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

by Beauman, Cate

  He clenched his jaw, understanding that any small gains he’d made with Wren were now lost.

  Detective Franklin cleared his throat.

  Tucker went to his seat, ruthlessly attempting to shove Wren to the back of his mind. He could only handle one problem at a time, and right now that was his sister. Staci’s killer had struck again—fourteen-and-a-half years later. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.”

  He struggled to pick up where they left off. “You said you’re bringing in a profiler?”

  “Yes. She should be here in the next couple of hours.”

  “My parents paid for more than one profiler’s opinion over the years. They’ve all said the same thing, and I concur. The guy’s a sociopath. He’s sick, coolly angry, and smart as hell. He blends well—could be a pillar of the community for all we know. But that’s where the theory starts to unravel if we’re connecting cases here. They’ve all said Staci’s murder was personal. Her killer set out to terrify, humiliate, and ultimately end her life for a purpose. He was sending a message. As to what that was, we have no idea. Other than the identical killing, I can’t find a connection between the two victims.”

  “There’s definitely a connection, Mr. Campbell.” Detective Rogers handed over two pictures of a torso glowing in the bold blue tint of a CSI black light. SC had been written on the stomach.

  “What’s this?”

  “I thought we would save this for last—the only difference between Alyssa and Staci’s cases. These are photographs of Alyssa Brookes’ abdomen. The bastard wrote his message in his semen.”

  The wave of disgust left Tucker ill. “Fucker.”

  Tucker scrutinized the picture, then picked up the photos of both Staci and Alyssa’s abdominal regions in standard lighting, studying.

  “We can’t say for certain what this means, but if we start drawing conclusions—”

  “My sister’s initials.”

  Detective Rogers and Franklin nodded.

  Tucker struggled to concentrate on the details instead of the ball of rage twisting his insides. “So this man’s back. We need to figure out what has provoked him out of an almost fifteen-year dry spell?”

  “If he hasn’t been killing somewhere else.”

  Tucker shook his head as he put down the pictures. “Although he’s changed things up with this slight variation,” He tapped the black-lighted photograph, “the method of murder itself hasn’t. I’ve been running his MO through the databanks for as long as I’ve had access. There’s never been a DNA or crime scene match before or after Staci’s murder. This guy’s methodical and enjoys his work. If he’s done it since, we would know—kind of like now.”

  Roger’s nodded. “Okay.”

  “Our man, he knows the area well. How long have the Brookes been residents of Park City?”

  “About a dozen years now.”

  Tucker stared at the photos, struggling to find a parallel. “So Alyssa grew up here for the most part. She and Staci have similar traits—black hair and slim body types. Alyssa lived among this community for quite some time. It’s not as if she was a visitor and the killer spotted her as his ‘type’ and suddenly had the urge to kill. That wouldn’t fit his MO, anyway. He’s not just killing at random. He selects and kills with a purpose.” And his purpose appeared to be Staci.

  “About now, I’m wondering why you gave up your badge.” Detective Hayes set down his empty mug. “Must’ve been a blow to LAPD to lose you.”

  He shrugged. “Got sick of the game—sick of procedure.”

  “We’re going to be reopening Staci’s case. We’ll work both hers and Alyssa’s in a dual investigation.”

  He swallowed the sudden waves of emotion. For years he’d wanted to do this for Staci, but had been too bogged down in other people’s crises to get the chance. “I’d like to help however I can.”

  “We plan to re-interview all witnesses, starting with your parents.”

  “Not my mother,” Tucker said quickly. “You can speak with my father, but my mother’s off limits unless there’s something my father is unable to answer. You have her statements to go on. Dad and I can fill in the rest. Staci’s murder destroyed her. She’s never been the same. She finally started leaving the house again a few years ago to do her charity work. We’re not going to fuck that up unless there’s no other choice.”

  Detective Roger’s grunted his reluctant assent.

  Tucker pulled his phone from his hip and noted Franklin’s glance at his weapon.

  “What kind of trouble is Ms. Cooke in?”

  “Stalker.”

  “Beautiful woman. LA, you said. She some kind of star or something?”

  “No. Interior designer. We left Los Angeles for awhile until things settle down.” He pointed to the fading cuts and bruises on his temple.

  “Oh?”

  “Wren’s been a target for the last three weeks. I got in the way of a ‘message’ he sent through my apartment window. Guy’s escalating. Her business partner was just found with his skull bashed in. We’re thinking her stalker beat the shit out of him, took his phone, and has been playing games with her for the past couple days via text message.”

  “Hmm,” Rogers said.

  Tucker scrolled through his contacts and scribbled down his father’s cell number, hating that his family was about to relive something they’d all put away. “Here you go. I’ll let my dad know he should be expecting a call.”

  “We’ll be in touch.” Rogers retrieved the crime scene pictures, securing them in an acid-free bag. “I’m sure we’ll have more questions.”

  “I don’t see us going anywhere for awhile.” He glanced toward the hall, eager to move this along. He needed to talk to Wren and smooth things over.

  Rogers and Franklin stood. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Thank you.” He shook their hands and walked the men to their vehicle. Moments later he came back in, closed the door, and pressed his forehead to the solid wood. “Son of a bitch.” He could hardly keep up with everything going on—Patrick, Staci, Wren. He sighed. Staci’s case had new leads he needed to sort through, but first he wanted to talk to Wren…after he called his dad. She’d put herself out there—finally—and he’d pushed her away. Sighing again, Tucker rearmed the panel, waited for the double blink, and pulled his phone from its holder as he set off down the hall.

  Wren sat on the chaise lounge, gazing into the fire as the horrid crime scene photos played through her mind. She shuddered, thinking of dark, bruising marks around pale throats and wide, staring eyes.

  She’d seen death before—in fancy funeral homes, but not like that. A mortician hadn’t had his opportunity to brush away Staci and Alyssa’s horror with makeup and a pretty casket. The peace and comfort of eternal life was nowhere present in the dozens of photographs lined up on the coffee table.

  A deep, weighing sadness consumed Wren as she remembered Staci’s beautiful smile in the long-ago picture by the pool. Poor Staci. All this time Wren had been sure Staci collapsed from some sort of undiagnosed heart condition, but Staci’s fate had been far crueler. She died horribly right here in this house. And Tucker… Tucker found his sister naked, violated, and strangled to death. How had he survived? How had he been strong enough to go into a profession where he relived his nightmare every day? She admired him and ached for him, as much as she was leery.

  There was a knock at the door, and she sighed. She didn’t want him here when she was all mixed up.

  Tucker peeked in. “They left.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” What else could she say? Her first instinct was to get up and go to him, to offer any comfort she could, but she stayed where she was. Tucker didn’t want to be soothed.

  She studied him in the doorway, yearning, despite his weary eyes and tense
shoulders, realizing she’d been right to keep her guard up. As much as she wanted to deny it, he’d hurt her when he pushed her away. He told her he needed her, but when push came to shove, it wasn’t true. Tucker didn’t need her the way she’d craved to be needed since she was a little girl, desperate for her parent’s attention.

  All her life she’d wanted to belong, to feel that cozy acceptance she experienced with very few. And maybe somewhere deep below the recesses of denial, she’d always hoped someone special would walk into her life and prove they were worthy of the affection she had to give.

  Tucker Campbell was not that man. Perhaps for a foolish moment she believed he might be, but she’d been wrong. He had spoken of feelings, of wanting to see where they could go, but he was confusing lust with genuine emotion. In the end, Tucker wasn’t any different from most everyone else out there.

  I’ve never met anyone as completely jaded as you, darling, Patrick had said on more than one occasion. Maybe so, but she was less of a fool because of it. There was no such thing as a soul mate or happily every after, and this rude refresher was serving as her wakeup call. Tucker had almost worn her down and made her believe in possibilities, but no more.

  “I’m sorry, Cooke, about earlier.”

  She shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “Yeah it is.” He walked to the chaise and sat next to her.

  “We happen to be living in the same house due to a business arrangement.” She stood. “That doesn’t mean you’re required to share your personal life with me.”

  “Damn it, Cooke.” He snagged her hand before she could walk away. “I didn’t want you to see that stuff.”

  She pulled free and moved further away. “I appreciate it. And I’m sorry for you. Sorry you’ve had to deal with so much. You’re a good man.”

  “Why do I feel like you just told me you’re sorry about my sister and to fuck off all at the same time?”

  “I have no clue. I am sorry about Staci. My heart is broken for the beautiful girl I saw smiling in that picture by the pool. She should have had a full life. As to the rest…” She shrugged. “We’ll call today an opportunity to put things back in perspective.”

  “Bullshit.” He rushed to his feet, advancing on her.

  She moved from the corner before he could box her in as he typically did. “I’m going to work for awhile before dinner’s ready.”

  “Hold up.” He stopped in front of her.

  “No, Tucker.” She pushed at his chest and skirted by. “No more of this.”

  “Cooke.”

  “I don’t want to play your games anymore. For some foolish reason, I thought you were different, but you have double standards just like everybody else. I’m supposed to cry on your shoulder, and let you in to the deepest parts of me, but your pain and your problems are off limits.” She opened the door. “Let’s just go back to the way things were before we were stupid enough to sleep together.” She stepped out and closed the door quietly, leaving Tucker no chance to respond.

  Channel seven had been rehashing Park City’s “tragic death” all day. The newscaster went through her latest spiel while he lay on his bed, listening. Tara Thompson’s smooth voice speculated as to whether the heartbreaking Alyssa Brookes case could have a connection to the 1999 unsolved murder of Staci Campbell. He loved every second of it. But more, he loved that two officers had been by to visit with Pretty Boy earlier this evening.

  Surely they’d asked the former detective about his sister, and because he was one of the good ol’ boys, they probably shared the evidence found on scene—perhaps in picture form. A slow, cool smile curved his lips. He hoped the hell so.

  After pulling free of Alyssa, he’d zipped himself back in his pants, untied her hands, and lay her arms above her head in just the right position—as if she were a prima ballerina. Then he propped her knees up and bent her legs, letting them fall open, exposing her to the world.

  He’d gathered his nylon ties, shoved them in his pockets, ready to make his way through the house, but then an idea occurred. What if the cops were too stupid to figure it out? He walked back to Alyssa, crouched in front of her pretty posed form and dipped his finger inside her still warm body, retrieving his dripping juices to leave his message on her slender stomach. He scrawled SC with extra flourish, dipping time and again until he was certain everything was perfect.

  He stood, admiring his work in the glow of his dim light, bending once more to fix Alyssa’s hair and tip her chin up just a touch. Satisfied, he opened her door, creeping down the hall in the dark as quietly as he came.

  Tweeledee and Tweedledum down at the precinct would surely put two and two together—and if they didn’t, Super Tucker would help them out. It was time for the former detective to put those fancy degrees to work and catch a deranged killer—if the killer didn’t catch him and the lovely Wren Cooke first.

  Chapter 14

  “There’s no change, Ms. Cooke.”

  “Okay, thank you.” Pressing ‘end,’ Wren set her phone on the dining room table and rested her head in her hands. Had she really expected a different answer than the one she’d received this morning? Patrick was still in a coma, clinging to life after his harrowing late-night surgery. The doctors were successful in relieving the pressure on his brain, but they wouldn’t know the extent of his injuries until he regained consciousness—if he did at all.

  Her laptop dinged with an alert, and she glanced up, reading the sender. Her pulse pounded and her palms grew instantly damp. She’d been waiting for this e-mail since she spoke with her accountant yesterday evening. Henry promised her a no-holds-barred bottom line on Cooke Interiors’ financial state by four o’clock. He’d delivered twenty minutes early. Holding her breath, she scanned his message, and her heart sank.

  Wren,

  Per our discussion, I adjusted your books to reflect several refunds on unrendered services and the payout to your vendors for undelivered furnishings and accents. After a bit of finagling, I was able to meet all of your obligations and keep you solvent, but just barely. I’ve set aside money for your quarterly taxes, which are due next month, and Patrick’s salary for November, which leaves you with a low remaining balance.

  Please note the breakdown provided and the outlines I’ve created with several options on how you may wish to proceed.

  I was hoping to have better news for you. Give me a call with any questions.

  Henry

  Wren puffed out an incredulous laugh as she stared at her final balance—thirty-five dollars and twenty-nine cents. Was this some sort of bad joke? Six months ago Henry informed her Cooke Interiors was on track for a record-breaking year; now she was on the fast track to bankruptcy.

  How would she ever come back from this, especially with Lenora traipsing around town showing off pictures of her half-finished pool house, telling people that Wren Cooke and her rude assistant had left her high and dry?

  Wren opened several e-mails this morning from concerned friends letting her know what was going on. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  Slamming her laptop closed, she gripped the edges of her chair and took several deep breaths, struggling to think past the insanity that was her life. She exhaled sharply, and her phone rang, startling her. She looked at the readout and groaned, then pressed ‘talk.’ “Lenora.”

  “Hello, Wren. Cherie gave me your message yesterday. Isn’t it nice that you’ve decided to start contacting your clients again—or former client in this case.”

  And so it begins. “I would apologize—”

  “As you should, but it’s too late. You and your partner have demonstrated a complete lack of dedication to your own mission statement. ‘Client-focused service at its best,’” she scoffed. “My needs have hardly been your first priority as of late. My pool house has no paint or furnishings, and what about
my accents?”

  Wren stood, clenching her jaw, and stared out the enormous panes of glass as Lenora’s snotty tone set her temper burning. “Lenora, I realize your upset with our business practices of late. I can only imagine how inconvenient it must be to have your renovations put on hold while I deal with my pesky little stalking situation, and it really was rude of Patrick to pick a time like this to have his skull fractured when you’re waiting to have your curtains hung.”

  “Don’t be dramatic, Wren. It can’t be that bad.”

  “Yes, Lenora, it certainly is. While you’ve been perusing your samples over the last month, I’ve been dealing with dead cats on my doorstep, bricks being thrown through my windows, and threatening text messages.”

  “Well if you would have explained—”

  “It wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference.”

  Lenora huffed. “Inconceivably rude, just like your assistant.”

  That capped it. “True, Lenora, definitely true. It was impolite of Patrick to lay on his living room floor, unconscious and mostly dead, when he should have been at your breakfast meeting playing referee while you drove poor Ricardo crazy with your landscaping demands.”

  “Of all the—”

  “No, Lenora, Patrick isn’t doing well, thanks for asking, but I’m sure he would want me to tell you to ‘fuck off’ on his behalf as well as mine. I’ll look forward to your attorney’s call.”

  “Why—what? I—”

  “And Lenora, you go ahead and keep slandering mine and Patrick’s names and you’ll be hearing from my attorneys.” Adrenaline surged through Wren’s body as she pressed ‘end,’ cutting off Lenora’s shocked sputtering. God that felt so good. She turned, suddenly desperate for a drink of water, and slammed into Tucker. “Oh!” Reaching out, she grabbed hold of his arms, steadying herself as he clutched her waist, then let go. “I didn’t know you were there.” She released her grip and took a step back. This was the first she’d seen of him since yesterday. He had stayed out of her way and vice versa.