Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection DetailHidden AgendaBroken Silence Page 50

  Twenty minutes later, ignoring the no-parking zone, Patrick rolled his SUV to a stop outside Safe Harbor Counseling Center. Amber climbed out of the truck and stood outside the yellow police crime tape on the edge of the sidewalk. Her stomach did a little twist as she took in the shell-pocked siding and boarded-up window. Even the sign by the door was riddled with bullet holes. She remembered the rush of pride she felt the day that sign had gone up, the finishing touch to a dream come true.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Patrick came up beside her.

  She nodded. “Yes.” Like it or not, she had to be.

  As they leaned under the police tape, she mentally prepared herself for what she would find.

  Two steps inside, she halted and tried to keep from gasping as Patrick stepped past her and ventured into the thick of the damage. She couldn’t believe the destruction before her. There was broken glass everywhere. The floor and the tables, even the top of the lone framed picture still hanging on the wall. The beautiful overstuffed sofa and chair that she’d special ordered and waited five months to get was riddled with bullet holes, and even her favorite potted plant lay amid the rubble.

  Overwhelmed by the sight, Amber took a step back, her heart knocking against her ribs. She worked to regulate her breathing. This whole incident only added to the edginess she’d been experiencing since the car bombing. Her nerves were about shot, frazzled from bouncing between fearing for her life and wallowing in the regret of what had gotten her to this point in the first place.

  Today something else welled up inside her: a surge of defensive anger. Nobody deserved to be a victim of somebody’s hate. Someone so sinister and unwilling to comprehend the lasting destruction of their actions.

  This emotional response was new, although a concept she firmly believed in and reinforced in her clients. After years of blaming herself and even God for what had happened to her, she was ready to accept that truth for herself. She wasn’t to blame for the vicious choice someone else had made.

  Amber took an elongated breath, filling her lungs and reveling for a moment in an odd sense of peace. Maybe she was starting to heal?

  “Wow, this is a disaster.”

  She turned enough to see Tony grimace as he hovered in the doorway. His statement summed up the situation perfectly. “It is amazing how destructive a few little bullets could be.”

  “Few? It looks as though the building got hosed by a machine gun.”

  “A military-style semiautomatic assault rifle, actually.” Patrick stepped back through the rubble with her leather messenger bag in his hand. “It’s not as powerful as a machine gun, but it can spray large areas with a hail of bullets.”

  Tony gave a slow whistle. “That it did.”

  Amber’s heart pinched. This was what the men and women who served in the armed forces were up against. She gained a new appreciation for them and for Patrick. He’d risked his life for his country, and now he was doing so again for her.

  “I believe this is yours.” Patrick handed her the messenger bag.

  “Thank you.” She took it from him, feeling a bit of relief. At least she could get some work done now.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” Tony stepped carefully around the glass rubble. “I need to grab a few things in my office.”

  Patrick moved aside, allowing him to pass by.

  As Tony headed down the hallway, he glanced back. “Do you need me to get anything of yours, Amber?”

  “No, but thank you.” Amber shook her head. “I have my laptop and notes. I should be fine.”

  “All right.”

  Well, maybe fine wasn’t the right word. Amber turned her attention to Patrick and motioned to the mess around them. “Can you believe all this damage?”

  “I’ve seen worse.” Patrick stood with his hands on his hips, his gaze skimming the area.

  Of course, things could be worse. She needed to hold on to that perspective.

  The structure itself, part of a run of historical buildings, had survived hurricanes, tornados and fires over the years. Safe Harbor would survive, she assured herself. “I hope it won’t take long to make repairs.”

  “It shouldn’t. We’ll get a crime scene cleanup crew in. And once things settle down you can meet up with the landlord and get things going.”

  Confused, Amber looked from the gunfire rubble to Patrick. “Once things settle down? I’d like to get started immediately. I need to get back to work.”

  “Amber.” Small frown lines rippled across his forehead and he narrowed his eyes. “I wanted to talk to you about this after we left today, but I’ll mention it now. I’d like to get you set up in a safe house. An undisclosed location where there is round-the-clock security.”

  “A safe house?” Amber straightened, already disliking the idea. “Clues are coming in. Randall and Carl are being watched. Patrol cars are monitoring Kim’s neighborhood and you haven’t left my side…” Her words petered out as a revelation exploded in her mind. Of course, he had to be tired of hanging around. He had a personal life he’d been neglecting.

  “Amber, listen—”

  “No, Patrick.” She held up a hand. “I know you’re a busy man. I can’t expect for you to stand guard over me. I can’t afford to pay for security on my own, but I can talk to my parents.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to say.” He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her gaze and sending a shiver down the length of her arms. “I just want you to be safe. I can’t make you go to the safe house, but just think about it. Once we get this case figured out, you can go back to life as usual.”

  She heard the words, but they didn’t truly register in her mind. She was too affected by the heat of his touch. A sizzling warmth she’d not felt since the last time he’d touched her. She swallowed again and tried hard to rein in her thoughts. She couldn’t let this man get to her.

  “…a short hiatus won’t kill you. Being distracted and not watching your back just might.”

  “A hiatus?” Amber blinked and inched back, out of his grasp, her thoughts finally kicking in. “But I have the fund-raiser to plan. A business to run.”

  “You can still work while you’re at the safe house.”

  “What about Pam and Tony? And my clients?”

  “Pam and Tony can work from home. And your clients, well…this is a temporary situation.” Patrick leaned closer, his gleaming brown eyes holding traces of concern. “This guy is getting bolder. Who knows what desperate plan he has next? In fact, if we aren’t any closer to finding him by next week, you should postpone the fund-raiser.”

  She deflated like a leaky balloon. “That is exactly what that creep wants, for me to give up and run into hiding. If there’s no fund-raiser, his concerns are alleviated about me telling my story as part of my keynote speech.”

  “Fear of you going public may indeed be his motivator, however, he also wants you dead. That’s the part I’m wor—” Patrick halted midsentence when the ringtone sounded on his phone. He pressed it to his ear. “This is Patrick Wiley.”

  Amber brushed back a wisp of hair with shaky fingers, quietly rejoicing at the distraction. If she had to, she’d hire more security, but no way was she giving in to her assailant. Whether his identity was known or not, or even if the fund-raiser had to be postponed, she planned to tell her story. To publically encourage women not to hang on to the guilt and shame of abuse—like she had.

  Tears blurred her eyes. Blinking to clear them, a sense of freedom washed through her.

  Closure. She breathed. That was what she needed.

  “Patrick is right, Amber.” Tony stepped toward her, glass crunching beneath his boots. “I overheard what he said about the fund-raiser, and like I mentioned before, it might be a good idea to just postpone it.”

  “That topic isn’t up for discussion,” she snapped a little too quickly. She hated to sound unreasonable, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet. Surely by next week this whole nightmare would be behind her.

  “Oka
y.” Tony waved his hand with dismissal. “Your call. But keep it in mind.”

  “I will.” She nodded, softening her inflection. “I just think the fund-raiser is important, both for the community and for me.”

  “For you?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “You’re not still considering sharing your story, are you? Not with all this nonsense going on.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation as Amber swallowed around the lump lodged in her throat. “I think it’s time.”

  “When and where?” The spike in Patrick’s tone made her shift focus.

  Wheeling around toward him, she noticed the muscles in his jaw clench as he wound up the call. “I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He pocketed his phone, his eyes darkened, narrowed on her. “That was Carl Shaw. I’m meeting him at a bar and grill south of here at noon.”

  Amber’s heart stopped. She glanced at Tony, who was following the conversation with wide eyes.

  “Sounds as though something’s about to go down.” Tony gave an impressive arch of his brow and a thumbs-up. “Keep me posted, Amber.” He tucked his laptop case under his arm and headed out the door.

  “All right.” She breathed deep, hoping this was the break they needed. She turned back to Patrick. “Did he give you any indication if he was going to confess? Or just give you information?”

  “Nope. He didn’t specify.” He cupped her elbow, shepherding her toward the exit. “But whatever information he has is sure to help us.” Optimism rang in his tone.

  And in her heart.

  *

  After dropping Amber off at the station house, Patrick punched the gas and headed toward Moe’s Grille, a hole-in-the-wall restaurant located in one of the low-rent districts on the outskirts of Savannah. When he’d suggested for Amber to hang out in his office while he was gone, first she balked at the idea. He couldn’t think of a safer place, and didn’t have time to come up with a better alternative. He wondered if she truly understood the danger she was in.

  Patrick didn’t even bother to ponder that question. He kept a steady hand on the steering wheel and pulled onto the highway ramp. The radio dispatcher had reported an earlier accident with cars backed up for five miles. To his relief, traffic flowed steadily on both sides of the thoroughfare. The last thing he wanted was to keep Carl waiting.

  Seventeen miles down the road, he took the exit for Tallwater Boulevard, a four-lane street on the neighborhood’s main drag.

  Patrick pulled into a public parking lot two buildings down from Moe’s Grille and checked the clock on the dash. Noon. Right on time. He slowly maneuvered his SUV through the tight rows of cars and scanned the lot for the yellow pickup Carl had said he’d be driving.

  He could see why Carl had picked this place, a popular local restaurant off the beaten path. It was easier not to be noticed in a crowd. Carl Shaw was afraid of something, and Patrick was itching to hear what that something was.

  After he took a second loop around the lot, Patrick’s heart sank a bit when he didn’t see the yellow truck. He hoped Shaw hadn’t chickened out.

  He pulled around to the rear of the lot and backed into an open parking space.

  Minutes ticked by. Drumming his fingers on the center console, he took in the area while still keeping an eye out for Carl. Directly behind him were an old feed store, barely standing, and a two-pump gas station. To his right, a couple of decrepit storage buildings, some ancient rusty oil tanks and overgrown vegetation. A deserted office building stood in front of him, and to his left, across the street, a Laundromat and several more locally owned diners.

  Finally a yellow dual-cab pickup pulled into the rear entrance of the parking lot.

  Patrick was just about to climb out of his SUV when he heard a loud pop, pop, pop.

  His heart pounding, he kicked open the driver’s-side door and dropped to his feet, weapon ready. Staying low, he moved to the front bumper, stretched to look over the hood. Swiftly, he gave the parking lot another encompassing glance, looking for the shooter or anything suspicious.

  Nothing moved, except Carl’s truck, which was now weaving out of control. After sideswiping a parked vehicle, it spun and skidded several yards into a metal gate marked No Trespassing. The gate flew off. The truck jolted right, then left before slamming head-on into an old oak tree.

  Patrick grabbed his cell phone and called for backup. Then he rolled into action and raced toward the accident, gun drawn and his eyes peeled.

  A siren blared in the distance within moments.

  Smoke spilled from the buckled hood. Looking inside, Patrick saw Carl’s body slumped over the steering wheel. Blood was oozing from a wound on the side of his head. He yanked open the door, and felt for a pulse.

  There wasn’t one.

  ELEVEN

  Judging from the troubled expression on Patrick’s face when he walked in the office, Amber didn’t expect good news. Now the burning question in her mind was, if his talk with Carl hadn’t produced any new clues or evidence, where did they go next? More than ever she needed this thing over with. The last thing she wanted was to end up in a safe house.

  “Sorry it took so long.” He sounded a bit harried. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Carl did supply him with some intriguing information he needed to jump on.

  “I was beginning to wonder.” She smiled at him.

  He didn’t seem to notice, clearly distracted. She volleyed back to her original assumption that things hadn’t gone well with Carl. “Hopefully you weren’t too bored,” he said, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on the back of the file-laden chair beside her.

  Since it was a statement, not a question, she didn’t even respond. He looked as if he had more on his mind than worrying about her being cooped up in his office with nothing to do but hope for good news while his desk phone rang off the hook.

  Now it rang again.

  Patrick walked around his desk to answer it.

  Reluctantly, Amber sank onto the edge of a chair, trying to ward off any speculation. At the same time she held on to a thread of hope that Carl had supplied Patrick with some tidbit of information that would help crack the case.

  “There’s definitely a drug tie to this, has to be,” Patrick said into the phone. He shoved his hand through his hair, making it stand up in short spikes, before he combed it back down with his fingers.

  She tried not to eavesdrop, but her ears perked up when he said, “Find out everything you can on Carl Shaw. Who he partied with. The name of his drug dealer. Old friends. New friends. Anything. And find out if he still had ties to Randall Becker.” Patrick hung up the phone and met Amber’s gaze. “Sorry, I meant to call you with an update sooner, but I’ve been on the phone for the past hour.”

  Shifting uncomfortably, she shrugged. “No problem. Doesn’t sound as though you had a very productive meeting with Carl.”

  “Carl’s dead.”

  Her jaw fell slack. Thank goodness she was sitting down. “What? I mean, how?”

  “Someone shot him in the head as he drove into the parking lot at Moe’s.”

  A dead weight settled in her stomach, along with the knowledge that this crime was more complicated than she’d ever imagined. She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “And the shooter?”

  Patrick lifted his hands in exasperation. “Don’t know.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Yes, it is.” Patrick rocked back in his chair with a sigh. “To make matters worse, the ballistics reports came back on the bullets recovered from the attack on the counseling center. None of the bullets matched any of the guns registered to Carl.” As he spoke, the frustration in his voice grew thicker.

  He always seemed so strong, so in control. A cool self-assurance that encouraged her and kept her grounded. She’d forgotten how just having him in the same room made her feel safe. She didn’t like this change in demeanor.

  Amber drew in a calming breath, digging deep for composure. “How many people are involved in this?” She almost hated to ask.

&nb
sp; There was a flicker of hesitation.

  She straightened and caught Patrick’s eye. He quirked a brow and sighed. “That’s the question of the day.”

  “So where does the investigation go from here?”

  “We’ll start dissecting the lives of every guy at that frat party. But still keep Randall Becker at the forefront of our investigation. I just put a tail on him.”

  Alarm sent tiny pinpricks of fear hopscotching up her spine. “And if Randall isn’t the one?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll keep looking.”

  Amber slumped back in her chair, her mind trying to sort through the new information. As it started to sink in, she came back up in her seat. “With Carl dead and Randall under surveillance, I’d like to hang out at Kim’s house awhile longer. I’m not comfortable with the safe house idea.” She held her breath, waited for him to respond.

  Patrick gave her an arched look. “I don’t think staying at Kim’s is wise.” Then, as if he could read her thoughts, he rocked forward and his eyes latched firmly on to hers. “And it’s not because I’m tired of hanging around you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that,” she said, downplaying her earlier concern. Suddenly embarrassed under his penetrating glare, she added, “I didn’t want you to feel obligated to spend all your free time protecting me.”

  Patrick wagged his head. “My job is to solve this case. I’m one hundred percent invested until that happens.”

  Of course. Her heart slipped a little. “Well, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to hold off a few more days before I am sequestered anywhere.”

  He scratched his jaw. “You’re still holding out on the fund-raiser?”

  She chewed her bottom lip and nodded.

  “But if we’re at an impasse in a few more days—”

  “I’ll gladly go.”

  “Okay.” He stood. “If the safe house is out for now, then let’s have some lunch.”

  Amber was out of the chair and pulling on her jacket before he had a chance to change his thinking. “Sounds good. I’m starving.”