Waiting For Wren (Book Five In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series) (17 page)

“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.

“We’ll call his provider, see if we can triangulate a signal.”

“Call me back if you get something. I need to know where the bastard is. And I want an update on Patrick as soon as you have one.”

“Will do.”

Tucker hung up and sighed. All hell had broken loose, and Wren never bothered to fill him in. What was he going to say to her? How the hell was he supposed to tell her? She adored Patrick—had defended him viciously the two times he’d brought him up as a suspect. He shoved his phone in its holder and made his way to the dining room.

He stopped in the doorway, studying her. Her cheeks were pale and her shoulders tense—her movements jerky while her leg bobbed up and down under the table. She looked so small and vulnerable in her oversized red sweater. He clenched his jaw and steamed out a breath through his nose. “Cooke.”

Her gaze whipped to his, and she froze, then looked down at her laptop again. “What?”

This wasn’t going to be any easier after the way he’d left things a couple hours ago. He’d handled the news of the Brookes girl’s death poorly. The details of her murder were strikingly similar to Staci’s. He rubbed at the tingle along the back of his neck and dismissed the troubling clench in his gut. Similar didn’t mean there was a connection. Seven years in Homicide taught him that no matter how hard he chased down leads, he wasn’t always going to catch the bad guy. He’d never gotten justice for Staci. God knows he’d tried, searching the DNA databanks every six months for years, but there had never been a match. He’d learned to distance himself from the day-to-day sorrows of violent death, thank God, but Alyssa Brookes’ murder got under his skin. “We need to talk.”

“Can’t. I’m working.” She glanced at her phone, then back at the computer.

“Detective Romano just called.” That got her attention.

She stood. “He said he was going to call me back. Why did he call you?”

“Wren.”

“Don’t.” Her voice quaked with fear, and she pressed her lips together. “Don’t call me that. You never call me that.” Her eyes filled. “Don’t look at me like you’re sorry.”

His heart ached for her as he walked to her and brushed his hands down her arms.

“What’s wrong with Patrick?”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sit down.”

She jerked away. “Just tell me what’s wrong with Patrick.”

“He should be at the hospital by now.”

“Why?” She clutched her arms across her chest. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”

“They life flighted him—”

“Life-flighted?”

“Yeah, to General. He’s critical.”

“Critical,” she whispered as she gripped her sleeves tighter.

“He has a head injury.”

“He fell.”

He wanted to let her believe what she chose, but the truth would come out eventually. It was better to give her the facts all at once. He shook his head. “No.”

“Then what else?”

“He was hit over the head with some lamp in his living room.”

Her eyes grew huge. “The blue urn lamp?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Yes, it has to be. It’s so heavy.” Her voice broke and she pressed her fingers to her lips.

He took a step toward her, wanting to comfort. “Wren.”

She took a step back. “The man who’s stalking me—he did this?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Yes you are. You’re as sure as I am that it was him.” She strained to talk over the emotions clogging her throat. “This is all my fault.” She turned away as she fought to control her ragged breathing.

“Wren.” He walked up behind her and gripped her shoulders.

“No.” She struggled to step away.

He held her firm, wrapping his arms around her waist as he pressed his cheek to hers. “This is not your fault.”

“I ran for safety and left him to deal with the rest. Why wouldn’t Patrick be a target?” she choked out. “The text yesterday. He didn’t send me that message. And he didn’t call in sick to the Cartwrights either.”

“Did you ever tell him where you were?”

“No, but I should have. I should have brought him with me. How long has he been laying there?”

He clenched his jaw, feeling helpless as Wren fought to keep herself together.

She whirled. “How
long
?”

He took her hands, holding her gaze. “They think a couple of days.”

“My
God
.” She closed her eyes and tears spilled down her cheeks. “I need to—I need to…” She gestured toward their rooms.

He nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

“Alone.” She tugged to free her hand.

He held tight. “Cooke.”

“
Alone
.”

He released her, and she grabbed her phone as she walked away. “Son of a
bitch
.” He bunched his fists at his side, trying to respect her need for space, but her dark, devastated eyes and ghostly white cheeks wouldn’t let him. “Screw this.” He started down the hall after her, gave a quick tap of knuckles against the door, and turned the knob, letting himself in when she didn’t answer. Her back was to him as she pulled open a drawer and set a small pile of shirts on the dresser top.

“I need to speak with Grant please. Wren.” She shook her head. “Cooke. His daughter. Yes, I assure you he does have a daughter and a son. I need to speak with him immediately. It’s an emergency.” She closed the drawer and opened the next. “Dad. My assistant, Patrick Stone, was life-flighted to General a few minutes ago. Head trauma. I need you to check on him and tell me if he’s going to be okay.” She cleared her throat, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Yes, right this minute. Your meeting can wait. I’ve never asked you for anything, but I am now. Just this once, pretend to be my father and help your daughter. Thank you.” She hung up and stood perfectly still, clutching her phone in a white-knuckled grip.

“Hey.”

She whirled. “I said I wanted to be alone.”

“I heard you.”

She sniffled and brought her clothes to the open suitcase on her bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Going home to Patrick.”

He sighed, understanding that this wasn’t going to end well. “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I’m all he has.” A tear fell and she wiped it away.

“He has parents and a sister.”

She glanced up and held his gaze. “How did you know—ah, your investigation.” She shook her head. “I’m sure Detective Owens missed the part about his family disowning him because he’s gay.” She turned, heading for the bathroom.

Tucker followed, watching as she tossed makeup into a sapphire-colored travel case. “I’m sorry for Patrick, Wren. I’m sorry for you. I know how much he means to you, but you’re not going anywhere.”