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

by Beauman, Cate

  “Please, dear God, let us be back in business.” She turned on the small countertop television on her way to the bread bin, pulling two whole-wheat slices from the bag as her mind raced through the list of objectives for the day. Return e-mails, check in with the Movenbecks, then she had to get to Lenora’s master suite. Somehow she had to tinker with one of the weight-bearing walls, which wasn’t going to be easy, but she would find a way to give Lenora what she wanted or switch it around some and make Lenora want what was actually feasible. The Cartwright Job and potential clients from the Movenbeck renovations were bound to keep Cooke Interiors busy and comfortably in the black well into next year. Patrick was definitely due a raise.

  “…tragic death of someone so young right here in Park City.”

  Wren whirled as the toothy blonde’s words caught her attention. She turned the TV up louder.

  “The town is in shock as word spreads of sixteen-year-old Alyssa Brookes’ untimely passing. Details are still emerging as we bring you this breaking news. At this point, we know Alyssa and her family are full-time residents of Park City. She was a cheerleader and president of the Sophomore class at Park City High.”

  Tucker stepped into the kitchen, hair damp, smiling. “I’ll never take hot water for granted again.”

  “Shh. The news…”

  “What—”

  “Shh. There was a murder. Sixteen-year-old girl. Details are still coming in.”

  Tucker’s eyes changed, sharpening as he stared at the television.

  “…unconfirmed sources are saying Alyssa was found in her bedroom by her mother, strangled. The motive behind this beloved community member’s violent death is still unclear. Park City’s Police Chief and the town’s mayor will be addressing the public at a ten o’clock press conference. We’ll continue to bring you details as they become available. Chuck, back to you in Salt Lake.”

  Wren pressed a hand to her chest as her heart broke for the mother of Alyssa Brookes. “That poor girl. That poor family.”

  Tucker grunted as he turned to the refrigerator and pulled a coffee pod from the box. He grabbed a mug from the cabinet and a banana from the fruit bowl, peeled it, and bit in.

  Wren watched him as he doctored up his morning java, pouring cream into his cup, swearing when chunks of spoiled milk floated to the top. “We’ll have to go to the store. Everything in the fridge is probably bad.”

  A young girl had been strangled to death somewhere in the town limits, and he was worrying about food. “Tucker.”

  “Yeah.” He dumped the undrinkable contents down the drain and looked at her.

  “What—why…the girl. She’s been murdered…”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  She blinked, taken aback by his indifference. “I’m not sure. Maybe nothing, but you act like you don’t even care. Of all people, you should know…” She stopped herself as his eyes heated and cooled just as quickly.

  “I should know what?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry,” she murmured as she reached for her toast.

  He gripped her wrist, stopping her. “No, go ahead. What should I know?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I should know what it’s like, right? I should know what it’s like to open a bedroom door and find the person you love most in the world dead and staring up at nothing?”

  She flinched. “Tucker—”

  “Do I have to grieve for all of them? A sixteen-year-old was found just like Staci; she won’t be the last. I understand exactly what that girl’s mother is going through. Am I a bad person because I shut it off, because I don’t want to relive the pain again and again?”

  “No, of course—”

  “I spent seven years of my life trying to save the world, trying to take killers off the street so they couldn’t do to others what someone did to my sister.”

  What was Tucker talking about? Who did what to his sister? “Tucker, I don’t know—”

  “That’s right. You don’t, so leave it alone.” He dropped her hand, turned, and left the room.

  She stared after him as he retreated down the hall. What just happened? She’d never seen him angry before. Did he think she was judging him? And Staci? What exactly happened to Staci? He’d never said. She shuddered as she glanced toward the forbidden hall, realizing she knew nothing of the story. Shaken, she walked to the dining room table and sat down in front of her laptop, staring blindly at a screen-full of mail.

  Her laptop dinged loudly, alerting her to a new e-mail, startling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the sender, groaned, then puzzled over the subject line. Extremely Dissatisfied! She sighed and rolled her eyes. “You’re never satisfied,” she muttered as she hovered the mouse over the unread mail, hesitating as she glanced in the direction Tucker had walked. She wanted to go to him and make sure he was all right, but she doubted he had any desire to see her now. Pressing her lips firm, she clicked on Lenora’s message.

  Wren,

  I’m writing to express my deep dissatisfaction with our business relationship as of late. You abandoned me mid-project and apparently Patrick has done the same!

  Wren frowned. What?

  I believe I’ve been very accommodating with Patrick’s illness, but to miss our breakfast meeting without even a word is abominably rude and unprofessional. I am beyond displeased with our current arrangement and will no longer require your services. You can expect to hear from my attorney…wherever you are!

  Lenora Cartwright

  She reread the message several times, waiting for Lenora’s ramblings to somehow make sense. What the hell was going on? She exed out of the e-mail and searched her inbox, spotting numerous messages from Brice Movenbeck. She pressed a hand to her sinking stomach as she glanced from subject line to subject line. Still waiting for Patrick was sent at 9am on November second. Then Wrong furniture! at 10:30am. Please contact me ASAP!!! had come in at 4:45pm. Her hand trembled as she clicked on the last message.

  Wren,

  I don’t know what in the hell is up, but Mindy and I are beyond frustrated and quite frankly surprised with the disaster you and Patrick have left us to deal with. Patrick never showed up, the wrong furniture was delivered (which took several hours to correct), and our room is still in shambles while Mindy and the help try to put everything to rights with less than an hour until guests arrive. Contact me immediately.

  Brice

  “No.” This wasn’t right. She frantically searched for the last correspondence Patrick sent at 7pm on November first, scanning it. He said right there that he would meet with Brice and Mindy first thing in the morning, then head over to Lenora’s as planned. He attached two files of photos for new client rooms.

  She yanked up her phone, trying to reassure herself this wasn’t really happening. She reread Patrick’s return text she received at the bar and grill yesterday afternoon.

  Install perfect. Party fabulous. Lenora tolerable. Ready for breakfast meeting.

  “This doesn’t make any sense.” She stabbed Patrick’s number on her speed dial as her breath heaved out in her shocked anger. Missed appointments, losing their biggest clients, potential litigation. She pressed her fingers to the vicious throb in her forehead.

  “Hey, you’ve reached Patrick. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Patrick, it’s Wren. I just received an e-mail from Lenora Cartwright. Apparently you called in sick yesterday and missed the meeting this morning. And you never showed up for the Movenbeck install. I don’t know what’s going on, but it better be good. How could you do this, Patrick?” Her voice shook with tears and she cleared the emotion away. “We just lost our biggest client, and I don’t even want to know what Brice and Mindy are going to say.” She disconnected and rushed to her feet, almost knocking over her chair, as a spurt o
f panic grabbed her by the throat. What was she going to do? She moved about, pacing away the bright, hot fear. Everything she’d worked for. Everything they’d worked for.

  She stopped in her tracks, listening to the violent pounding of her own heart. “This isn’t right. Something isn’t right.”

  She picked up the cellphone and dialed the Cartwrights. Screw Ethan’s rules about outgoing calls.

  “Cartwright residence.”

  “Ms. Cheri, this is Wren Cooke. Is Lenora available?”

  “I’m afraid she’s in her session with Willamina.”

  “Do you think you could interrupt her? It’s urgent.”

  “She gave me strict instructions that she isn’t to be disturbed.”

  Damn it. She bit her lip. “Okay. Can I leave a message?”

  “Certainly.”

  Then a thought occurred to her. Patrick had been in the Cartwright mansion every day since her abrupt departure. “Ms. Cheri, did you talk to Patrick when he called in?”

  “Of course, madam.”

  “How did he—how did he sound?”

  “Different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His voice was a bit…muffled I would say.”

  “Muffled?”

  “Yes, madam. He said he was dog sick and would return tomorrow, which would have been yesterday. He called in yesterday and said he would be here today, Madam.”

  She frowned. “He missed two days?”

  “Indeed, Ms. Cooke.”

  “And he said ‘dog sick’?”

  “Precisely.”

  ‘Dog Sick.’ Patrick wouldn’t say ‘dog sick.’ He would say ‘under the weather’ or ‘ill’, especially to a client. She fell back into her chair as a new wave of dread washed through her. Something was wrong with Patrick. “Ms. Cherie, how did Patrick look when you saw him last?”

  “Quite fine, actually.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Would you please have Lenora call me at this number?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  She hung up and immediately dialed Patrick’s number with a trembling finger.

  “Hey, you’ve reached Patrick. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Patrick.” She gripped the cellphone tight. “Patrick, please call me. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I’m not mad about the meeting or the install, but I am worried—very, very worried. I don’t care about our business right now. We’ll figure that out later. Just call so I know you’re okay. Please.”

  She hung up and hurried down the hall, looking for Tucker, listening to his murmurs through his bedroom door, and stopped. What am I doing? She was not about to go running to Tucker with her problems. Her problems. She turned back, shocked that her first instinct had been to seek his help. She didn’t need him or anything he had to offer. Hurrying to her laptop, she punched “LAPD” in the search engine and dialed the number for non-emergencies.

  “LAPD non-emergency.”

  “Yes, my name is Wren Cooke. I need to speak with Detective Owens immediately. He’s involved in my stalking case. Please, it may be life or death.”

  “Please hold, Ms. Cooke, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Seconds passed, but it felt like hours while she listened to the canned elevator music buzzing in her ear.

  “Ms. Cooke, this is Detective Terrance Romero. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I need to talk to Detective Owens.”

  “He’s out at the moment.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Detective Owens has been handling my stalking case. I really need to speak with him.”

  “I’m familiar with your case, Ms. Cooke.”

  “You are? Okay. Good. Good. I think something happened to my business partner, Patrick Stone. He’s missed two important meetings and he’s called out sick two days running.” She nibbled her lip. “This is going to sound strange; I can hardly believe I’m saying it out loud, but I don’t think he’s the one who called in. Can you send someone over to his house to check on him?”

  “When was the last time he was seen?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not in Los Angeles. The last time I talked to him personally was the evening of November first.” Three days. Anything could have happened in three days.

  “What makes you think someone would want to impersonate Mr. Stone?”

  She sighed, beyond frustrated. She didn’t have time for this. She needed to know Patrick was okay. “Our client’s housekeeper said he sounded different, and he said something Patrick wouldn’t say. I’ve known him for several years. He’s my best friend. I’m telling you, something’s wrong. He’s never sick—ever—and he wouldn’t blow off a breakfast meeting with one of our most important clients.”

  “I’ll need an address.”

  “Thank you.” Relief swamped her and she blinked back a sudden wave of tears. “He lives at 722 Beverly Drive. Bungalow B.”

  “We’ll call you back after we check this out.”

  “I can’t even begin to thank you, Detective.” She hung up and stared out the window as she attempted to wrap her mind around the last twenty minutes. Did she really just call the LAPD and tell them someone was impersonating her best friend? She picked up her cell again and reread the text he sent yesterday. None of this made sense. The message came from his phone; he had to have sent it. He had to have called the Cartwright mansion and spoke with Ms. Cherie. Was he mixed up with drugs and she’d missed the signs?

  Her e-mail dinged with another incoming message from one of her suppliers. She closed her eyes, already finished with the day as she pushed in, closing the gap between herself, the table, and her laptop. The screen-full of unanswered mail was no longer an exciting escape from her feelings for Tucker, nor was it a personally rewarding motivator to get caught up. Each bold line in her inbox was an overwhelming reminder that she was slowly drowning in a life over which she no longer had any control.

  She needed to call Brice, but first she had to talk to Patrick and find out what in the world happened. Desperately struggling to keep something together, she opened the last e-mail Patrick sent and clicked on the photo attachments. The first picture popped up and her eyes filled again as she grinned—Patrick cheesing it up for the camera. That silly, handsome man in his designer top was the friend she recognized. He wouldn’t have left her high and dry without a reason. “Be okay, Pat. Please,” she whispered, clicking to the next picture of a boring, ugly space. Despite her distress, she was immediately flooded by ideas on how she would fix it. And she would fix it—somehow…from hundreds of miles away.

  She opened a Word document in a side-by-side screen, ready to begin her concept notes, then stopped, letting loose a hopeless, humorless laugh as she shook her head and a tear she couldn’t keep at bay fell. Who was she kidding? Cooke Interiors was dead in the water. She could make the retched space on her screen shine, but without anyone on the LA end to help bring her visions to life, her business was over. Everything she and Patrick had worked for…

  “Like hell this is over.” Despite the hundreds of e-mails that needed her attention, she brought up Design 101 and began the tedious yet comforting task of transforming a drab space into the spectacular.

  Tucker added his final thoughts to the preliminary site assessment he was typing up for Jackson. He’d spent the last two hours on Google Maps scrutinizing the one-block radius around the penthouse suites the diplomats would use for their weeklong stay next month, searching for potential weak spots and areas at risk for security breaches. He was officially on report duty until he and Wren were able to head home. His phone rang as he attached the file to his latest e-mail and pressed ‘send.’ He answered on the second ring. “Campbell.”

  “Tucker?”

  He frowned. “Yeah, who’s this?”

>   “Terrance Romano.”

  One of his old partners in crime. He smiled. “Hey, Romano. Didn’t recognize your voice. What’s up?”

  “We checked into Patrick Stone. He’s been life-flighted to General—damn mess. He’s critical.”

  Tucker shook his head. “Wait. What? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Ms. Cooke requested a welfare check at Patrick Stone’s residence. She was pretty rattled. He didn’t show up for an important meeting this morning. Couple of officers stopped by the house, peeked in a few windows, found him on the living room floor with his skull bashed in. Somebody beat the fuck out of him with a lamp—shards of pottery all over the place. Blood’s matted and dried on the walls and area rug. Looks like he’d been laying there a couple days.”

  “Goddamn.” Tucker closed his eyes as he rested his forehead in his hand. This was going to crush Wren.

  “Owens is on his way here. We’re processing the scene now—can’t find his wallet, but all other valuables seem to be in place.”

  Tucker’s eyes flew open. This wasn’t just a simple robbery gone bad. The coincidence was too much. “How sure are you on the timeframe?”

  “CSI says spatter’s about forty-eight hours old. It’ll take us a little time to nail down an exact timeline.”

  “What about his cellphone? Did you find Patrick’s phone?”

  “Don’t think so. Hold on.” Romano’s muffled voice filled Tucker’s ear as he murmured something. “Nope. No cellphone found either.”

  “He sent her a text yesterday afternoon—or someone did, using Patrick’s phone.” How long had Wren been communicating with the wrong man? Had she slipped up and said anything about where they were staying? Tucker shot out of his chair and stood by the windows, scrutinizing the shadows among the snow-covered trees.