Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series)

by Beauman, Cate

  She closed herself in her room and turned, gasping as Tucker stood in the bathroom doorway with a towel slung low around his hips. The tension clenching her shoulders squeezed tighter as the swift sexual punch effectively tied her up. “What… Why aren’t you using your own bathroom?”

  He shrugged. “My stuff’s in here.”

  “Oh.” She flexed her fingers on the doorknob as her gaze followed a drop of water from his solid shoulder, down the mound of his pec, along the bumps of his six-pack, and disappeared into white cotton. “I’m going to…I’m just going to…clean up.”

  “Okay. Did your dad call you back?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the word?”

  She shook her head and stared at the floor. “It doesn’t look good.”

  He walked to her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  She breathed in wafts of his soap as she looked up, meeting his eyes. “He was getting out of a CT scan when my father checked in. His skull is fractured. He has a large subdural hematoma. They need to do a craniotomy to alleviate the pressure on his brain. He’s very unstable, but they have to attempt the surgery anyway or he’ll die. If he makes it through, they believe brain damage is likely.”

  Tucker steamed out a breath as he enveloped her in a hug. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “This feels like a dream—all of it,” she said as she returned his embrace, resting her cheek on his warm skin, listening to his steady heartbeat, comforted, then just as quickly pulled away. She couldn’t keep doing this—relying on him to soothe away her worries. She took care of herself. And if she needed an ear, she had Ethan.

  Tucker kept his arms around her waist, trapping her against him, easing back enough to look into her eyes. “Where you going?”

  “I have stuff to do, and so do you.”

  “You’ve had a hell of a day, Cooke. There’s nothing wrong with taking a little time to let things settle.”

  “I don’t want to let things settle. I don’t want to think, period. My best friend is fighting to survive, and my business has gone to hell. I don’t want to dwell on the fact that some crazy bastard has ruined Patrick’s life and wants to hurt you as much as he does me.”

  “Like I said, hell of a day—hell of a last couple of weeks. Your business isn’t ruined, Cooke. Taking one more day to steady out isn’t going to make or break you.”

  “Cooke Interiors is beyond broken. Patrick never made it to the Movenbeck install, I have vendors up my butt trying to find out what I want to do with the product that should have been delivered and now is just sitting there, unwanted, and Lenora pulled out of our project. She’ll be sick’ing’ her attorneys on me and tossing my name through the mud every chance she gets.”

  “Have you explained the situation?”

  “I did to Brice. He was very understanding. But Lenora… JT’s working on her, but she won’t call me back.”

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “Yes, she is, but she and the Movenbecks are my biggest client right now—or were.”

  He brushed his finger along her jaw. “We’ll smooth this out.”

  She pulled further away as she digested his use of “we’ll.” There was no “we” in this equation. There was only her. “I’ll have to see what I can do.”

  “No rest for the weary.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “No help either.”

  “I don’t need any.”

  “Or not mine anyway.” He shook his head. “Every time I think we’re getting somewhere…”

  He knew her too well. “I’m self-reliant, Tucker. Always have been.”

  “Another opportunity to point out that you don’t need me.”

  She shrugged even as she remembered her confession to the contrary. “You said it.”

  He grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger. “You don’t want to need me, but you do. It drives you crazy that you’re twisted up.”

  “There’s no twisting going on here. I take care of myself. I had a weak moment a couple hours ago. I appreciate you being there. The end.”

  He tugged her closer. “You can try to keep shutting me out, but sooner or later you’ll figure out I’m just going to keep getting in your way.”

  “Let me go.”

  He stepped closer. “You need me, Cooke, and I need you. You scare me as much as I scare you, but at the end of the day, I’m more afraid to let you walk than I am to try to make something work. Why don’t you think about that while you take your shower?” Tucker released his grip and walked out, closing the bedroom door behind him.

  She breathed in the remnants of his soap as she made her way to the bathroom, her heart thudding. Damn him. She didn’t have any choice but to think of him and what he’d said, whether she wanted to or not. I’m going to keep getting in your way. She glared, realizing that had been his plan all along. He’d been in her way since she walked into Sarah’s hospital room months ago.

  The doorbell rang, and Tucker frowned. Tom already dropped off the groceries, so who the hell was here? He set his laptop on the coffee table and unconsciously brushed his palm over the holster clipped to his belt as he walked to the door and peeked through the security hole. His frown deepened as he instantly recognized two plainclothes cops. He twisted the bolt and turned the knob, staging himself behind the heavy wood, keeping his hand on his gun until he knew what was up. “Can I help you?”

  “Detective Tucker Campbell?”

  “Former Detective, but yes.”

  “I’m Detective Jasper Rogers,” the portly, gray-haired fifty-something said, “and this is my partner Detective Peter Franklin.” He gestured to the tall, thin, younger man with dark brown eyes. “We’re with the Park City Police Department. Do you mind if we come in and speak with you for a few minutes?”

  He was still waiting for an update on Patrick’s missing cellphone, but something told him this had nothing to do with Wren’s situation. “About?”

  “We have some questions we’d like to ask you about the Alyssa Brookes case.”

  He knew exactly where this was going and reluctantly opened the door wider. “Come on in.” He wanted to resent them for being here, but he couldn’t. Alyssa had been found strangled in her bedroom just like Staci. The last aggravated murder in the area had been Staci’s. The Brookes’ home was less than a mile away. He should’ve figured on a visit. If he were still pulling duty, he would’ve knocked on this door too.

  “Tucker? Is everything okay?” Wren’s voice was tight with fear as she stood by the couch in her black yoga pants and snug long-sleeve white top. She’d twisted her mass of damp curls into a thick braid.

  “Everything’s fine.” He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll take care of this. Go ahead and do what you were needing to.” He didn’t want her here right now. The past was the past, and she had nothing to do with it.

  “Is this about—has there been a change in my case?”

  “Your case?” Detective Rogers’ brow rose.

  “This is my family’s vacation home, but I’m here in an official capacity. I’m Ms. Cooke’s bodyguard. I’m an agent with Ethan Cooke Security—Los Angeles branch.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Ms. Cooke. We’re here on other business.”

  “Oh. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “Wouldn’t mind. You, Franklin?”

  “Sure would be nice. It’s colder than a bit…” He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  “Let me get a tray.” Wren held Tucker’s gaze a moment, her eyes full of questions, then left. Cabinets opened, then the fridge as Wren got busy in the kitchen.

  “Go ahead and have a seat.”

  The Detectives sat on opposite ends of the couch.

 
Tucker took a cushion on the loveseat. “I’m not sure what I can offer by way of help with the Brookes’ case, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “We appreciate it. We’re here, Mr. Campbell, because a few of our responding deputies were quite taken aback by how similar Alyssa Brookes’ murder scene was to your sister’s.”

  “The news reported a strangling in the bedroom.”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that. I’m going to be frank here, Mr. Campbell, and say that whoever killed Staci Campbell took Alyssa Brookes’ life as well.”

  His stomach pitched and his pulse accelerated as he stared in Detective Rogers’ serious eyes. “My sister was murdered over a decade ago. That’s a pretty quick conclusion to draw in less than a day.”

  “You would think. I didn’t live in Park City when your sister died, and Franklin here was in high school up in Montana, but many of the officers still on staff remember Staci’s murder. It’s the only real violence we’ve seen other than a couple of domestics gone wrong. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen around here.”

  “So why now, after fourteen-and-a-half years?”

  “That’s the question we’re looking to answer. After several deputies mentioned the Staci Campbell case to Franklin and me, we spent a couple hours reviewing the files in Cold Case—studied crime scene photos, witness statements, so on and so forth. I think we have a problem here, Mr. Campbell.”

  Wren walked in carrying a tray of steaming mugs and a plate of store-bought chocolate chip cookies. “Here we go.” She set the smooth carved wood on the table and picked up a mug. “Detective Franklin, how do you like your coffee?”

  “Black.”

  “Me as well, Ms. Cooke.”

  She handed over the cups and sat next to Tucker.

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I want to stay.”

  “Cooke—”

  “I’m staying, Tucker.”

  He stared at her for another moment then looked at Detective Rogers. “What sort of problem?”

  “First off, I’m going to need to ask for your whereabouts last night.”

  Wren picked up her mug and set it back down. “What’s going on? What is this about?”

  Their question was procedure, but it burned his ass—the implication that he’d had something to do with Staci’s death. “I was here all night. As I said, I’m on duty.”

  “We were both here all night. Tucker hasn’t left my side.” She scooted closer to him in an unmistakable gesture of support.

  Tucker took her hand and gave a gentle squeeze, touched that she was getting defensive on his account.

  “And during the midnight hours?” Franklin asked.

  “I’ve been staying with Ms. Cooke. There’s a fireplace in her guestroom. The power has been out since the storm—finally came back on this morning, as I’m sure you know.”

  “Are you both willing to sign an affidavit attesting to the fact that you were both in residence all evening?”

  “Yes,” they said at the same time.

  “I apologize, Mr. Campbell, especially when we’re going to ask for your help.”

  He shrugged. “Procedure’s procedure.”

  “We understand you worked homicide for several years.”

  Tucker nodded. “LAPD.”

  “It’s also noted you majored in Criminal Psychology as well as Criminal Justice.”

  He’d been determined to find the answers to Staci’s murder from the moment the authorities deemed her case cold. “That’s correct.”

  Wren looked at him in surprise.

  “We have several qualified officers on staff as well as Utah Bureau of Investigation in on this, but we see a unique opportunity to get your take as former law enforcement and your close association to one of our victims.”

  Wren’s fingers clutched his. “What?”

  “I’ll explain later,” he said absently, ready to immerse himself in whatever the detectives were willing to share. If what they were saying was true, they might actually catch Staci’s killer this time.

  “We brought along pictures of the Burkes’ crime scene as well as pictures from 1999. We’re hoping you might be willing to take a look, maybe give us some ideas.”

  Fourteen-and-a-half years had passed since he walked in to find his sister dead. He’d never looked at the crime scene photos; there’d never been a need. He remembered every grisly detail—if he let himself—as if Staci had died yesterday. “Of course.” He glanced to his right, realizing Wren still sat next to him—her hand in his. “Would you get the Detectives some more coffee?” He didn’t want her to see this. Deep down, he didn’t want to see this, but if there was any chance of justice for Staci, he would do what he had to.

  “That would be great, Ms. Cooke.” Detective Rogers held out an empty mug.

  She opened her mouth and quickly closed it, hesitating, then withdrew her hand from his, trapped by manners. “Sure.” She took the cups.

  “Wouldn’t mind a few more cookies either, if you have any to spare. The grocery store bakery makes the best chocolate chip in town.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right back.”

  Tucker waited for Wren to head into the kitchen, then nodded at the Detective. “Go ahead and lay them out.”

  “I think it might be best to do a side-by-side comparison.”

  “I agree.”

  Rogers laid down two photos of dark purple hands—one Alyssa’s, one Staci’s.

  Tucker’s shoulders instantly tensed as he recognized the gold and rubies Staci had always worn on her index finger. He stared at well-manicured fingernails and remembered how cold his sister had been while he clutched her discolored, stiff fingers, waiting for help to arrive. But there’d been no help for Staci.

  Tucker systematically shut himself down as he studied the ligature marks dug into both victims’ wrists. Victims—not Staci Campbell and Alyssa Brookes, but two sixteen-year-old white females who had been brutally and methodically murdered. He wouldn’t be able to get through this if he didn’t distance himself all the way. “Same pattern. More than likely identical material used,” he said more to himself than the men sitting close by. “Did he remove them postmortem?”

  “ME says yes. Perp tied her hands behind her back, then cut the nylon rope minutes after death.”

  The same as Staci.

  Detective Franklin set out several more pictures—full crime scene shots and close-ups of naked, spread-eagle victims with their arms above their heads. Deep purple lines dug in at their throats; pinpoints of blood marring dead, staring eyes. Both victims had long black hair and pretty, slender bodies left posed in humiliating positions. Even in death, they hadn’t been allowed their dignity. “The Brookes girl—was she raped?”

  “Semen was found at the scene. We’ve rushed the kit off for DNA analysis. They’ll do a comparison at the lab.”

  Tucker already knew there would be a match. “Perpetrator’s point of entry?”

  “Unknown.”

  Tucker’s gaze flew to the detectives. Exactly the same. The crime scenes were identical. “Fingerprints?”

  “None that don’t belong to anyone other than family and friends who are known to have been in the house.”

  What the fuck was going on? He needed to stand and pace away the worst of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, but he stayed where he was. This whole situation was…so many things: painful, disgusting, a potential beginning to answers for his parents and himself. “Goddamn.”

  “I’m assuming the Brookes family and friends have no one in common with the Campbell friends here in Park City?”

  “If it were that simple, we sure wouldn’t be here bothering you, Mr. Campbell.”

  Tucker nodded.

  “Looks like we’v
e got a serial on our hands. We’ve got a profiler heading in from Salt Lake. Ms. Cooke, thank you.”

  Tucker glanced up at Wren, pale and staring at the pictures spread over the table. He’d been so caught up he didn’t hear her come back. He rushed to his feet and took the mugs from her white-knuckled grip, handing them off, then pulled her several steps away. “Get out of here, Cooke.” He didn’t want her to see what had become of Alyssa Burkes and Staci. No one needed that horror stuck in their mind forever. He grabbed her chin, raising it until she finally looked at him and away from the photos. “I said get out of here. Go down to your room until I finish up here.”

  “No, I’m—I’m fine. I just didn’t… You never told me. I had no idea Staci… I thought—I thought maybe—”

  “Go get some work done.”

  Shock vanished and compassion filled her eyes as she clutched his wrist. “I’m okay. I can handle it. I’ll stay with you.”

  Her sweet, steady strength was blowing gaping holes in the protective wall he’d built around himself. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Tucker.” She touched his cheek. “Let me help you the way you’ve helped me.” One gesture. One simple sentence undid him completely.

  “Damn, Cooke,” he sighed, closing his eyes. He wouldn’t make it through this if he didn’t shield himself again. “I need you to go.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want you here.” His voice sharpened as he pulled her hand from his cheek and dropped it. “I don’t want you here,” he repeated more gently, hating himself for causing the flash of hurt.

  “Fine.” She stepped away. “I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me,” she said to the detectives and walked down the hall.