Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (150 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“Coop.” Libby worked not to sound too needy, but her knees were shaking. She bit her lip.

“Libby, I’m sorry about last night. Maybe—”

“Ah, I’m in the middle of—”

“Sure. I can call back later.”

“No.” Was that a plea? She looked to the faces of her father and Detective Riverton, who stopped their conspiratorial whispering to watch her.

“Libby, what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Can you come over? The police are here.”

Riverton put his finger to his lips and her dad frowned.

“What’s happened?” Cooper asked.

“Just—I can’t go into it on the phone. Can you get over here?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Is someone hurt? Did someone hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.” It was a lie and a gross misstatement, but it hopefully gave Cooper enough of an excuse to come to the house. Besides, the blood in the mailbox didn’t belong to—

Oh my god!

She turned to her dad. “What about Neil and Marsha and the girls? Should we be alerting them, too?” Libby looked between the two men, forgetting Cooper was on the phone.

“I’m coming over right now,” Cooper said and hung up.

Dr. Brownlee winced as he searched the detective’s face. Riverton scowled and answered her curtly, “I’ll contact them later. I don’t want to get anyone else involved unless I have to. We simply don’t know enough and all I’d do is scare them, perhaps unnecessarily. I’ve barely started to study the letters—”

“Letters? As in plural,
letters
?” Libby interrupted.

The two men gave her a blank stare.

“How many letters?” she shrieked.

Riverton said, “Three.”

Dr. Brownlee said, “Four.”

“Four,” Riverton corrected himself. “One your father threw away. I’ve got three to study, plus this one.”

“You didn’t think it was important to let us know we were getting letters?” Libby insisted. “Letters like this?” Libby thought her dad looked small and older as she pinned him with her angry stare. “This is my stationery, Dad. This came from my bedroom here at the house.”

Her dad gasped.

“Libby, you’re sure?” Riverton wanted to know.

“Absolutely. “

Her mother made her entrance, hair still wet. She stood beside Libby and crossed her arms. Carla leveled her gaze at Libby’s father. She was not smiling.

“I want the truth. All of it, Austin,” she said.

“Ma’am,” Riverton began, “we’re talking about the other letters I have down at the station. We’re studying them.”

“Letters? What letters?” Carla looked at the display on her kitchen countertop, and walked over to it. After reading the note, she looked up to her husband’s face a second time.

“You lied to me,” she said.

Brownlee leaned back against a countertop and stared at the ceiling, appearing to be searching for words. “I had no idea it would come to this, Carla. I brought them into Clark on Sunday when we met. We were starting to investigate…”

“Investigate?” Carla spat. “You kept us in the dark on purpose, Austin.
On purpose
! We’re the bait while you investigate?” She nodded to Detective Riverton. “This your idea?”

“No ma’am. We’re just doing our job. Look, if you don’t mind, before he gets here, I’d like some information on this Navy SEAL fellow your daughter’s been seeing.”

Carla laced her fingers through her wet scalp, swizzling her hair haphazardly. “You don’t really think he had anything to do with this, do you?” she asked the room. Libby couldn’t understand why no one had a quick response.

Dr. Brownlee made the point in his gentle negotiator voice, “All of these letters arrived after the SEAL did, Carla. Detective Riverton
has
to investigate him.”

“If we can figure out a motive, we have a much better shot at getting the guy,” Riverton offered.

“Hasn’t this cretin who’s writing these letters told you what he wants?” Carla added. “It says,
An Eye For An Eye.
That’s pretty clear to me.”

“But we aren’t sure if it’s directed at me, or…Libby.” Dr. Brownlee hesitated.

Libby felt another wave of confusion and fear wash over her.

Could this have something to do with Dr. Gerhardt?
Perhaps her reporting him to the Department Chair made him snap.

Is this retaliation because he lost his job? How could they think it was Cooper?

Her stomach did cartwheels. She found it impossible he could be the one responsible for all of these events. It had to be coincidence. Just had to be.

* * *

Cooper parked the scooter in the driveway, blocking the garage door. He knew he might catch hell for it, but wanted the bike closer to the house. Besides, the unmarked and marked police cars took up the majority of the parking on the street.

His splitting headache hadn’t subsided, even though he’d taken something for it. His hangover this morning had been an unwelcome event. It had been three years since he’d taken a drop. Those beers last night came as quick and smooth as in the old days. Back then, they would have been the prelude to oblivion. Yes, his Higher Power was definitely on his side this morning, not screaming in his ear, just giving him a good headache and plunging him right into some drama with Libby and her family.

Libby was out the front door before he could ring the bell. She smelled wonderful. The distance he had tried to create between them suddenly shrank. He had to work not to take her in his arms.

He was grateful to be sober enough to deal with whatever was going on today. He was grateful for the way Libby seemed to be happy to see him, perhaps needed him.

He looked into her terrified eyes, pushing unruly hair from her face. “Tell me.”

Pools of tears started forming as she whispered, “Someone is sending letters—horrible letters. And there’s blood in the mailbox.”

Cooper turned to look at the innocuous metal object, with its mouth shut, dripping onto the flowers below. Vampire mailbox.

Weird. Twisted. Someone very sick.

He recalled Libby’s tale about the cat. How angry he felt as she was telling him. Bad guys were one thing. He could deal with those, no problem. But he was not trained to deal with a sick, twisted individual, a crazy person who hurt animals. He knew about zealots, evil men who knew only death and destruction. It was easy to send them back to
the source
as they called it. But someone with his own private war against a family, against Libby? He felt ill prepared. But he damn well had to try, even if it wasn’t wise.

Dr. Brownlee was at the opened front doorway. “Cooper. The detectives here need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“No, sir. I don’t mind. Someone going to tell me what’s going on?” Instinct made him take Libby’s hand as he followed the doctor into the house. He smelled coffee. Carla called to him from the kitchen and, yes, he certainly did want a steaming cup. Black.

He was led to the living room, where he took a seat next to Libby. She clutched his fingers between her own, their hands buried in the couch cushions between them. Her public show of affection made him a little uncomfortable. He sipped from his coffee with the other hand, resting the mug on his right knee. A non-uniformed policeman started first.

“I’m Detective Clark Riverton, San Diego PD.” He showed a badge Cooper couldn’t possibly read.

“I’m SO Calvin Cooper.” He observed Riverton making notes in a small spiral book the size of his vest pocket.

“SO as in Special Operator?”

Cooper nodded, taking another sip.

“Spelled just like how it sounds?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, I have to ask you if you know anything about this incident with Libby’s cat, and the letter.”

“Just what I’ve been told.”

“And what have you been told, son?”

Cooper heard that name again and flinched, but held himself in check.

“Libby just told me there were
some
letters, not just one, and something about blood in the mailbox.” He rubbed Libby’s upper arm and shoulders. She was so stiff, and he couldn’t get her to soften. It was a natural reaction, and it felt damned good to try to bring comfort.

“You have anything to do with these events?” Riverton asked pointedly.

“No, sir.” He began to see something forming. He was becoming a suspect. “You don’t think I—”

“We’re just here to investigate all angles. Tell me again how you came upon the Brownlee’s doorstep.”

“I was ordered to go meet the family of a fallen SEAL. Dr. Brownlee’s brother, William. I carry a KA-BAR knife with his name engraved on it.”

“You have this knife on you?”

“No. I keep it at home.”

“And where is that?”

Cooper cleared his throat and eased himself away from Libby. “I live in a motor home at the beach.”

“Which beach?”

“Mission, mostly, but it varies.”

Riverton tilted his head and looked at him askance. Cooper knew he was being summed up and wasn’t sure what the verdict was.

“There’s no public parking at Mission Beach.”

“I have a private arrangement with the guy who lives there. Used to own the park.”

“You got a permit for that?”

Coop just stared back at him. No, he didn’t have any permits. And he wasn’t going to get any, either.

“Would you mind if I search your place?” Riverton asked.

He balked at the intrusion into his private life of guns, destruction and surveillance—his job in real life. But this was a civilian matter, and he was charged with cooperating with all local authorities, even if he didn’t trust any of them.

“You may. I’ll have to tell my liaison.”

“Um hum.” Riverton was staring at his notes. “Okay, then. How did you find the Brownlee’s address?”

“Like I said, from my Chief. He gave it to me.”

“I’ve never heard of a Team Guy—Dr. Brownlee has told me you are a SEAL, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never heard of a SEAL doing this.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, sir. We don’t do this as a routine. But we study the past and have respect for the fallen. We have compassion for their families—even ones that don’t want or need it.” Coop looked into the dark eyes of Libby’s father.

Like he’d been slapped, Dr. Brownlee stood up straight and went to the kitchen, returning with a cup of coffee.

“So, why you? Why were you sent?”

Coop didn’t want to tell them. He inhaled deeply and then sighed. This was going to be tough. “Because, sir, all my kin back in Nebraska were killed recently in a tornado. My liaison thought it would give me something else to focus on.” He shot Dr. Brownlee a glare, “Not that it has helped much.”

He needed all this complication like a hole in his head. Coop began to doubt the wisdom of being here at the Brownlee home. But the sweet-smelling lady at his side squeezed his hand, and then he remembered.

Yeah, I’m all in. God help me.

* * *

Cooper thought about the questioning—really, a low-level interrogation—while he drove Libby to the Babemobile. Here he’d decided he really shouldn’t see her any longer, and the first thing he did was come running over when she called, and now he was taking her to his place in her car.

Cooper had witnessed some skilled CIA techniques first-hand when he did the Tactical Surveillance Course in Virginia before his last deployment. Riverton was rough around the edges, but he managed to get a boatload of information out of Cooper. All things the cops could follow up on. One wrong answer and Coop would be in the spotlight, if he wasn’t already.

He tried not to worry about it as he silently piloted the little car. Libby let him think, which was a good thing right now. He had no secrets, just didn’t like revealing his private side. Or thinking he was a lab experiment, no matter how much it aided the locals. They were wasting time with every second they considered Cooper a suspect, and that irritated him. Not catching the perp could cause harm to Libby or her family.

He could recognize certain signs of battle stress, what it does to a man. This guy who left the letters and killed Libby’s cat, whoever the hell he was, had made close friends with Dr. Death. Almost like the cretin didn’t have anything left to lose.

Driving up and over the Coronado Bridge, he remembered back to the day he got his first tattoo. The artist at Daisy’s shop gleefully palmed his flesh, like Coop was a virgin canvas. Well, he had been. The owner sent Daisy over to shave Cooper’s leg before the old fart could begin. And that was a real nice treat. Coop knew next time he’d ask for her. She had the softest hands and biggest tits…

He glanced over at Libby and she smiled back at him. He felt like a heel. But he could see in her eyes she trusted him. Thing was, did he trust himself? Was he taking her home to protect her or for the fantastic sex?

The crusty old guy with rough hands had talked to Coop that day while drawing the Celtic ring around his baby-skin-smooth right calf. His hands were gnarly, but steady as a seaman’s.

He didn’t know the guy’s first name. Everyone called him Gladwell. He wouldn’t stop talking while he needled his way under Coop’s skin. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

“When do you go over? Or can you say?” Gladwell had asked him that afternoon.

“Four to six months.”

“Know where?”

Coop laughed inside as he recalled his answer. “Somewhere you wouldn’t go on a vacation.”

“Bring me back some ears and we’ll roast them and eat ‘em.”

“Excuse me?” Cooper wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

Gladwell put his fingers over his own ears, folding and wiggling them while he gave Coop the brown grin. Gladwell’s teeth were coated in chewing tobacco tar.

Cooper thought he was going to lose it right there all over the guy. He swore and hoped to God the man was kidding.

The artist whistled. “So you’re gonna get familiar with Dr. Death?”

When Coop looked up at him, he smiled again, showing off his brown grin. Gladwell continued, “He’s a sly one. Taken some of my best buds,” he said, as he bore into Cooper’s skin especially painfully.

Coop often thought back to the timing of that particular afternoon. The next day Gladwell had wrapped his Harley around a tree and had his own private party with Dr. Death.