Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) (20 page)

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

“T
here’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.

“I heard the last of your conversation.” He lifted his hand to touch her but dropped it to his side.

“That was completely unprofessional on my part, but she had it coming.”

“Can’t say I disagree. You okay?”

She skirted around him, too unsettled to be dealing with the affects of breathing him in. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She took a glass from the cupboard and snapped on the tap.

“Not that you’d tell me otherwise.”

Weary to the bone, she sighed and looked at him. “Don’t. Not right now.”

“Cooke—”

“I’m fine. Please leave me alone.”

He stood where he was for several seconds, holding her gaze, then walked off, closing himself in the gym.

She set down her glass, staring at the granite, wishing everything wasn’t so
complicated
. In less than a month’s time she’d lost complete control of her life. Her heart began to pound as her self-righteous streak vanished and reality started sinking in. What had she done? Had she lost her
mind
? She rushed to her phone, yanking it up, wanting to call Lenora back and apologize. Telling Lenora where to go had been amazingly satisfying; Patrick certainly would approve, but she might’ve been able to salvage the Cartwright job with a bit of finesse and finagling. She should have tried to appease Lenora’s ruffled, bitchy feathers, but she’d been rash and foolish instead. And now it was too late. Cooke Interiors might have been salvageable five minutes ago—more than likely not, but the business she’d worked so hard to build was certainly finished now.

What was she going to
do
? Her cash flow was about to come to a screeching halt. She had a decent sized personal savings account, but her mortgage, car payment, and potential legal fees would quickly bleed her dry. And what about Patrick and his needs? If he survived and recovered, he wouldn’t have a job to come back to. His long-term disability and health insurance would hardly cover all of his bills. The monthly costs for LA’s best long-term care facilities were staggering. He couldn’t afford that and now neither could she. Patrick’s current hospital stay would decimate any capital he had. There was no way in hell she was going to watch him lose everything because of
her
crazy
stalker.

The weight of the world settled on her shoulders as she stared out at Park City’s bustling downtown under the darkening sky. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know how she should move forward. There was no Plan B in the event of head traumas, psychopaths, and the loss of her business. Watching everything fall apart had never been part of the plan, but it appeared to be reality now.

She studied the sprawling homes lit up across the mountain as smoke plumed from pretty stone chimneys, and with the deepest of regrets, she knew what she needed to do. Her house. She was going to have to sell. And her sweet little Mercedes would have to be traded in for something more practical. Just like that, everything was gone.

Swallowing the useless lump of emotion, she sat in front of her computer, searching for Greta Holmes’ contact information, then picked up her phone and dialed.

“Greta Holmes.”

“Hi, Greta. This is Wren Cooke.”

“Wren. My goodness, honey, how are you?”

“I’m doing all right.”

“Sweetie, I’ve been trying to track you down. I’ve been hearing some things I thought you might want to know about.”

She closed her eyes and tipped her head against the chair. “Let me guess, you ran into Lenora Cartwright.”

“I’m afraid so, sugar plum. Let me tell you I didn’t pay her one little bit of attention.”

She smiled, appreciating her friend’s unshakable allegiance, but the damage was done. Greta might have ignored Lenora, but many others would certainly listen. “Thanks.”

“You let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“You can, actually.”

“Name it.”

“I’m putting my house on the market.”

“You want to put the… Are you sure, honey? We searched
weeks
for just the right place.”

Her home
was
exactly the right place. As soon as she’d stepped through the front door, she’d known. She had never loved a space more. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m also hoping you might be able to help me locate an apartment—a one-bedroom.” She winced as she thought of all of the beautiful furnishing that would have to go.

“But—”

“I’m out of town for the next couple of weeks,” she interrupted. This was hard enough without Greta’s questions. “But I would like to get this moving as soon as possible. If you would be willing to stop by my brother’s office, Mia can get you a key. You can take pictures when it works for you and scan me the necessary contracts.”

“This breaks my heart, honey, but if this is what you want.”

Greta’s heart couldn’t be breaking more than hers. “It is.”

“I’ll get the pictures, and look into fair market value by the close of business today. I’ll have a sign in your yard by tomorrow.” Greta’s thick drawl and classic southern beauty disguised a sharp-minded business shark.

“Excellent.”

“I’ll start looking into apartments as well.”

“I really appreciate this.”

“Happy to help, honey. I’ll draw up contracts and scan them over to you within the hour.”

“Perfect.”

“Bye now.”

“Bye.” Wren hung up and pressed her fingers to her temple, absorbing the huge emotional blow. Patrick, her business, her home. How much more would she lose? She glanced toward the glass door of the gym as Tucker walked from one weight machine to the next, and looked away, ignoring the sweep of longing to run to him. She did
not
need Tucker. She was exhausted, that was all, and emotionally drained.

She’d slept little last night, worrying about anything and everything. The constant stream of problems was almost more than she could bear; the stress and pressure was tearing her apart, but she would handle it. Ethan was going to be angry when he realized she put her house on the market, but she refused to allow big brother to fly in and rescue her. They had always been able to count on one another, but she wasn’t about to have him pay for a lifestyle she could no longer afford.

Somehow things would work out. They always did, but she wondered how. Her career was ruined—her reputation damaged. It would be close to impossible to find clients or a firm willing to take her on in the LA area. Nibbling her lip, she sighed. Maybe this whole nightmare was an opportunity for a fresh start—somewhere else. She could put a resume together and send it around to a few of the companies she’d worked with in the Santa Barbara area over the last few years. If she moved up the coast, she would be an hour-and-a-half from LA—close enough to be involved in Kylee and Emma’s lives and visit Patrick, but far enough away to start over. Her gaze wandered back to the gym. Distance would be a good thing. And it didn’t have to be forever—maybe a year or two. Long enough to let things blow over and gain a solid handle on her emotions again.

For the first time in almost a month, she felt like she had the answers. Relocating was exactly what she needed to do. She picked up her phone and sent off a text to Greta.

Change of plans. The house is still a go, but I’d like to look at apartments in Santa Barbara instead of the Palisades. Thanks!

Bolstered by her idea, she scooted in and opened a blank Word document. Her fingers flew over the keys as she added her experience, education and numerous qualifications to the first draft of her resume. She smiled as she read through her impressive list. She’d be gainfully employed in no time as long as no one contacted Lenora or her several other unhappy clients.

Her smile dimmed a bit as she thought of working for someone else. Never ever did she think she would be back here again, but this was where she was at…for now. “Santa Barbara or bust,” she muttered as she saved her work, closed the lid, and looked out at the snow coming down—big fat flakes, the only kind that seemed to fall around here. They were in for another foot by morning, according to the forecast.

She studied the outline of white peaks in the distance and tall dark pines surrounding the house—her prison, for surely that’s what this place was starting to feel like. The unceasing precipitation and frigid temperatures were losing their appeal as the days carried on. Even the charm of the town lit up at twilight did little to abate her constant restlessness. She was trapped; her life was suspended in time while they waited for answers that never seemed to come.

Edgy again, Wren stood, catching sight of a small piece of the pool railing jutting from the mounds of snow. Her mind immediately flashed to Staci in her cute bathing suit, grinning next to her brother—alive. Then she thought of Staci pale and staring, bruised and abused, dying a death that had been so horribly
wrong
.

Wren glanced at Tucker as he sprinted on the treadmill, and on a whim, headed down the forbidden hall, stopping at the second door on the left. She twisted the knob, stepping in, and her eyes were immediately drawn to the floor where Tucker had found his sister’s body. She had no idea what compelled her to be here or why she felt a connection to a girl who’d died so long ago. But she did.

Nothing had changed. Staci’s room was exactly as it had been in the crime scene photos. Curious, she walked further in and wandered from picture to picture in the oddly fun and breezy space.

She studied carefree summer days through the eyes of a sixteen-year-old. The Campbell twins had had so many friends. She smiled as she recognized JT and shook her head as she realized Tucker had his arm slung around a different girl in almost every shot. Most of the photos were from here in Utah, but a few had California palm trees in the background. Staci had appeared to be as outgoing and fun as Tucker was athletic and cocky.