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

by Beauman, Cate

  She gave him a quick nod. “She—she said she won’t come until next week, and when she does, she’ll bring her grandson. She also wanted me to tell you that she’s happy you came and that she loves you very much.”

  He struggled with the small clutch of regret as he glanced down the forbidden hall, realizing—as Ms. Hayes already had—that he would never come back to this place.

  “Do you want to go down—one last time?”

  Apparently Wren understood too. “No. There’s nothing left here.” He held her gaze, and something was suddenly different as they tried to work their way back from last night. Awkward silence filled the room, and she looked away.

  Sighing, he looked out the window, watching clumps of snow fall from the heavy pine boughs. He didn’t want to leave things like this. Once they were back in LA she would box up her life and head to Santa Barbara with one of Ethan’s guards. In a matter of hours, they would go their separate ways, mostly because that’s what she wanted. It was unlikely they would see each other anytime soon, especially now that his employment was in question and she would live over an hour-and-a-half away. He was about to lose the one person who’d become as vital to his life as Staci had been. “We should go.”

  “Yeah. Do you think we’ll get a flight out before the storm?”

  “It’s hard to tell.” He just wanted to get them to the airport. Their odds could only go up once they were there. He grabbed Wren’s carryon. “I’m going to have you take the laptop cases, and I’ll take this.” He gestured to the luggage in his hand. “I’ll put the bag in, then you get in. Quick and steady. If for any reason I pull you down, you go down.”

  She swallowed. “Okay.”

  He glanced outside, scanning quickly, as a Park City PD SUV pulled into the drive and his stomach sank. Why did he already know he wasn’t going to like this? “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “We have visitors.”

  Detective Rogers and Franklin got out and started toward the house.

  Wren joined him by the side of the window. “Do you think they have news about my stalker?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Guess we should find out.” Something told him this had nothing to do with the threat to Wren and everything to do with Staci’s case. He opened the door, shielding Wren from the opening. “Morning, Detectives.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Campbell. Ms. Cooke.” There was a barely perceptible edge to Detective Franklin’s voice.

  “Wren and I are just on our way out. We’re heading to the airport. I want to beat the next storm.”

  “I’m not sure you’re going to make it, Mr. Campbell.” Detective Rogers glanced toward the heavy clouds.

  Tucker narrowed his eyes at the tone. “My former colleague, Detective Craig Owens, contacted your precinct last night. Wren’s stalker is believed to be here in Park City. I want to get us out of here before the snow traps us again.”

  “I’m afraid that’s going to have to wait. We need you to come downtown.”

  This wasn’t quite what he’d expected. “Excuse me?”

  “There was another murder last night, Mr. Campbell. Half a mile from here.”

  “Oh my God.” Wren pressed her fingers to her lips. “Another girl?”

  “I’m afraid so, Ms. Cooke,” Rogers answered, never taking his eyes from Tucker’s.

  The breath backed up in Tucker’s throat, and he clutched the doorknob, absorbing the news, staring into Rogers’ quiet intensity.

  “We’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Same MO?” Tucker inquired, automatically flashing back to moments of his own personal hell, struggling to accept that another life had been lost to his sister’s killer.

  “Seems to be. We’d like for you to come with us.”

  “I’d like to help you out, but it’s going to have to wait. I’m hoping Wren and I can get out on the next available flight. I’ll jot down my e-mail; you can send whatever documents you have. I’ll be happy to take a look.”

  “We appreciate your offer, but we’d like to speak with you now.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Wren’s safety is my first priority. She’s at risk the longer we stay.” He grabbed the suitcase and started closing the door. “Wren, let’s go.”

  Franklin put his hand against the heavy wood. “Mr. Campbell, this isn’t a request.”

  Tucker stopped dead as the Detective’s meaning sunk in. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Just what exactly is going on here?” Wren clutched Tucker’s arm. “Are you implying that Tucker had something to do with these murders?”

  “We’re not implying anything, but the fact of the matter is we have two dead girls on our hands—three if we count Staci. Mr. Campbell is very familiar with the cases.”

  “Which is horribly tragic—”

  “Cooke.” He covered her hand and squeezed, touched that she was quick to rush to his defense. “Hold on just a second.”

  “We just want to ask a few questions, folks.”

  “Are you looking for my help, or have you decided I’m a suspect?”

  “We want to clear a few things up.”

  The non-answer. He could get this over with so he and Wren could go, or he could start a pissing match and the good detectives here would flex their muscles and hold him for as long as they damn well pleased. “Wren and I will meet you at the station.”

  “Tucker.” She clutched his hand. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s okay.” He gave her an easy wink despite his growing anger. “The detectives have some questions, so we’ll let them ask.”

  “At least let me call an attorney. JT, he’s the best. Let me call JT”

  He squeezed her fingers again. “I don’t need an attorney. I know my rights just fine,” he turned his attention to the detectives. “Wren and I will meet you at the station,” he repeated.

  “Mr. Campbell—”

  “I said I’ll answer your questions, but I still have a job to do. Wren is still in danger. You’re welcome to follow behind me, but unless you’re charging me with something, we’ll meet you at the precinct within the half hour and head to the airport directly after.”

  “We’ll be happy to follow you,” Detective Franklin said. “We’ll need for you to remove your weapon.”

  The pissing match had already begun. “I’m a fully licensed bodyguard on duty protecting my principal. Ms. Cooke’s stalker is known to be in the area, as you are well aware. If you want to start impeding on my rights as well as my contracted client’s, I’d be happy to call in the lawyers after all. We can make this as simple or as complicated as you want, Franklin, but don’t forget, I know this game. I sure as hell have played it a time or two.” He slammed the door in their cool, blank faces, threw the lock, and took Wren’s hand as they started toward the garage. “Let’s go.”

  Tucker glanced at his watch and rubbed his fingers along his forehead, barely suppressing a sigh. He’d been sitting across from the detectives for two-and-a-half hours, answering questions and looking at dozens of crime scene photos, theorizing a lunatic’s motives. They’d gotten nowhere.

  “The only thing we can conclude is that the SC written on both Alyssa Brookes’ stomach and now Chloe Wright’s has something to do with Staci.”

  Tucker sat up straight, glancing at the glowing letters on the thin abdomens in two different photos. “As I said before, I agree. In my opinion, he wants to make sure law enforcement understands that he’s responsible for all three killings. He’s tying the murders together.”

  “But what’s the motive?” Franklin asked as he sipped his third cup of coffee.

  Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? If they new that, Staci’s case would’ve
been solved long ago. Tucker peeked at his watch again, growing more impatient by the second. This had been a complete waste of time. He could’ve just as easily tossed ideas around with Rogers and Franklin from Los Angeles via a conference call. And Wren would be a hell of a lot safer than she was here. They needed to go.

  “That’s what we need to figure out,” Rogers muttered as he flipped through his notes. “Why don’t we run through this one more time. Might as well cover our bases. We’ll start with last night.” He cleared his throat. “Ms. Cooke stated she was with you at all times except for the half hour or so that she took her bath.”

  “We’ve already established this.”

  “What were you doing during this time again, Mr. Campbell?”

  Son of a bitch. It was all he could do not to reach over the table and knock out these dumb shits. If this was the type of investigating and interrogating that went on around here, it was no wonder Staci’s murderer was still free. Beyond finished with this entire fiasco, he leaned in, looking both men in the eyes. “Let me break it down for you gentlemen, since we’ve discussed this at least a dozen times and you still seem to want to include me on your suspect list. Wren stormed into the bathroom right around ten thirty and didn’t come out again until eleven, which means I’m officially unaccounted for for just about thirty minutes. It seems to me as though your suggesting that in approximately half an hour’s time, I not only left my client unattended while she sat alone and vulnerable in a bathtub when her stalker is here, but then I went out in a snowstorm, drove half a mile down an almost impassable road, broke into a residence, tied up and raped a girl at least two or three times, strangled her, then posed her, drove back home and was laying in bed like it was any other night for Wren to find me when she came back out?”

  “Mr. Campbell—”

  “I’m not finished. Did you even call the security company monitoring my home and ask if the alarm was deactivated at any time between ten thirty and eleven? Or better yet, did you ask me for access to my computer or cellphone where you would see that at approximately ten forty-five I received an e-mail from one of my co-workers and responded?” He shook his head and looked up into the camera. “You are capturing all of this, right? Because I can’t wrap my mind around why these two still have a fucking job.”

  “Mr. Campbell, we have a duty to our citizens. This town hasn’t seen a murder since July 1999, which coincidentally was the last time you were here. You come back to Utah, and two girls wind up dead, which is a damn screwy happenstance if you ask me. We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t bring you in and ask.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t know Alyssa Burkes or Chloe Wright, and I sure as hell didn’t kill my sister. You’re missing several key points here and wasting my time. Wren Cooke has been with me every moment since we’ve arrived in Utah, and she’s attested to this in a sworn statement. But the biggest piece is the DNA. You should have Alyssa’s results back by now. You and I both know the semen found on scene isn’t fucking mine. You have a killer on your hands, Detectives, and it isn’t me.” He stood. “Unless you have anything else.”

  “We haven’t dismissed you.”

  “But you will, because we both know this is teetering on harassment. I think we’re finished here.”

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Can’t wait.” He yanked the door open and stepped out of the room.

  Wren rushed to her feet and hurried to his side. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he snarled as he started walking, leaving her to follow.

  She followed after him, catching up as he stopped at the kiosk for his holster and pistol. “What happened?”

  He fished his permit and professional bodyguard license from his wallet and slid them under the small opening for the officer behind the glass to read. “Not a damn thing.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That they don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

  She rested her hand on her hips, and her eyebrows shot up on her forehead. “They did not.”

  “Okay, I told them they don’t know what the hell they’re doing.” He looked at his watch again and struggled to bite back another swear. Almost noon. The likelihood of getting a flight out was beyond piss-poor.

  “Tucker…”

  The officer slid his gun and holster through the small door.

  “Thank you.”

  “Tucker—”

  “Let’s wait ‘til we get out of here.” As they made it closer to the tinted glass doors, he stopped and closed his eyes, more than fed up with the day. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Snow fell in frenzied sheets. Forget the flight. They’d be lucky to get up the road. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Go back to the house and try again tomorrow.” But it was doubtful they would be going anywhere for a few days. Weather reports had predicted two feet or more with this latest dumping, with another front moving in behind it.

  “But what if we lose power?”

  “We’ll have to hope we don’t.”

  Wren woke with a start, blinking in the dim light cast by the fire. She glanced at the bedside clock—11:40. Somehow she’d lost thirty minutes. Sleep fogged, it took her several seconds to realize the television had been turned off and Tucker no longer lay on his side of the bed. She sat up, spotting him on the chaise lounge, boxer clad, staring into the flames. His hair stood in short black spikes, and the stubble along his clenched, chiseled jaw was more pronounced in the flickering orange glow. Light and shadow accentuated his broad shoulders and muscular back, yet he appeared defenseless despite his powerful build.

  Wren continued her study of the miserable man before her, contemplating whether to lie down or call his name. But then he rested his elbows on his thighs and placed his forehead in his hands in a gesture of utter defeat.

  Despite the tension of the day and fight last night, she tossed the covers aside and walked to where he sat, unable to let him suffer alone. She stood in front of him, absorbing the radiating heat of the fire, having no idea what to say. They’d spoken some since their shouting match, but barely. After their dicey drive up the steep mountain road, he’d let them in the house, checked the panel, and gone to his room. She’d spent most of her time sitting on her bed, studying several apartment options Greta sent along via e-mail, listening to mutterings of Tucker’s conversations with Detective Owens well into the evening.

  Although Tucker never came right out and said so, she’d read between the lines, understanding that his two-and-a-half hours in the interrogation room had been hell. She’d paced about the hallway, feeling utterly helpless, her finger hovering over JT’s number the entire time. She’d been ready to fight for Tucker. If the Park City police were going to be foolish enough to accuse Tucker of the absurd, she would have called in the best to defend him. The idea of Tucker harming anyone, much less the sister he’d adored, was nothing short of ludicrous.

  He was hurting. She hated that he was in such pain, so she stepped closer. “Hi.”

  He glanced up, staring at her with pathetically miserable eyes. “Hey.”

  Her heart melted as she stared at him, yearning to wrap him in a hug. “Mind if I sit down?”

  He scooted over.

  She took her spot, and they looked into the fire. What now? What should she say when little more than twenty-four hours before they’d both shouted things better left unsaid? “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Liar,” she said without heat.

  He met her gaze.

  “I know we aren’t exactly getting along… Today couldn’t have been easy,” she fumbled, then cut to the chase. “I wanted to help you. I still do.”

  He shrugged. “It’s over.”

  But it wasn�
��t—far from it. Nodding, she pressed her lips firm in frustration and stood. This was just another example of neither of them being able to fully trust in the other.

  He took her hand in a viselike grip as she turned to walk away. “Wait.”

  She paused.

  “I can’t shut my mind down. I can’t stop thinking about Staci and the other girls. I’m starting to wonder if this has something to do with me.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “The murders.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I wanted to think so. For the most part, Franklin and Rogers have no idea what they’re doing—small-time cops with three huge cases on their hands. But then Rogers said something about how there hasn’t been a murder in Park City since Staci, then I show up and two more girls die.”

  “He’s grasping at straws, Tucker.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe not. His comment bothered the hell out of me. I haven’t been able to let it go. I needed to disprove it, so I called Owens when we got home. We started putting the pieces together the way we used to when we both worked homicide. We jumped back to July ’99, starting with Staci’s death.” His hand flexed against hers, and his eyes grew distant. “By all accounts, her murder was personal. Someone studied her. They took the time to figure out how to get in the house without any of us knowing. According to the ME’s reports, he raped her at least twice before he strangled her. He was very methodical, very cold. In his mind, Staci died for a purpose. Then there’s nothing. Fourteen years pass, and Park City is a safe, quiet place until I come strolling back to town. Now Alyssa Brookes and Chloe Wright are dead.”

  “The timing has to be a coincidence.” She sat on the hearth, still holding his hand. “How could there possibly be a connection between you and the three murders?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. I have no idea.” He rubbed his free hand along his jaw. “I should. This is exactly what I went to school for. This is what I did for so long. My team and I, we closed so many cases, but I’ve never been able to help my sister.”