Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection Detail\Hidden Agenda\Broken Silence (45 page)

The last thing she wanted was to postpone the fund-raiser.

“You okay, Amber?” Tony's calm voice snapped her back.

She looked up and caught both Tony and Pam staring at her. “Sorry. Just a little reality-check moment. I still can't believe what's happening to me. If the bomb and being attacked in my own home weren't enough, now I have the fund-raiser on the line.”

“Amber, if you have to postpone, it's not the end of the world.” Pam sat at the edge of her seat. “You can always reschedule for fall.”

“Fall?” She gritted her teeth, glancing between Pam and Tony. “I ordered pastel decor and blooming plants to use for centerpieces. Spring is a time for new beginnings.”

“Whatever happens, kiddo,” Tony assured her, “you'll make the best of it, you know that.”

Yes, Amber sighed. She would get through this, unless of course, somebody killed her first. Rocking back in her seat, she pushed her fingers through her hair. She couldn't help but laugh at her sad predicament.

“Amber, I'm worried about you.” Tony's low, measured voice usually soothed her, but not now. Disappointment and fear nibbled at her.

Amber rocked forward and shook her head. “Don't be worried about me. I'm going to be okay. A little frazzled, but okay. But until further notice, I prefer not to think about or discuss postponing the fund-raiser.”

Her colleagues exchanged a look, but both agreed without protest. Amber breathed a little easier. She wasn't giving up yet. Two weeks gave Patrick plenty of time to hunt down the perpetrator.

She hoped.

* * *

When Patrick arrived at Coastal Karate School, he saw Randall Becker approaching the building from the opposite end of the parking lot. Tall and lean with chin-length dark curls, he looked about the same as he did in high school, outside of a few extra pounds of rock-solid muscle.

Leaning against his vehicle, Patrick crossed his arms and waited, finding it ironic that a kid who'd lost more fights than he'd won in high school was now a martial arts expert.

Randall passed Patrick with barely a glance. He stepped onto the sidewalk leading to the school.

Patrick pushed away from his SUV and started toward him. “Good afternoon, Randall.”

A second's hesitation, then Randall pivoted around, his face like stone. “Patrick Wiley?” He shook his head. “So that was you. I'd hoped I was seeing things.”

Patrick held his stare. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Yeah, right.” Randall scowled back at him, shoving his hands on his hips. “What can I do for you, Wiley?”

Unlike Carl Shaw, Randall Becker wasn't the type to waste time or words on being cordial. Rather, he jumped to the point. A behavior Patrick actually preferred over superficial geniality.

“Actually, I have a couple questions for you.” Patrick started to flash his badge.

“I get it.” Randall held up a hand and snickered. “Who would have guessed? The rising track star is now part of the cop squad.”

“Gotta make a living.” Patrick forced a small smile. “Can we talk someplace private?”

Randall's left eyebrow raised. “About?”

“Attempted murder.”

His eyes turned cold. “What are you getting at, Wiley?”

Patrick glared back, unblinking. “The questions I have for you aren't really appropriate to discuss in the parking lot of your school.”

Randall huffed with disgust, turned and stalked toward the building, then jerked open the door. “Let's go.”

Patrick accompanied him past several windowed studios where children of various ages dressed in martial arts garb eagerly practiced kicks and sparred while parents looked on. Across the hall, adults showed off more complex and powerful karate moves.

“Looks like a thriving business,” Patrick said, following Randall down a short hall.

“It's been a lot of hard work.” Randall stopped and unlocked a door. “So whatever you're here for, let's make it quick. I've got a class to teach.”

Patrick followed Randall inside. The interior of the office reeked of musty sneakers and cheap cologne. Boxes of karate uniforms and fighting gear crowded the perimeter of the limited floor space. And a card table, serving as a makeshift desk, sat in the middle of the clutter, along with two white plastic chairs.

Randall gestured impatiently. “Have a seat and let's get this over with.”

Patrick settled into one chair and Randall plopped onto the other, straddling it. Plunking his elbows on the seat back, he glared at Patrick, his dark eyes sparking with annoyance. “Okay. What do you want?”

“I'm here to discuss a particular college frat party.”

“Frat party?”

“Yes. One that your fraternity put on. It took place the end of your freshman year.”

A shrug, then a smirk. “We hosted parties all the time.”

“I'm talking about an end-of-the-year bash. Freshman year,” Patrick reiterated. “It was a pretty big deal. A lot of people attended.”

Patrick sat back and waited for Randall to answer. He could imagine the wheels turning in that thick skull of his. Trying to fend off suspicion by not reacting too quickly. Patrick knew his type well.

Suddenly, Randall's mouth twitched into a humorous grin. “Amber Talbot. Party-girl extraordinaire. Is that what this is about?”

Anger fisted tight in Patrick's gut at Randall's smug expression. It took all his control not to launch out of the chair and wipe that smirk off Randall's face. “Tell me what happened to Amber that night.”

Randall lifted a shoulder in an offhanded shrug. “What's to tell? She showed up. Mingled around and drank too much.”

Patrick's mouth tightened at his assumption. “You saw her drinking?”

Randall lifted a brow, paused. “I wasn't paying that close attention, but I saw the results. She was stumbling around, not making any sense.”

Disgust twisted tighter in Patrick's stomach. “You may have assumed too much.”

Randall's eyebrows snapped together. “What do you mean by that?”

“Somebody may have drugged Amber that night.”

“Drugged?” Randall's smugness eased up some, but his mouth stayed in a straight, rigid line. “I don't know anything about that.”

“Never heard any rumors? We both know guys talk.”

Randall tipped the chair forward on two legs. “I heard nothing then, and I don't know what's going on with Amber now. I read the news. She obviously got on someone's bad side.”

“Or maybe someone is afraid history will be revealed.”

“What kind of history?” Randall's mouth puckered.

“Incriminating history.”

“What do you think you have on me, Wiley?”

Patrick waited a beat, gave a thin smile. “Like I said, Randall, I'm just asking questions. I'm not pointing fingers.”

Randall came up out of his seat, the chair slamming to the ground. “Listen here, Wiley.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “Whatever happened or is happening with Amber Talbot doesn't involve me.”

Patrick stood, also. “One more question, then. Are you still friends with Carl Shaw?”

A short pause, then Randall shook his head. “No. Why?”

“Just trying to piece things together.”

Randall gave Patrick a hard look, his teeth gritted. “Wiley, don't play games with me. Now that you've got a little power, you better not be trying to get back at me for something—”

“This isn't personal, Randall.” Patrick held up a hand. “I'm just doing my job.”

Randall screwed up his face. “Job or not, I want you to know I've got my act together now. I'm a black belt master and I own my own business. I can't afford for my name to get tied to anything criminal.”

Patrick nodded. “Let's hope it won't have to be.”

SEVEN

A
t five o'clock, Amber checked her emails one last time before powering down the computer as if it was just another day at work.

From the time she'd arrived that morning she'd been caught up in a flurry of activity. Her meeting with Tony and Pam and catching up with paperwork had prevented her from dwelling on the other major issues in her life. Like who was trying to kill her. And the way her heart pounded when Patrick Wiley was around.

She'd never met another man that affected her that way, or maybe she'd been too busy wrestling with the past to notice. An unsettling thought.

But even more disturbing, she'd never been bothered by the lack of romantic interests in her life. Until seeing Patrick again. He had seemed to move on just fine. Made a new life for himself. Something she had expected and regretted at the same time.

Sooner or later, she hoped to do the same.

Her phone rang and she picked it up. “Safe Harbor Counseling Center.”

No answer.

“Hello?”

Click.

Chills trickled up her spine and she shivered. That was the third hang-up today. She hung up the receiver. Everything had her antsy these days. Even a likely wrong number. She hated feeling as though she had to watch over her shoulder.

Even worse, she hated thinking that someone was watching her. Waiting for an opportunity to—

Enough.
She tamped that thought down. It was hardly productive.

While she breathed out a sigh, she picked up her bag and left her office. She walked into the lobby and Patrick was there, seated in a wing chair waiting for her.

Nope. Nothing normal about this day.

With a glance at Amber, Patrick set down the magazine he was reading and stood. “Well, hello there.”

“Hi, Patrick.” Amber forced a nonchalant tone in her voice. “I thought we were meeting at the Riverside Café?”

“I finished work a little early. I stopped by to see if you were still here, and Tony let me in on his way out.” Patrick moved around a potted plant and then closed the gap between them in two long strides.

Amber nodded, her emotions skittering between gratitude and bewilderment. It was a testament to Patrick's good character that his determination to catch her pursuer and keep her safe took precedence over even his free time.

Hopefully, his girlfriend didn't mind.

Another shiver came, skidding up her spine. She tamped it down and swallowed hard. “If you'd like, we can hang out here for a while and discuss the case. You probably want to get home and get some sleep after staying up all night in your car.”

“Most of the night.” He grinned. “I caught a few winks. Besides, nothing a cup of coffee won't fix. And with a lunatic on the loose, I expect a few more nights of surveillance will be in my future.”

Amber winced at Patrick's mention of spending more nights sitting in his SUV in front of Kim's house, watching over her. It was his job to investigate, she got that, but making sure she was safe around the clock? Surely that wasn't part of his job description. Then again, she remembered seeing on the news that the local police had been hit with a severe staffing shortage. Too few officers to do the job, and everyone worked overtime to fill the gaps.

That explained it.

Patrick's attentiveness wasn't personal. It was his job. Too bad he didn't realize what
doing his job
did to her haywire emotions.

She flipped back her hair, chagrin registering as she thought about that morning. Her guard had not only slipped, but also completely unraveled the moment Patrick had wrapped his strong arms around her.

Wholeheartedly, she'd fallen into his embrace, reveling in the warmth of his touch and the protective feeling it brought. Albeit, her legs had been wobbly, literally quaking at the knees, but she still should have stepped away, kept her composure intact.

“Okay, let's go get that coffee, then.” She grabbed her keys from her purse. Obviously she was the sleep-deprived one.

* * *

Amber shut off the lights and headed for the door.

As Patrick started to follow, three sharp pops lit the air, one after another. Glass shattered.

Gunfire!

Amber jerked back around with a shriek.

“Get down!” Patrick yelled, but he didn't wait. He barreled toward her, taking her to the ground himself.

Another series of bullets whizzed through the plate glass, blowing out half the front window.

For the first time in his life, sheer, cold terror infiltrated every vein and touched every nerve. His adrenaline shot to the red zone. Whoever this creep was, he wasn't going to get his hands on Amber. “You need to get into the hallway,” he ordered. “Away from the glass.”

The color drained from her face as her wide eyes locked on to his. “Okay.”

Another round of shots blasted into the building.

Patrick stayed beside her as they belly crawled deeper into the building, shielding her from the threat of more gunfire.

Once there, he shoved his cell phone into her hand. “Call 9-1-1 and stay down. Tell them I need backup now, but no lights or sirens.”

She nodded before she started punching the numbers.

Cautiously raising himself up, Patrick slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, molded his fingers around his revolver.

A fourth array of shots sent more splintered glass raining into the room.

Staying low, Patrick edged to the door. Wedging himself between the doorjamb and wall, he kicked the door open and whipped out his weapon. This guy was his. He squinted, his vision searching the street and buildings beyond.

Muffled sirens sounded, blaring closer. Too close. A second later, scores of squad cars roared from both directions, tires screeching against asphalt as they slammed to a stop in front of the counseling center.

No way!
Patrick gritted his teeth and beat a fist against the doorjamb, knowing the guy had hightailed it out of there.

* * *

At the police department, Patrick ushered Amber through the violent crimes investigation department under the speculative glances of the desk sergeant and other detectives, stopping when they arrived at the detective squad room.

“I need to check on a couple things. You can have a seat in my office.” Patrick gestured toward a door marked Lead Detective Patrick Wiley. Any other day Patrick's title would have impressed Amber, and she would have said so, but between the wave of nausea churning in her midsection and the mind-boggling numbness dulling her brain, her ability to stand, much less think, was sorely in jeopardy.

“Thank you, I'll wait in there.” She nodded, and then managed on shaky legs to walk in that direction while Patrick stepped aside to have a conversation with another officer.

Once inside, Amber slipped off her jacket and sank into one of the worn vinyl armchairs opposite his desk and tried to ignore the chaos rumbling just outside the room. The chatter of detectives, phones ringing and keyboards clacking made for a cacophony of activity.

Even after six in the evening, the staff stayed busy working to keep Savannah safe. Once this ordeal was over she'd have to write the department a nice letter telling them how much she appreciated their service.

That was if
over
meant she'd still be around.

A shiver snaked up her spine. Whoever was after her was persistent and cunning, which made her wonder what he had planned next.

She rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms and took in a deep, cleansing breath. Patrick was on it, looking at clues, trying to fit the pieces together even as she sat there.

She only hoped that would be enough.

Pushing that last thought aside, she tried to find the words to pray. If ever she needed God's help, it was now. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited. No words came. Just the same oppressive sadness that never strayed far, holding her hostage since her world had imploded eleven years ago.

She slumped down in her seat and shook her head. The feeling hammered home just how much her one mistake had cost her—a future with Patrick and her faith.

Tears clogged her throat and she sniffed, knowing in about twenty seconds she was about to break down and cry. The last thing she wanted to do was wallow in that little black hole of regret her life had become.

No.
She toughened up, seizing on that regret and using it to fuel her determination to keep it together. She would not let that creep get to her.

She was safe. For now that was enough.

Somewhat better, Amber made a conscious effort to relax. Shifting against the cushions, she glanced around the room, taking in every detail. It was a rather small space, made smaller by the overflowing clutter. Besides Patrick's oversize desk, dozens of boxes of evidence had been stacked to the ceiling, competing for floor space with mounds of law enforcement journals and boxed files marked Confidential. Two file cabinets, topped with folders and more paperwork, sat below the tall single window that provided a splash of sunlight through half-open blinds.

The room definitely had a chaotic element, and it was about half the size and twice the clutter as in the movies. But this was the real deal. A detective's office. Her detective.

She bit back a sigh.

After a few more moments, Patrick stepped into the room and closed the door. “Would you like some coffee? Or something to eat?”

Adrenaline kept her heartbeat thumping. The last thing she needed was caffeine. Then again, it would be a long night. “Nothing to eat, but coffee would be nice.”

Patrick circled his desk, plopped into the swivel chair and picked up the phone. He flicked a glance at her. “Cream, no sugar, right?”

“Yes, thank you.” Amber told herself it was of no significance that he remembered how she liked her coffee. She remembered that he liked his black, which meant nothing, either.

Patrick settled back against the sturdy wood frame of his chair and folded his arms. “Let me bring you up to speed on what's going on. Right now, forensics is at the scene trying to identify the bullets used. We're also interviewing employees and patrons from the neighboring shops to see what they know.”

She managed a nod.

“And we've contacted everyone on the list you gave me this morning and got a statement from them.”

Amber detected a tiny note of hope in his tone. She sat up straighter. “Did they tell you anything that might help?”

His eyebrows went up. “To be honest, most folks didn't recall the party. And those who did had a vague memory at best. With the exception of your old roommate. She remembered you chatting with three guys at the party.”

“So she substantiated my story?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “However, she was pretty oblivious about anything else that went on with you that night.”

“She left for home early the next morning, before I was released from the hospital. I never told her what happened.” Amber's heart sank. “So I guess your effort was a bust?” A pretty uneventful evening for everyone but her.

Patrick gave an offhanded shrug. “Not necessarily. Her statement helps us, and as far as the others, sometimes people deny knowledge of something, then a guilty conscience entices them to call back.”

“That would be nice.”

“Yes, it would.” Patrick nodded, and then added, “Regardless, we're pushing forward, centering our focus on Randall and Carl. I spoke to both of them today.”

Stress caused a little twist in her stomach at just hearing their names. “And what did they have to say?”

“Exactly what I expected.” He gave her a subtle grin. “They both denied knowledge of anything.”

The door swung open and a uniformed woman appeared. She handed one cup of coffee to Patrick and one to her. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Amber wrapped her palms around the cup, savoring the warmth, as the woman stepped back out.

Patrick set his coffee aside, grabbed a laptop from his bag and powered it on. “I have something to show you.” He positioned the computer for her to see. “Liza, our criminologist, gathered some data about our two suspects, Randall and Carl.”

Liza.
Amber blew out an uneasy breath. The blonde date from last night.

He typed in “Talbot File”
and the tense knot in Amber's midsection coiled tighter as a dozen pictures popped up on the screen. Black-and-white shots ranging from the parking lot crime scene taken minutes after the bombing, to her home, sectioned off with caution tape, and various rooms inside.

She breathed a little easier when Patrick scrolled farther down the page and new photos came into view.

“These are Randall's and Carl's senior photos. See if anything about them jogs your memory. Their build, their features. Anything.”

Amber's gaze skimmed each photo. Countless memories about that night were still vivid. Yet as many or more remained a blur in her mind. “Sorry. Nothing new jumps out at me.”

“That's okay.” Patrick nodded. “Take a good look at these.” He clicked on the mouse, enlarging the photos of Carl and Randall. Another click and recent shots of the men emerged onto the screen. “Then and now. Maybe you've seen one of them lurking around.”

Amber stared at the screen. For the past eleven years she'd worked hard to block the memories. Rehashing them equaled pain, like slowly ripping a scab off a wound. Now here she was racking her brain, trying to give her attacker a name.

“Well?” Patrick scooted his chair closer to his desk, hopefulness in his expression.

“I don't know.” Amber tilted her head and leaned in, studying each man more closely. Carl's short cropped hair, broad smiling face, hollow stare. No one ever knew what he was thinking. Friendly, agreeable, hostile or argumentative, his mood changed depending on the company he kept. Randall, on the other hand, feared nothing. He spoke his mind without reserve, picked fights and was suspended more times than anyone in high school. Amber took in the loose dark curls that grew over his collar, his crooked smile, dark beady eyes.