Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection Detail\Hidden Agenda\Broken Silence (50 page)

“Hopefully they are.” After a short silence he asked, “So what else keeps you busy?”

Amber sipped her tea, wondering where this was going. Was he hoping to engage her in casual conversation and draw new information from her?

Clever tactic. Something she used in counseling herself.

She lowered her cup. “I used to volunteer at church.”

Where had that come from? That had been eons ago. She bit her lip, noticing Patrick's assessing brown stare.

“Used to?”

She nodded.

Almost fleetingly a glint of sadness shone in his eyes. “You know, Amber, our faith in God is what sustains us when things get tough.”

Her pulse pounded a frantic rhythm. While his faith was bolstered by the trials in his life, her faith remained frayed, so worn away and neglected by the pain of her past. She attempted a smile that failed.

“I hope that truth comes back to you.”

“I'm working on it.” His words, although soothing, stung all the way to her soul. She hoped for renewed faith, too. Slowly, her heart was starting to heal.

Someday maybe she'd possess the faith she once had.

* * *

The parking lot was nearly full when Patrick pulled up to Coastal Karate School. He recognized Randall's Jeep and parked right next to it.

He walked inside the dojo and looked around. Through several windows he saw classes in session, and otherwise not a soul in sight. Patrick stood there a moment, mulling over his choices, whether to wait it out until classes ended or start knocking on doors.

“Sir, may I help you?” A young man, looking to be in his late teens and dressed in a white martial arts uniform with a brown belt, came out of one of the classrooms.

Problem solved. Patrick lifted his chin. “I'm looking for Randall Becker.”

The young man strode toward him. “He's teaching a class right now. I'm Kyle, one of his assistants. Maybe I can help?”

“I don't think so.” Patrick pulled out his badge. “I hate to interrupt Mr. Becker's class, but I need to speak to him. Is that possible?”

Kyle's head bobbed up and down. “Yes, sir. I'll get him.”

Two minutes later, Randall walked out of a room. He was dressed in the same martial arts gear as his assistant, but he wore a black belt that slapped at his thighs as he stormed toward Patrick. He was wound way too tight for someone with nothing to hide. “What are you doing here, Wiley?”

“Well, good afternoon to you, too, Randall.”

Randall snorted, halting three feet from Patrick.

Patrick crossed his arms, met Randall's stare. “Actually, I need to ask you a few more questions.”

“I answered more than enough questions the last time you were here.”

“Well, I have a couple more. Do you want to talk someplace private?”

Randall shoved his fists on his hips and glanced around before taking a step closer to Patrick. “You've got nothing on me, Wiley.” His voice was low, but his tone was lethal.

Patrick stood for a moment eyeing Randall's defensive stance. He wasn't about to lose his cool, although it wasn't easy to maintain control. What he wouldn't give for a little sparring practice with black belt Randall. Not that he'd hurt the guy. Just maybe knock him down a few pegs. “The last time I was here, Randall, you denied being friends with Carl Shaw. Yet the roster for the 5K you ran just a few months back listed him as your running partner.”

“So?” Annoyance stamped his face.

“Lying to a law enforcement officer is never a good idea.”

Randall jutted a thick finger at him. “It's none of your business who my friends are. Or were.” He paused, cleared his voice. “Like I said, Wiley. You've got nothing on me.”

“I'd like you to come down to the precinct with me and tell us what you know about Carl. You're not under arrest, but I think it would be in your best interest.”

Randall leaned in and whispered through clenched teeth, “Calling my attorney is in my best interest. Once again, Wiley, you can't tie me to anything.”

Patrick shifted his weight and mimicked Randall's rigid stance. “Because you're not guilty? Or because you're good at hiding something?”

“I'm done talking to you.” His voice turned to ice now.

Patrick pressed on. “Where were you yesterday around noon?”

His entire face twisted and he practically growled, “You sure don't do your homework, do you, Wiley?”

“And what homework would that be?” Patrick asked with growing impatience.

Patrick waited as Randall panned the area, his head swiveling left and then right. Satisfied that they were alone, his lips curled into a smirk. “I spent the day in jail, bozo.”

“Jail?” Patrick crossed his arms, showing no outward sign of his astonishment. Too bad he hadn't put a tail on him sooner.

“Yeah.” Randall droned on. “Stopped by my own house to pick up a few things yesterday morning, and my soon-to-be ex-wife called the cops. Said she felt threatened, imagine that?”

Patrick didn't respond to that. Instead, he said, “Why don't you tell me what you know about Carl.”

Randall moved slightly closer. “The only thing I have to say to you is this—I want you out of my building. And if you ever come back, be prepared for a little one-to-one with me. I've got a training room ready.”

So the man could read his mind. Patrick grinned. “I hope I can take you up on that one day.”

“Good, because there's nothing I wouldn't love more than to grind your face into the mat.” Randall turned and stomped away.

And Patrick would love to give him the chance to try.

TWELVE

A
mber strode down the hallway at the Savannah Battered Women's Shelter and headed toward the last office on the left. The place was bustling. Had been all day. Besides the scheduled group meetings on life and parenting skills led by the case workers and counselors, local church volunteers had stopped by to stock the food pantry and give haircuts to the women and children.

Much of Amber's day was spent meeting with individual patrons, offering counsel and working on plans to get them back on their feet. Not an easy assignment given the limited community resources in the area.

Still, the normalcy of the activity put Amber at ease. Dealing with the problems of others kept her from dwelling on her own.

Amber poked her head into the office of the shelter director, Christine Carmichael. “Thanks, Christine, for letting me hang out with you guys today.”

Christine's fingers paused over her keyboard. She looked up with a smile. “You're always welcome here, Amber, you know that. Our space may be at a minimum, but I'll make sure there's always an office open for you.”

“Thank you.” Amber returned the smile, grateful for the offer but also hopeful her center would be up and running before long. “I need to make a couple of copies. Do you mind if I grab some paper from the supply room? The printer across the hall is out.”

“Help yourself.”

“Thank you. I'll be leaving after that. So I'll see you next week.”

“All right.” Christine nodded. “Be safe out there.”

Safety.
A looming issue Amber didn't want to be reminded of. “I will.” She hoped so anyway. She swallowed a sigh.

In the basement Amber scanned the jumbled rows of shelves, freshly stocked with boxes of pens, markers, notepads, file folders and...ah, copy paper.

On tiptoes she reached to the fifth shelf as a hollow
thump
broke the silence.

A chill prickled her skin.

Daring not to move, not breathe, she waited a moment, listened. Another series of swift taps. One. Two. Three. The muffled, rhythmic beats sounded like soft footsteps.

Panic set in. Amber spun to the doorway, peeked around the corner. She saw nothing. She held her breath. The eerie beat eroded into a dull whir as the air conditioner cycled on.

Only the air conditioner.
Amber exhaled, smiling at her overactive imagination. The shelter had round-the-clock security, cameras and alarms. No one could get in.

She spun back, and as she grabbed a ream of copy paper she heard a scuffling sound, followed by shuffling footfalls. Louder. Creeping closer.

The thud of the paper hitting the ground momentarily drowned out the squeak of footsteps. Her nerves flared.

“Who's there?” she shouted, fear choking her.

No answer came.

Forgoing the copy paper, Amber wheeled around, headed for the door. At the doorway, she quickly glanced into the corridor, feeling a smidgen better when she saw no one. But then there was a click and everything went black.

An overwhelming dread surged through her—it was petrifying, oppressive. The feeling stole her breath and thrust her back into that murky frat room. Her heart pounding against her ribs, Amber took off to the right and picked her way down the corridor, avoiding stacks of boxes and old furniture.

A clank, then a loud clatter came from the darkness behind her, as if someone had tripped over something. The footsteps quickened, her heartbeat with them.

Fresh fear spiraled through her, escalating further at the sound of a taunting chuckle.

Fixated on getting out of there, Amber didn't look back, didn't stop, even as her ankle grazed the brick wall at the stairwell. Grabbing the stair rail, she bounded up the metal steps to the top. “Help!” She desperately clawed for the doorknob, finally latching on to it just as the door swung open.

Plunging through the opening, Amber fell onto her knees, her palms smacking against the linoleum. Looking up, she saw Lou, the security guard, and Carol, one of the counselors, staring down at her.

“Miss Amber, are you okay?” Lou asked as he helped her to her feet.

Her eyes darted between the inky darkness behind her and her colleagues. “The lights went off and somebody's down there.”

The older gentleman turned wide eyes on Amber. “Was it one of the counselors or a client?”

“I don't know.” Amber barely got the words out, she was so out of breath. “No one answered.”

Lou nodded, reached around her and flipped on the light switch. “I'll take a look.”

“Should you be going down there alone?”

“I've got my radio and Taser right here.” He tapped the holster on his belt. “But chances are slim of someone getting in from the outside.” He headed into the basement, his heavy work boots clanking down the metal steps.

Amber leaned against the wall, anxiety churning her stomach. “If someone did get in, what if they already got away?”

Carol shook her head, her gaze gentle. “Lou's right, it would be tough for someone to get in...or out, especially without a badge. Somebody probably hit the light switch not realizing you were down there. It's an old building. One switch controls everything.”

“But...I heard someone.” Amber straightened, panic still cycling through her. “I think we should call the police...or—”

Carol cut her off, eyes narrowing. “Like I said, it's an old building, so there's lots of creaky and eerie noises. If someone had gotten in without a badge, an alarm sounds and the police are instantly notified.”

“But I really did—”

Carol held up her hand. “Hold on, let's check with Lou. There aren't many places to hide down there.” She stepped to the door, glanced down. “Lou, you okay?”

“Coast is clear,” he hollered back. “No one's down here.”

Tumultuous thoughts pelted Amber. Maybe paranoia was getting the best of her. Or was she just going crazy? Probably a little of both.

Carol turned back to Amber, rubbed her shoulder. “You've had a lot going on. It's hard not to be paranoid.”

Amber attempted a small smile that wasn't quite successful. “Thanks, Carol. I think I'll just download the files to my flash drive and print them out later.”

On still-shaky legs, Amber headed into an office down the hall.

She sat down in front of the keyboard, pulled her flash drive from her pocket and connected it to the shelter's computer system. With a flick of the mouse, the screen came to life and she started to download her client files. She should have done this to start with.

“You didn't tell me you'd be here today.”

Amber's head snapped up. From the other side of the doorway, Tony's wide grin greeted her. She leaned back in her seat and smiled. “Actually, I wasn't sure until late last night. Patrick doesn't think I should be driving alone, and I feel rather awkward asking him to take me wherever I need to go.”

“Next time, give me a call. I'll be happy to give you a ride. I agree with Patrick, you shouldn't be driving alone right now.” Tony dragged a straight-back chair from the corner of the room, placed it close to the desk and plunked down into it.

“Thank you.” She looped a strand of hair behind her ear. “But with a target on my back, it wouldn't be a good idea for you to drive me, either.”

“You're probably right. I guess I'll leave chauffeuring you around to that detective of yours.”

She didn't miss his words.
Detective of yours.
She breathed deep, not even wanting to entertain that thought. “Patrick has been great. He rearranged his schedule to drop me off this morning. And this afternoon he agreed to run me by the Port City Community Center to firm up the details for the fund-raiser.”

“Your own personal bodyguard. You can't beat that.” Tony leaned back in the chair, folded his arms and crossed one ankle over the other. “The ex-boyfriend thing. Is it going okay?”

“Fine...well, awkward, but fine.”

That elicited a chuckle. “Sounds interesting.”

To say the least, she thought. She nodded her reply.

“So bring me up to speed on what else is going on with the case.”

Amber shifted in her chair. “What do you want? The long, drawn-out version, or a quick summary?”

Tony shrugged one shoulder. “Quick summary, I guess.”

“A lot of dead ends and cold leads.”

He gazed at her, with one eyebrow raised. “There must be something significant.”

“
Nada.
Well, except Patrick is certain Carl Shaw was somehow involved. And probably Randall Becker.”

“Shaw. He's the one that's—”

“Dead. Yeah.”

Tony pulled at the tuft of goatee under his lower lip. “Unbelievable. Whoever this guy is, he seems to stop at nothing.”

“The worst part, whoever is trying to kill me wants to protect himself from being discovered. Yet what he doesn't realize is that I have no recollection of who he is.”

“Maybe he's afraid that one day your repressed memories will come back.”

Amber shook her head. “A delusional fear on his part. I never even saw the guy.”

“Ah.” Tony lifted his index finger. “But the mind is a funny thing. You never know. Then again, even if you never remember, making your story known would spark speculation that could jog someone else's memory or lead to an investigation, if not by police, then maybe by the media. As you know the media are pretty good about digging up dirt. Somebody who attended that party has something to hide.”

“Like Carl?”

Tony shrugged. “Just saying, a lot of folks have secrets they don't want uncovered.”

She reluctantly nodded. She hadn't considered that. Nor did she want to. If Tony was on to something, who knew how many people who had attended that party had secrets that were worth killing over.

* * *

Inside the department's crime analysis office, Patrick poured himself a cup of coffee as he waited for Liza to finish a phone call. Seated at her desk on the opposite side of the room, she'd been jotting down notes from the time he'd walked in. Hopefully answers to questions about Amber's case. He needed a break, something to jump-start his stalled investigation.

Patrick plopped into a chair with a huge sigh. Crossing one ankle over his knee, he took a swig of the strong brew. Time was of the essence. Ten days until Amber's fund-raiser and he needed not only fresh clues, but also cold hard facts.

Something to tie Randall to Amber's attack and, if his gut was right, to Carl Shaw's murder.

Liza finally hung up the phone and turned to Patrick, her pale blue eyes indicating her exhaustion. She'd been working hard on this case. He appreciated that.

“Any news?” He lifted a brow.

Liza nodded. “It seems that Randall Becker has another hobby besides karate and running 5k marathons.”

“And what would that be?”

“Peddling drugs.”

Much intrigued, Patrick sat up straighter. “Really?”

The door flew open. Captain Peterson came ambling into the room munching on a cheeseburger. “I thought I'd find you here.”

Patrick set his drink down and stood. “What do you know, Vance?”

“The ballistics report came back on the bullet that killed Carl Shaw.”

“And?”

“Perfect match to the bullets fired at Amber's center.”

Things looked better all the time. “Good news. Liza also found another interesting tidbit about Randall.” Patrick gestured toward Liza, prompting her to tell him.

Liza pushed back in her chair. “Two years ago he was arrested for possession of heroin and marijuana with intent to sell. The charges were dropped before he went to court. Within six weeks, he opened his karate school—a three-million-dollar venture.”

“Debt-free?” Patrick and Vance both said at the same time.

“Not debt-free. He has a loan with an offshore trust. This all happened about the same time Carl bought his first house. Coincidently, his loan is also with an offshore trust of a different name.”

“Find out who the trustees are.” Vance jumped on that one.

Liza nodded. “I have someone working on that now.”

“There's a lot of banking secrecy in offshore accounts,” Patrick said, shaking his head.

“True,” Vance said. “Drug cartels and money-laundering schemes are never easy to track.”

Patrick whistled softly between his teeth. “So both Carl Shaw and Randall Becker moonlighted as drug dealers...” He stopped, let that soak in, then said, “One or both were concerned about Amber linking them to what happened eleven years ago at a frat party.”

“Appears that way.” Liza nodded.

Dozens of scenarios blew through Patrick's head, none of which made sense. “If whoever wants Amber out of the picture and thought she knew who he was, why not kill her years ago?”

Vance's mouth was full. He held up a finger while he swallowed. “Maybe she never posed a threat before.”

Patrick thought about that. “Okay. I get it. The fund-raiser obviously is a threat to somebody. But why assume she would tell her story now, when she'd kept silent for all these years?”

“Especially since she never saw her attacker,” Vance added, chucking his wrapper in the trash.

“Maybe it has something to do with her rising notoriety in the community?” Liza offered.

“Maybe,” Patrick murmured, thinking back to something Amber had told him. “Amber had kept quiet about what happened and the event basically blew over, no charges filed, no investigation. Now she's coming out of her shell, speaking out against abuse against women.”

Liza smiled. “So you may be looking for more than her attacker.”

“True. Someone who knew what had taken place that night and has drug ties to Randall and Carl.”

“Makes sense.” Vance slapped Patrick on the shoulder on his way out the door. “I have a feeling this case is about to blow right open.”