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

by Beauman, Cate

  “Hunter said you said something about forty-eight hours.”

  “That’s the best I can do.”

  “Then it’ll have to do. I have the stuff you asked for—sent the file to Jackson too. I didn’t think it would hurt to have him take a look. Text me when you’re ready and I’ll send it over.”

  He sighed, weary, tired, and more than half-sick after the emotional rollercoaster of the last several hours. “Will do. Hey, Cooke, what would you say if I said—” He stopped mid-thought as Wren stepped out of the room and walked toward him. He hadn’t been able to shake the idea that Wren’s stalking and Staci’s murder were somehow connected. He’d wanted to bounce the idea off Ethan since the thought came to him earlier this morning, but now wasn’t the time. “Never mind. Wren’s heading my way.”

  “You sure?”

  The idea was a stretch, but he couldn’t let it go. “Yeah. I’ll give you a call when we get settled in downtown. We have an officer following us, and someone will be assigned to our door until we can get out of here. Rogers spoke with the resort’s security, so they understand the situation and know I’ll be armed.”

  “Sounds like everything’s under control.”

  “As much as it can be. I’ll let you go.”

  “Bye.”

  Wren set her luggage down. “I’m ready.”

  He nodded.

  “Have you heard anything new? What did the detectives say before they left?”

  “Not much. It’ll take time to process the items.”

  “Do you think—do you think the bathing suit was actually Staci’s?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “And the ties?”

  “I’m willing to bet those are the ones he used on my sister.”

  “Tucker,” she whispered, pressing her hands to his cheeks. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  The compassion in her eyes went a long way to sooth him. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I wish I could take all of this away.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

  He pulled her closer, holding on tight, accepting the comfort she wanted to give. “We should go,” he muffled against her hair.

  “I’m ready.” She stepped back and took his hand.

  He turned to the two officers sitting on the couch. “We’re ready.”

  “We’ll follow behind you, Mr. Campbell.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter 18

  Tucker stared at the gruesome images of his sister in comparison to Alyssa Brookes and Chloe Wright, trying to find the connection between the three deaths now that he had Park City PD’s and the FBI’s files. Other than similar physical features and identical methods of murder, there was nothing consistent. He’d put in a call to his father, discussing the situation at length, triple-checking that their families had never met.

  He rubbed at his tired eyes, glanced at Wren asleep in the next room, and flipped screens to the side-by-side layout Ethan had provided of each victim’s family life, extra curricular activities, timelines, so on and so forth. Again, nothing popped out to grab him. Staci and Alyssa had been popular and extroverted. Chloe had been a quiet, brainy, bookworm. All three families had money, but not to the extent of the Campbell fortune.

  He scribbled Money? on the mostly blank notepad next to him. Did finances somehow tie into this whole thing? He shook his head, immediately dismissing the idea. Ransoms never came into play. Nothing was ever stolen. Beneficiaries didn’t gain more from death than life. “So, what the hell is it?” He scrubbed his hands over his face as the frustration drove him half-crazy. He’d been at this for hours. Jackson hadn’t come up with anything he hadn’t thought of already, and Ethan was still searching. He needed to shut it down for a while and come back with a fresh perspective. They were dead in the water until they figured out the killer’s motive.

  He stood, walked to the sliding glass doors, and moved the curtain aside, staring at the flurries in the glow of the streetlights. Hopefully this was the beginning of the end of the ceaseless pummel. Even the diehards had had enough. He slid the drape back, closing out the gray dawn, and looked at his laptop, unable to settle. His mind kept circling around to Wren’s stalker and Staci’s murderer being one in the same. The idea should have been ridiculous, but he couldn’t shake it. Although it was possible two sick bastards taunted them simultaneously, it was highly unlikely.

  Sighing, he went back to the table, knowing that sleep wasn’t going to happen. He might as well play his theory out once and for all instead of standing around, driving himself crazy. Grabbing his pen, he wrote Wren, Staci, Alyssa, Chloe, and added Park City and Los Angeles. He drew three lines, connecting the victims to Park City and one from Wren to Los Angeles. He stared at the small diagram, trying to make it all add up.

  He swallowed, his stomach churning, his hands growing clammy as he finally understood. He was the link tying everything together. 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. Roger’s words had plagued him from the second they were spoken; now he knew why.

  He scribbled Tucker on the sheet, needing to finish this out, and drew lines from his name to Staci, Wren, Los Angeles, Park City, Chloe, and Alyssa, adding question marks next to the latter two names. He didn’t know the girls or understand his part in their deaths, but his sister’s killer had connected them together in a roundabout way with his ‘message’ on Staci’s bedding. Jackson had initially suggested that the killer tossed Tucker’s initials into the mix to throw the investigation off course, but this made more sense as he studied his detailed graph with his forehead in his hands, his suspicions confirmed on the paper before him. Wren’s stalker and Staci’s killer certainly could be the same person, and he was somehow at the center.

  But how? Why?

  He sat back, his mind racing. Staci’s death had been methodical, cruel, and filled with purpose—a purpose no one understood. Wren’s stalking wasn’t all that different…dead cats, texts, flowers and bloody messages that made sense to no one but the individual sending them. He looked at his name on the sheet, then at Wren’s. Her problems had started almost immediately after he became a visible part of her life. Alyssa and Chloe’s lives ended shortly after he came back to Park City. Did they die for nothing more than that?

  But what about the timeframe? Fourteen-and-a-half years separated Staci’s murder and his interest in Wren—if that was even the angle. He jammed a hand through his hair, clenching his jaw, grappling to come up with another explanation. That didn’t make sense either. Wren certainly wasn’t the first woman he’d dated since Staci’s death, so why would she be a target? Because she was the only one who mattered. But how the hell would anyone else know that when he’d just recently figured it out himself?

  And that’s where the theory started to unravel—a killer who murders for…who the hell knows why, then takes over a decade off only to come back for the love of his life and kills two more girls while he’s at it? There were too many gaping holes to add up to something plausible.

  He rubbed at the knots in his shoulders. Maybe all of this was a big coincidence and Jackson was right: The killer was smart. He very well could have added Tucker’s initials to throw them all for a loop. He’d just spent a good half-hour spinning his wheels. He waited for the flood of relief as he glanced at his disproven theories, but the lead ball in his belly still weighed heavy. Why couldn’t he let this go? Why couldn’t he chalk this up to a bad case of paranoia and move on to something that actually made sense?

  Because somehow among the mismatched pieces and inconsistencies this did make sense. He ripped his paper from the notebook and rewrote his diagram on a fresh
sheet, taking his ideas to the next step regardless of the discrepancies. This time he added a box with his name, the three victims’, and Wren’s in each of the corners and Who? in the last empty space. That was the huge question. If this was somehow right, past and present were colliding—Park City and three innocent girls, Los Angeles and one innocent woman, Tucker and a crazy fucker.

  Making two columns, he scribbled 1999 and 2014 and began a list of everyone he and Staci knew in Park City, then he jotted names under the 2014 side, including individuals he and Wren were both acquainted with. He hated adding his friends, but they were names that could be quickly eliminated. He stared at the small roster and sighed. Nothing.

  He dropped his pen, rubbed at the tension once again, and thought back to the weeks leading up to the chaos. He’d worked, worked some more, and tried to make a little time with Wren at Ethan’s shindig. His finger’s paused against his skin. Michael Collins? No. Michael Collins wasn’t a blast from his past. Then his heart kicked into high gear. JT. JT fucking Cartwright. Big-time Los Angeles defense attorney.

  He shook his head, wanting to deny the possibility. Cartwright and Staci had been incredibly close, and Wren was very fond of him. She and JT had gone to the gala together. His stomach shuddered as he thought of the young man who’d been there for him during the worst days of his life, the friendly man who’d offered to buy him a beer just weeks ago. Despite it all, Tucker wrote JT by the question mark. So far he was the only name that fit. He picked up his phone even though it was still shy of six. Ethan would want in on this as soon as possible.

  “Cooke,” Ethan answered groggily.

  “Hey, sorry to call so early.”

  “Is everything okay? Is Wren all right?”

  “Yeah, she’s sleeping. I need you to do something for me. I need you to run JT Cartwright.”

  “JT Cartwright? I’m still half-asleep. Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Defense attorney. Son to Wren’s former pain-in-the ass client.”

  “That’s right. That’s right,” Ethan said, his voice changing, straining as he obviously stretched. “Why?”

  “I’ve been playing with an idea. I didn’t want to say anything until I had some time to turn everything over in my head. What if—what if Wren’s stalker and Staci’s murderer are the same person?”

  The line stayed silent.

  “I know this sounds like a stretch, but if you think about it, maybe it’s not. Wren’s being stalked, we head to Utah, and all the sudden my sister’s killer is striking with a vengeance.”

  “Maybe, man, but I don’t see it. Owens ran JT. He came up clean. I’ll go back and double check his whereabouts, but he didn’t raise any red flags the first time around.”

  “I think there’s something here. The killer has linked me to the murders—”

  “Or you’re a great opportunity to throw them off the trail.”

  “Hear me out. Staci was my sister; Wren and I are involved. There hasn’t been a murder in Park City since Staci’s death, then I come back to town and two girls die in an identical way to my twin.”

  “Definitely big coincidences, but what’s the angle?”

  He shook his head, still unable to figure that out. “I don’t know. Revenge?”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know, Ethan. Like I said, a stretch.”

  “And you’re thinking JT Cartwright’s your man?”

  “Not necessarily. He’s the only name I can connect to my past and present. He was one of Staci’s good friends, and Wren really likes him. We’ll start with him until I can come up with someone else.”

  “I’ll have something for you by tonight. I’ve got a crazy-ass schedule today. We’re trying to wrap things up here and get back to LA. Sarah’s new studio is finished.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You still good to head home tomorrow?”

  “I think so. The snow seems to be stopping. I’ll call to confirm our flight at nine. As long as the airport reopens, we should be airborne by two.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Later.” He hung up, set his phone down, and looked at the bed, craving to lie down and rest his weary head. He wanted to pull Wren against him and pretend everything was like it had been yesterday morning before they’d found Staci’s bathing suit and a potential new lead to a case that might revolve around him. Might, he reminded himself. Ethan didn’t seem sold on the idea, but they would see what they would see and move from there.

  Suddenly exhausted, Tucker glanced at the security latch flipped in place on the door and stood, heading to the bedroom, pulling off his holster, shirt, and shorts. Perhaps he would catch an hour or two of shuteye now that his mind was less bogged down. He slid the covers back and settled himself against his pillow, hesitating as he reached for Wren.

  What if he was right? What if all of this did circle around to him? Would Wren be so willing to stand by him if he was the reason for Patrick’s injuries and the loss of her home and business? Maybe she’d been right. Maybe her life didn’t work with him in it.

  Unable to stop himself, he slid his finger along the soft warm skin of her arm, wondering if all the obstacles he and Wren had worked through might have been for nothing.

  Wren rolled over and smiled at Tucker, who was sleeping soundly. His mouth hung slightly open as his chest rose and fell with each deep breath. Poor guy was exhausted. He’d been sitting at the table in their tiny kitchenette, staring at his laptop, frowning when she’d dozed off sometime after one. He must’ve studied the files Ethan sent for quite some time, trying to piece the new developments in Staci’s case together.

  She touched her finger to the deep purple circles under his closed eyes, aching for him. Yesterday had been nothing short of devastating. She’d seen Staci and Alyssa’s horrid crime scene photos spread about the coffee table, yet the bikini, tethers, and crude ‘message,’ as Tucker had called it, on the bedding had somehow seemed crueler. She didn’t need Tucker’s psychology degree to understand that Staci’s killer wanted him to suffer. The kind man lying beside her didn’t deserve the punches he’d been dealt, yet he was handling them.

  Wanting him to rest, she carefully pulled her side of the covers back and eased herself off the mattress, tiptoeing her way to the glass sliders in the next room. She slid the curtain aside several inches and blinked against the bright sunshine. “Finally,” she whispered, grinning, never happier to see the sun’s blinding twinkle reflecting off the massive snow banks and throngs of tourists cramming Main Street in the distance. Park City had been a ghost town yesterday when she and Tucker made their way to the resort through the storm, but the crowds were out in full-force today. She studied men, women, and children bundled in their winter attire, bustling about, and craved to be part of the action. Sitting idle was driving her crazy.

  “Cooke?”

  She whirled as the urgency in Tucker’s voice registered and rushed toward the bedroom, slamming into him as she turned the corner.

  He grabbed her around the waist, catching her before she fell.

  “What’s wrong?” She eased back enough to look him in the eye, realizing he was still half asleep. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t hear you get up.”

  “I’m sorry.” She hugged him, listening to his heart thunder. “I didn’t want to wake you. I was hoping you would sleep.”

  “It’s okay. I guess I went out harder than I thought I would.”

  “Come on.” She took his hand and tugged. “Let’s get you back to bed. You’re exhausted.”

  He didn’t move. “I just need some coffee.”

  She gave him another tug. “Snuggle up and I’ll make you a cup.”

  He walked with her to the bed. “Five-star treatment. I gue
ss I should stay up all night more often.”

  She smiled, studying him as he lay back down. Despite his attempt at joking, his eyes were still distant and weary. What she wouldn’t give for him to flash her one of those slow, sexy grins. She crawled on the bed next to him, wanting to make this better. “Here, sit up.”

  “You just told me to lay down.”

  “Trust me.”

  He sat up, and she scooched behind him, pulling him back against her. She wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

  He turned his head and kissed her lips. “This is much better than coffee.”

  “Mmm.” She held him tighter, absorbing his warmth, hopefully lessening some of his troubles. “What time did you come to bed?”

  “Around six.”

  “Six? Tucker, you’ve hardly slept at all.”

  He grunted as he laid his head on her shoulder.

  “What on earth were you doing?”

  “Studying the hundreds of pages of documents Ethan sent me.”

  She took his hand, lacing their fingers. “I’m sorry this is so hard on you. Is there something I can be doing?”

  He shook his head as he brought their joined hands to his heart. “This works for me.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his soft hair. “How are things going? Do you feel like you’re making some headway?”

  “Not really. I’ve been tossing around a couple of theories that don’t seem to take me anywhere.”

  “You’ll get it. Why don’t I—” Her cellphone rang, cutting her off. “Hold that thought.” She leaned toward the side table and grabbed the phone. “Greta,” she said as she glanced at the readout. “Hello?”