Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection Detail\Hidden Agenda\Broken Silence (40 page)

That had to be it. She took a deep breath, rubbing her hand against the tension in her neck and scolding herself for overreacting. She'd call Charlie next week and set up a time for him to replace them.

Stalking back into her bedroom, she collapsed in the overstuffed chair by the bed, willing away the irrational fear that ripped through her like barbed wire. It was pure insanity, she knew, to be so unnerved by a dream.

Still her heart pounded to a rib-cracking beat. Over the years, she had worked hard to push past the memories. She'd done well. The nightmares had faded.

Until tonight.

Lord, if You are still near, please help me.

Amber took a steadying breath. God could protect her, she reminded herself, but at the same time she struggled to believe. Blind faith didn't seem possible anymore.

Hadn't for eleven years.

The exhaustion she'd felt earlier was gone, replaced with a restless energy, fueled by unwanted images and thoughts bouncing around in her head. She tried to tamp them down, but they wouldn't let go.

Great. Now she'd never get back to sleep. Scrubbing her hands through the thickness of her curls, she tugged her hair. She wanted to fault the chaos of the day for bringing back the nightmares and stirring the past to life, but the answer was far more complicated than that.

Patrick.

TWO

E
arly the next morning, Patrick arrived at his office at the police station. Plunking down in his desk chair, he slipped the elastic band from around an overstuffed file he'd picked up from the audio and video forensic unit on his way into work. With so few clues in the car-bombing case, he hoped something lurking in one of the photos might aid in his investigation.

He extracted a fistful of black-and-white crime prints. After separating them into sequence, he studied each one, starting with the blazing fire taken by first responders to the final shots of the vehicle's gray smoldering frame.

Dread settled in his gut.

As awful as bearing witness to the destruction had been, seeing the explosion and charred debris captured on film chilled him to the bone. Amateur or not, this bomb had been meant to kill. Even if forensics ruled out a terrorist link, this perpetrator definitely wanted to make a statement.

Tossing the photos on the desk, Patrick sat back and rubbed his eyes.

What kind of trouble could Amber have gotten involved in that someone would be out to kill her?

“Good morning, Wiley.”

The booming voice of his supervisor ended his thoughts.

Patrick glanced up as his old friend, Department Captain Vance Peterson, walked into the room with his mouth half-full of a chicken biscuit. He was also holding a white Gus's Diner bag in his hand. “Good morning.” Patrick rocked forward in his chair.

Swallowing, Vance tossed him the bag. “Here, I brought you some breakfast.”

“Thanks. My growling stomach appreciates it.” Patrick caught the bag, tore it open and grabbed a biscuit.

“I figured you'd be in early. I thought you might be hungry.”

“You figured right.” Patrick chomped right into it. All he'd consumed since he'd dropped off Amber last night was a cup of coffee, half of which was still on his desk, cold.

“So fill me in on this car-bombing case.” Vance wiped his hands on a napkin.

Patrick swallowed then shrugged. “I don't have much at the moment.”

“Not much?” Vance crossed his arms, his dark brows pulling tight over his eyes. “What'd the bomb squad come up with?”

“Reports are preliminary, but it looks like a homemade pressure-cooker bomb, probably propped under the car's fuel tank.”

Shaking his head, Vance gave a slow whistle. “Explosives, shrapnel and gasoline. Pretty lethal combo.”

Patrick jutted his chin toward the pile of photos on the desktop. “Take a look. It's amazing someone didn't get killed.” He took another bite of the biscuit.

Vance moved closer and picked up the stack. He nodded slowly as he examined them, a grimace etched on his suntanned face. “And you have no clues as to who might have done this?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the car owner? Or witnesses?”

Patrick finished chewing. “There was one eyewitness and he gave us a statement. He said he'd heard the blast, saw the explosion, but denies seeing anything suspicious. And interestedly enough, the owner of the vehicle was Amber Talbot. She walked away with a few bruises and lacerations but has no idea why someone would want to harm her, nor does she believe anyone was trying to.”

Vance stopped, looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “Not
the
Amber Talbot from high school? Your old flame?”

Patrick nodded, hardly believing it himself. “Yeah. Definitely a surprise.” Truth be told, he'd half expected to run in to her at some point now that he was back in town. However, not as part of a case he was investigating, especially one of this nature.

“I'm sure you were surprised.” Vance wagged his head. “What do you think? Was this bomb meant for Amber?” He shuffled through the pictures again, studying them closer. “Or do you think this is the work of some criminal prankster?”

The question pricked the hairs on the back of Patrick's neck. He'd been up most of the night asking the same question. “I'd like to say it's random. However, my gut doesn't buy it.”

Vance's eyes settled and met Patrick's. “Then Amber mustn't be fessing up to something.”

Patrick paused, wondering what—if anything—Amber would be hiding. She'd always been a by-the-book kind of girl, not one who got involved in things on the wrong side of the law. Then again...

His pitched the biscuit wrapper into the trash, aware that he really didn't know Amber Talbot anymore. And he'd be foolish to believe otherwise. She'd surprised him once by walking out of his life. No telling what Amber was really like. He turned sharply in his chair and stood up. “I'll dig around and see what I can come up with.”

Vance tossed the photos back on the desk. “If there's dirt, Wiley, I'm confident you'll find it.”

A shudder racked between Patrick's shoulder blades. That was what he was afraid of.

* * *

Patrick gave a sharp triple knock on the crime-lab door. When a buzz sounded, he twisted the knob and let himself in. Liza Jenson, police criminologist, rose from her desk.

“Patrick Wiley.” She smiled, pushing a hand through her short blond bob. “I was beginning to give up on you. I can't remember the last time you answered one of my texts with anything other than ‘Sorry, working late,' or ‘Too busy.'”

That was because his “I'm not interested”
statement seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Patrick let her comment ride. After a couple casual dates, Liza had started dropping hints about diamond rings and dream honeymoon destinations. He'd put the brakes on that budding relationship real fast. He'd determined a long time ago he wasn't the marrying kind. Eleven years ago, to be exact. And he had a princess-cut solitaire sitting in a bank deposit box to remind him of that.

He was better off alone. And life was easier. More predictable.

“Sorry, Liza, this isn't a social call. I heard you were on this weekend and I'd like to enlist your help on a case I'm working on.”

Sauntering across the tile floor, Liza worked her way toward him. “Let me guess, yesterday's car bombing on River Street.”

Perceptive. He grinned. “That's the one. See what you can find out about the car owner's past. What she's been up to the past few years. Friends, hobbies, enemies. I'll do the same.”

Beaming a bright smile, Liza leaned a hip against the worktable and crossed her arms. “Amber Talbot. Twenty-nine. She graduated from Trinity University, majored in psychology. She earned a graduate degree in counseling from the same school. I don't have her complete work history yet, but she recently opened Safe Harbor Counseling Center on River Street.”

Impressive. Although nothing Patrick didn't already know, except for the part about Trinity University. So that was where she'd ended up after leaving College of Coastal Georgia in Brunswick. She'd traded a small state school for a private one. Patrick scratched the side of his jaw, mulling that over. “How about a husband or boyfriend, ex or otherwise?”

He held his breath, hoping his name wouldn't pop up.

Liza shook her head. “I haven't done all the checking yet, but from what I can see, she's never been married. And, right now, I've got nothing on a boyfriend.”

Good. “Concentrate on the past few years and look into her financial information. Relationship issues. Consumer complaints. If something jumps out at you, let me know. I'll dig in to college and before.”

“All right.” Liza ran a fingernail down his arm. “Maybe we can discuss my findings over coffee or dinner.”

Patrick pulled away and gave a cautious smile. “Sorry, I don't have time. Why don't you give me a call when you have something. And sooner is better.” He made his way out the door.

* * *

On Monday morning, the black SUV parked several spots down was the first thing Amber noticed when she stepped out of her rental car at work. It was a rather common vehicle. Plenty roamed the streets of Savannah, but instinct told her Patrick Wiley was in the vicinity.

Patrick
. She took a deep breath, ignoring the chill seeping through her, and started down River Street toward the Safe Harbor Counseling Center. Could he possibly have more questions?

Before the thought fully penetrated, the answer came. Detectives always had questions. And that was what Patrick was—the detective on the case. Nothing more.

Buoyed by that thought, Amber shouldered her messenger bag and pushed through the narrow double doors of the center. The cozy ambience wrapped around her like a warm blanket. The place was small—only had a quaint waiting area and hallway that led to three offices. And the simple decor of overstuffed seating and antique tables, framed pictures of Savannah's old harbor and a comfortable array of potted plants warmed her further.

Just being at the center made her feel better. After a long weekend of nursing her wounds and musing over Friday's bombing and Patrick Wiley, her nerves were about shot. But common sense reminded her to stop being ridiculous. Even if Patrick did show up, she would be fine.

Shedding her jacket, Amber hung it on a hook on the wall. Then she picked up a bundle of mail from a wicker basket by the front door and headed to her office, determined to have a good day as she chastised herself for her paranoia.

Two steps from her office, Amber paused when a masculine and very familiar voice sounded from behind her colleague's closed door. She bit back a gasp as her stomach did a crazy flip she couldn't explain.

Patrick.

Wrong. She wasn't fine.

The urge to put on a good face and properly welcome him to her center quickly abated, switching instead to a desire to turn around and make a run for it.

The door to her left opened. Too late.

Tony Hill, a fellow counselor, stood next to Patrick, shaking his hand. “I appreciate your persistence in getting to the bottom of this, Detective Wiley. We sure don't need a lunatic running around blowing things up.”

“I agree.” Patrick turned and stepped into the hallway. “Amber.” His eyes narrowed and his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, sending a little fluttery sensation through her midsection and making her wish he'd stick to the stoic cop face she'd seen the other night.

“Good morning.” She tried for a smile, too.

“How are you? How are your injur—”

“Healing.” She cut him off, holding up a bandage-free hand, aware that his gaze was washing over her.

“Glad to hear you're doing better.” He smiled more broadly.

“Amber, I wasn't sure you'd be coming in today,” Tony interjected, hovering in the archway. “You know Pam and I could hold down the center for a couple days.”

“Thanks, Tony. I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine. Really.” Amber couldn't bear to be cooped up in her house for another couple of days.

“Okay.” Tony tugged on his sparse goatee. He eyed her a moment longer. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Tony shut his door and Patrick moved closer. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to an office door with her name engraved in bold lettering. “I have a few questions. Shall we talk in there?”

“No,” Amber answered, immediately regretting the way her tone sharpened. She quickly added, “The waiting room is more comfortable.” She started walking as fast as her high heels and sore knees would allow, not waiting for his reply. In the lobby, she motioned for Patrick to have a seat on the couch. Then she slipped into one of the upholstered chairs, folded her hands in her lap and tried to relax. “I'm not sure what kind of help I'll be. I don't know any more than I did on Friday.”

“Actually, I have a hunch about something.” Patrick ignored the sofa, pulled a chair from the wall and sat down, facing her. A little too close. She took a deep breath. “I came across something this weekend that I think may tie in to your case. And although Mr. Hill answered most of my questions, I'd like to run a couple scenarios by you.”

Her stomach dropped further, but she didn't let it show on her face. Patrick was convinced the bomb was meant for her. Why wouldn't he buy into the random-crime theory like everyone else she knew? There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than that.

Patrick flipped open the folder and started shifting through the contents. Crime scene photos, detailed crime reports and other paperwork involving her case.

Amber swallowed. Maybe this was more serious than she'd thought.
No.
She tamped down the thought, reserving any speculation until there was evidence to support it.

Finally Patrick pulled a single sheet from the stack and pointed to the title with a blunt finger. “I believe this is a brochure that your center put out.”

“Yes.” Amber glanced at the flyer that featured the charity fund-raising dinner her counseling center was hosting. “I sent those to local businesses in the area advertising the event and requesting support.” She met his gaze. “I don't understand what this has to do with the car bombing.”

Patrick set the open folder on the coffee table. “Silence No More. That's the name of your fund-raiser?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Amber said with a shrug, “the fund-raiser is intended to raise money for the local women's shelter as well as promote awareness for violent assaults against women. I'm not sure if you're aware, but one in three women suffer from some sort of abuse during their lifetime. Many suffer in silence, feeling shame and guilt for something they weren't responsible for. And the challenges they live with are innumerable, like low self-esteem, depression and trust issues.”

Patrick nodded. “Sounds like a worthy cause.”

“Yes. It is.” More than he could imagine.

Patrick scooted to the edge of his seat, arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. “However, it brings me back to one of my earlier concerns—that the car bomb may have been planted by a revengeful abuser of one of your clients.”