What a waste of precious time.

  She chugged the rest of the first beer, the bitter bubbles smacked her throat. She’d never been much of a beer drinker, preferring a mixed drink or a glass of wine. But tonight wasn’t about her, but honoring tradition. She eased her way across the kitchen, squinting, trying to make out the name on the card. It wasn’t until she stood two feet away that she could read the words: Sergeant Tristan Reid, New York State Police. Also imprinted on the card was a local station address, phone number, and cell number.

  She glided her fingers across the stock paper with raised letters. A clear tack held it up at the center, something her grandmother would have lost her mind over. Always…Always tack papers upper center, or at both corners. Never…Never in the middle. Brooke twirled the pendant hanging from her neck.

  Holding the card in her hands, she wondered why her grandfather had kept it, much less tacked it to the board. The day after his beloved bride died, he took down all her business cards, putting the information into his smartphone, but he refused to take down her board.

  So, it made no sense that her grandfather tacked any card on it, unless it was something very important.

  “All right Tristan Reid, Mr. State Trooper. Why does my grandfather have your card on his board and will you help me?”

  ***

  Tristan shed his uniform for a pair of jean shorts, a white T-Shirt, and a well-deserved beer. He stepped from his double-wide, though everyone else called it a modular home. Whatever you called his rental didn’t matter. Nestled between a large home on the right, two more modular whatever’s on the left, and a fantastic view of Harris Bay with his sporty new fishing boat parked at the dock fifty feet away, he chose to call it home.

  He sipped his beer, staring at the boats racing across the lake, thinking about the chick in the convertible.

  Brooke Fowler.

  Rusty had shown him dozens of pictures of the beautiful Brooke, his pride and joy.

  Mentally, Tristan slapped himself upside the head for not looking at her driver’s license so he could have given his condolences without looking like a stalker.

  Before he knew who he’d pulled over, he had every intention of not only writing her a ticket, but giving her a really hard time. Until he saw those whiskey-colored eyes with flecks of pain. He’d seen that kind of misery in his own eyes fifteen years ago when his sister died.

  Out of respect for Rusty, he let her go with a warning. He’d also make a point t
o stop by in the morning and give his condolences and hope he’d be able to act like he had no idea who she was when he’d pulled her over.

  How would he explain that her grandfather thought Tristan was the only man suitable for his grandbaby? He shook his head.

  Tristan appreciated the sentiment, and based on everything Rusty had told him about Brooke, Tristan wanted to meet her, even if she was way out of his league. If only his sister, Tamara, were here to guide him through the crazy world of a woman’s mind.

  His neighbor’s little girl came barreling up the walk way, waving frantically. He waved back, smiling. For years, he didn’t mind not being able to keep a girlfriend for more than a few months, but now that his thirtieth birthday loomed over his head, all he could think about was finding the right woman. The one who wouldn’t mind a man who thought it perfectly natural and normal to tell a woman what she cooked for dinner tasted like a stale bag of chips.

  His phone vibrated on the table next him. It was a 518-area code, but he didn’t recognize the number. If whoever called wanted to talk to him, they’d leave a voice mail. But telemarketers didn’t leave messages. What the hell. He might as well have a little fun since he had no plans for the evening and he was still wound up from a double shift.

  “Hello?”

  “Um…yeah…hi. Is this Tristan Reid?” a female voice echoed out of his speaker.

  This telemarketer was off to a bad start, though her voice sounded like ice cream rolling down a cone on a hot summer night. “Yes.” He rolled his eyes. Pathetic he’d listen to a pitch about some miracle product that would change his life just so he could hear the sexy voice on the other end of the phone.

  “I found your card tacked to a board in my grandfather’s kitchen. I was hoping you could help me.”

  Tristan sat up straighter. “My card?”

  “Yeah. It says Sergeant Tristan Reid. I don’t know why my grandfather had it, but I could use your help.”

  “And you are?” Tristan didn’t give his cards out often and generally he only gave them to other law enforcement officers, lawyers, judges, and occasionally a hot chick.

  “Brooke Fowler.”

  He paused a moment, sucking in a breath and nearly choking on it. He set his beer on the table. “You’re grandfather just died the other day.”

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  Tristan closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss. Rusty was a kind man. How can I help?”

  “Since he died, his house has been broken into three times. Twice I’ve called the police and a sheriff shows up. Nice enough, but they didn’t really do much.”

  “Why didn’t you call the third time?”

  “It just happened and I’m calling you.”

  He jumped to his feet, knocking the table over, sending his beer to the ground. Thankfully, it had been a can and not a bottle. “Were you in the house when it happened?”

  “No. I came home and found the sofa cushions on the floor and the desk drawers open.” He noted her casual tone, but also noted a sense of sadness, and perhaps a tinge of resentment.

  “Are you alone in the house now?” He ran inside his trailer, snagging his keys and weapon.

  “I’m alone, but I’m sitting on the front lawn.”

  “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” He clipped his weapon on his belt and took off jogging down the road. He figured cutting through the corner empty lot with over-grown grass would be faster than driving. He sneezed twice as his arms and legs brushed against some tall weeds, sending pollen in the air. By the time he came up on the side of the Fowler house, he wished he’d taken the car.

  Brooke sat in an old metal chair, back to him, with her black hair pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun, stray stands dangling toward her shoulders. A cooler strategically placed at her side also doubled as a table where two beer cans rested.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Fowler?”

  Her body jerked and the chair crumbled, tangling her in a hot mess.

  “Shit.” He closed the gap, but she managed to untangle herself. She stood, facing him with the look of death.

  “You friggin’ scared me,” she yelled. “You always go sneaking up on people like that? Christ.” She brushed some of the hair that had fallen from her face. Her gold eyes glared at him. “Who the hell are…oh, it’s you.”

  He looked around the yard for anything suspicious. “We meet again.” He rubbed his jaw, staring at the woman he’d pulled over less than twenty minutes ago. Her eyes not as puffy. Her shirt was wet from the spilled beer. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she held one of those chocolate ice cream sticks his boss’s kids got from the ice cream truck. “Those don’t go with beer.”

  She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes to tiny slivers. “Don’t care.” She stuffed half of it in her mouth, before tossing it on a plate that had at least one other wooden stick. Her sad brown eyes turned a fiery orange. “So, you’re Tristan.”

  He nodded. “Can I take a look around? Make sure no one is lurking about and then we can talk.”

  She shrugged, then downed her beer in one gulp. “Be my guest.”

  He bit his tongue when she reached into the cooler and grabbed another one. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  She nodded and followed him into the house, still chugging away on the beer.

  He’d been in this house a few times and knew Rusty Fowler to be a bit of a neat freak, so to see papers on the floor, a lamp knocked over, among other things, indicated a break-in. He leaned in, taking a close look at the door and the doorjamb. “It doesn’t look damaged.”

  “It was locked when I came home. All the windows closed, so no idea how they got in and out.”

  “How do you know someone actually broke in?”

  “Are you kidding?” She held her hands out. “Do you see this place?”

  He nodded and walked through the family room, toward the kitchen and peered in trying to come up with something decent to say, but his brain formed nothing. Perhaps that was a good thing.

  He peeked into the two bedrooms, but nothing else seemed out of place.

  “What happened the first two times?”

  She stepped out of the front door, down the three wooden steps, and leaned against the side of the house. “When I first came here the day after he died, the front door was open. Someone had emptied the contents of the desk in the guest room. My grandfather had to have things perfect, so he’d never go outside to work in grandma’s garden with it looking like that.”

  “Did the cops dust for prints?”

  She nodded. “They did everything they were suppose to do, I think. The second time they came, however, they just thought I left the back door open since nothing was disturbed.”

  “Have you changed the locks?”

  “On my list of things to do, but I really need to formalize my grandfather’s funeral. I know he wants to be with grandma and my parents.” She shrugged. “I need another beer. Would you like one?”

  “Sure.” He grabbed his cell phone out of his back pocket. “I’ve got a buddy who owns a construction company. I’m sure he can get someone out here today or tomorrow to change the locks.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” She straightened out her chair, easing herself into it and cracked open two more beers. “You were already nice enough not to give me a ticket.”

  “All in a day’s work.” He texted Doug, copying Stacey on it. “Your grandfather was well liked and respected. I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him or have a grudge. What about you? Any enemies?”

  “Not really.”

  He adjusted the other metal chair and looked in her direction, catching her gaze. Her eyes calmer than before, but he wondered if anything could fill the hole that seemed to dive into her soul.

  “How’d you know my grandfather?”

  “Just from being neighbors. I’d wave when I drove by and he was outside. One day he walked by my trailer around the corner—�
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  “Next to the Wallen house?”

  He nodded.

  “That’s a modular home, not a trailer. It’s a big difference.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” He watched her guzzle another beer, so he set his down, figuring she might need someone to protect her from herself. “Anyway, I was outside planting some flowers.”

  “You garden?”

  “Can I finish the story or are you going to interrupt me every sentence?”

  She pursed her lips as she reached into the cooler and pulled out another cold one and an ice cream.

  He wanted to tell her to slow down, but by the way she scowled at him, he thought better of it. “Rusty stopped by and introduced himself. Said if I was going to drive by every day, we should be on a first name basis. We ended up going down to the Mason Jug and had a few beers together.”

  “Nice of you to be kind to an old man.”

  Tristan laughed, remembering the conversation about how it wasn’t healthy for a young, viral man such as Tristan, not to have a girlfriend, much less any prospects for a girlfriend. “It was the other way around. He took pity on me. I’m going to miss him.”

  “But why did he have your card?”

  “I had the honor of arresting Wendell Ramsworth the III, for a DUI. I found out later, your grandfather worked for them.”

  A loud crushing sound echoed as she smashed her beer can into the armrest of her chair. Impressive and scary.

  “Sorry.” She tossed the empty into the tin trash can on the other side of her chair. “I’m not normally like this, but really, I had the worst friggin week ever.”

  “I understand, but I think you might consider slowing down? Pacing yourself?”

  “Might be right.” She held up the can, then took a smaller sip, though he sensed her sarcasm. “I wanted to shoot my grandpa when he said he was going back to work, especially for them.”

  “He told me he’d gotten bored and needed something to do after his wife passed.”

  “That’s what he told me. He always had to be doing something. I still don’t understand why he had your card or why it was the only thing tacked to his kitchen board.”