Chapter 1

One

THAT WAS ODD.

As Lindsey Barnes guided her car up the long drive that led to her client's upscale house, she eased back on the gas pedal and surveyed the empty bay in the three-car garage. The spot where the female half of the power couple always parked.

If Heidi Robertson had gone out, why hadn't she closed the door?

Whatever the reason, her absence was welcome news. It should be simple to dash in and grab the knife roll she'd left yesterday, with no one the wiser.

Unless the other half of the couple was home.

But according to Heidi, James lived at the office. From what Lindsey had gleaned during her interview for the personal chef position four months ago, running a commercial real estate development firm was a 24/7 occupation.

So odds were this would be a quick in-and-out.

Nevertheless, she continued toward the concrete pad out of sight behind the garage, where the help parked. If her client happened to return during this brief visit, she wouldn't be happy to discover an out-of-place car. The lady of the house liked her instructions followed to a T—a lesson learned via a taut email after the new personal chef forgot to use the woman's preferred font on the heating instructions for each dish.

Rolling her eyes, Lindsey rounded the garage.

At least she didn't have to deal with Heidi beyond their menu planning emails. All she had to do was slip into the kitchen once a week, do her thing, and leave. Plus, the Robertsons paid their bill promptly—an important consideration if you were still establishing your business and cash flow was sometimes an issue.

Lindsey tucked her older-model Focus next to a pickup truck bearing the name Allen Construction.

Chad must be on the premises.

Good for him.

He deserved every plum job he could get after all the hardships he'd endured.

Lindsey set the brake, pulled out her phone, and called Heidi's number.

Like her first attempt more than thirty minutes ago, the call rolled to voicemail.

But Heidi had told her to let herself in whenever she came—and she needed those knives. Besides, the woman had assured her that neither of the Robertsons hung around in the kitchen.

After stowing her phone, she opened the door and slid from behind the wheel. The faint sound of contemporary music came from the vicinity of the pool house, the driving beat pulsing through the unseasonably cold early November air.

That must be Chad's work site for the day.

Shoving her hands into the pockets of the puffy, quilted coat that hit her midthigh, Lindsey lengthened her stride. The bright noontime sun hadn't put much of a dent in the St. Louis pre-winter chill, and after years in more temperate South Carolina, she was going to need longer than eighteen months to adjust to the harsher fall and winter temperatures here.

At the back door, she dug out her key, inserted it in the lock, and prepared to tap in the security code.

But the high-pitched beep, beep, beep that always sounded was absent as she twisted the knob and stepped inside.

Huh.

Was someone home after all?

She paused on the threshold. Listened.

All was quiet.

Maybe Heidi had forgotten to activate the security system. Or she could have left it off, if Chad was scheduled to do a job in the house too.

No matter. All she had to do was grab her knife roll and make a fast exit.

Mentally running through the recipes she'd be preparing for her afternoon client, she hurried through the large mudroom, past the half bath, and into the spacious kitchen replete with granite countertops and high-end appliances. All for show rather than utility, though. From what she'd gathered, the only real cooking that happened here occurred on the days she came.

Except ...

She paused. Sniffed.

The distinctive smell of charred bread—along with another faint scent, indistinct as it mingled with the stronger odor—suggested someone had used a toaster very recently.

She glanced across the center island, toward the sink.

Yep. A crumb-filled plate stood on the counter beside it.

But cleanup in the Robertsons' kitchen wasn't on her agenda today.

Lindsey continued to the island, where she always did her mise en place. And there'd been a ton of it yesterday, thanks to the complicated menu Heidi had selected. But chopping, cutting, peeling, slicing, and grating all the ingredients up front was super efficient.

One of the many valuable lessons she'd learned in culinary school.

She scanned the long island that ran parallel to the sink.

No knife roll.

Propping her hands on her hips, Lindsey gave the large room a once-over.

Ah. There it was. Over on the coffee bar in the far corner, past the second island with stools that faced into the kitchen and doubled as an eat-in counter. She must have put it there while she was cleaning up.

Sport shoes noiseless on the tile floor, she hurried across the room. If a chef without her knife roll wasn't akin to a surgeon without a scalpel, she'd have skipped this unplanned detour. Wedging it in after shopping for today's ingredients had cut into her afternoon cooking schedule.

She rounded the corner of the second island, strode toward the coffee bar—and jerked to a stop as a scream bubbled up in her throat.

Between the main island and the sink, a man lay sprawled on his stomach on the floor, his vacant pupils aimed her direction. Beneath his center mass, a crimson pool stained the white tile. A half-eaten bagel lay beside him.

It was James Robertson, based on the photos she'd found of him on the internet while researching the couple after securing this chef gig.

And he was dead.

Even worse?

The location of the blood suggested he hadn't died of natural causes.

Lindsey grabbed the edge of the island to steady herself. Tried to suck in air.

She had to call 911.

And she would. As soon as the room stopped spinning and she could—

The toilet in the guest bathroom flushed.

As her brain did the math, another shock wave rolled through her.

The person responsible for James's demise was still here.

And the murderer was between her and the back door.

Heart stuttering, she gave the room a frantic sweep.

Could she make a run toward the front of the house? Try to—

The knob on the bathroom door rattled, and panic squeezed the oxygen from her lungs.

Too late.

She was trapped.

Letting her instincts take over, she dropped to her knees, edged the last two stools closer together, and tucked herself under the island.

Please, God, don't let whoever is in here find me!

As that plea for deliverance looped through her mind, she crouched lower and peeked through the shelving between the end of the cabinetry and the decorative column that held up the granite slab on top of the island.

A figure entered the kitchen, but a long coat, ski mask, latex gloves, and boots hid every identifying feature.

When the person walked her direction, Lindsey stopped breathing.

The murderer rounded the granite at the end of the other island. Halted when something clunked to the floor and skidded her direction.

It stopped sliding less than three feet from her, on the other side of the island where she'd taken refuge.

She froze as the killer walked toward her, bent down to grasp the sparkly item that lay almost within touching distance, then continued toward the dead man.

From her vantage point, only the person's jeans-clad lower legs were visible as one of them nudged the body with the toe of a boot.

No reaction as James's lifeless eyes stared at her.

Every nerve in her body vibrating, Lindsey snaked a hand toward the shelves at the end of the island and curled her shaky fingers around the rim of the Daum crystal vase Heidi had pointed out during their tour of the kitchen. The one she'd said had cost more than $4,000.

But with her knives out of reach on the coffee bar, the pricey decorative piece was the sole weapon at hand. Better to risk her client's wrath if she broke it than certain death if the killer spotted her and she had no way to defend herself.

Best case, the murderer had finished what they'd come to do and would leave through the back door.

If they had more business to attend to in the house, however ... if they walked past the island that was her refuge ... they could spot her no matter how small she tried to make herself.

And if that happened, her career as a personal chef would likely come to a very sudden end.

Along with her life.

ST. LOUIS COUNTY DETECTIVE JACK TUCKER ducked under the yellow tape around the mega mansion that was now a crime scene and strode toward the responding officer who'd been the first to arrive.

Meyers swiveled toward him as he approached. "You got here fast."

"I was close when Sarge called." Unfortunately. Another half hour, he'd have been miles away from this tony neighborhood, racked out at home. And after putting in eighteen hours straight on a mall shooting that had left one dead and three injured, that was where he'd rather be.

But this job didn't come with a time clock.

"You inherited a big one."

No kidding.

The scrutiny could be intense at scenes that reeked of power and money. No doubt the media would descend at any moment.

"Fill me in."

He listened as the man gave him the basics and summarized the two reports he'd taken. One from the woman who'd called in the crime, the other from the workman who'd been on the premises.

"Where are they?"

"Woman's in my car. She's shook." He motioned toward his cruiser, parked along the circle drive that led to the sprawling contemporary structure. "The guy preferred to stay outside, despite the cold. He's on the patio. Also shook, but in a different way."

Jack's antennas went up. After more than two decades on the street, Meyers often had valuable people insights.

"Explain that."

The officer shrugged. "Spooked may be more accurate. I ran him, and he's clean. But he's got a major case of nerves. Could be a natural reaction to finding himself in the middle of a murder investigation, could be more. That determination is above my pay grade." He flashed a grin.

"Thanks for the input."

"Anytime. You want me to unlock the cruiser?" He pulled out his keys.

"Not yet. I'll do a quick walk-through first."

"Make it fast unless you want Hank to be all over you." He motioned to a Crime Scene Unit van as it took the corner up the street faster than was prudent, with a slight screech of tires.

Yeah, that was Hank. The cantankerous tech was the only CSU investigator who drove like the hounds of hell were after him. If he wasn't so skilled at what he did, he'd have been canned years ago for his tendency to ding up vehicles—and for his nonexistent people skills.

"I'm on it. Stall Hank if you can."

Meyers snorted. "I'll try, but don't hold your breath."

Jack took off for the house at a jog, stopping at the back door to slip a pair of booties over his shoes and snap on latex gloves.

The interior was quiet as he entered. No surprise. The responding officers congregated around the perimeter knew better than to traipse around inside and risk compromising a crime scene. Only two stood guard in the kitchen, conversing in low tones.

He acknowledged them with a dip of his head and circled the island.

The scene was exactly as Meyers had described it, and if the woman who'd reported the crime was correct, the victim was the homeowner. A wallet would help confirm that, but until someone from the medical examiner's office got here and Hank worked the scene, it was safer not to touch the body.

He pulled out his phone and did a quick Google search. Everyone had an internet presence these days. Especially the movers and shakers who tended to live on estates like this one.

Identity verified. The victim was James Robertson.

He edged closer to the body. No murder weapon had been left in plain sight, but the location and quantity of blood suggested either a knife or bullet wound to the front midsection.

After giving the rest of the kitchen a fast perusal, he signaled one of the officers to join him and did a quick walk-through of the house.

Nothing but the bedroom raised red flags. In the master suite, dresser drawers were pulled out, a few pieces of clothing lay puddled on the floor, and the walk-in closet door was ajar.

Jack crossed to it.

The doors of a free-standing jewelry armoire were open, and many of the hooks inside were empty.

It was possible the homeowner had interrupted a robbery, and—

Voices spoke in the vicinity of the kitchen, and Jack retraced his steps.

Hank glared at him as he entered. "I hope you're not mucking up my crime scene."

"Perish the thought. I have booties and gloves." He lifted his foot and wiggled his fingers.

"Hmph." Hank pulled a baseball cap out of his kit and yanked it over his flyaway gray hair. "Lacey here yet?"

"I haven't seen her." But in light of past experience, the assistant ME wouldn't be far behind.

"I'll have to work around the body."

"You could start in the bedroom at the end of the hall." Jack waved that direction. "There was activity there."

"We have a warrant yet?"

"In the works."

Hank hefted his kit and brushed past. "Get out as soon as you're done. I don't want any contamination in here. You too." He poked a finger in one officer's chest as he passed. "We don't need two of you hanging around."

The guy waited until Hank disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom before speaking to his colleague. "Guess I've been ousted. I'll take up a position outside the door if you want to follow Mr. Personality." He hooked a thumb in the direction the grouchy tech had disappeared.

"Thanks a lot."

"I'm leaving too." Jack walked toward the back door. "I have people to interview."

He exited, ditched his protective gear, and circled the house. After catching Meyers's attention, he signaled for the man to unlock his cruiser.

The officer beat him there.

The back door swung open, and Jack took a swift but thorough inventory as a thirtysomething woman emerged.

Slender, about eight inches shorter than his six-foot frame—and gorgeous. Not even her bleached complexion or the severe hairstyle that corralled her russet-colored hair into a barrette at her nape could take away from the delicate jawline, full lips, and high cheekbones that gave her a classic beauty.

She didn't look like any chef he'd ever met.

And she certainly didn't look like she belonged in the middle of a murder investigation.

But looks could be deceiving. So he'd approach her as he approached anyone at a crime scene—with a healthy dose of suspicion.

Hands buried in the pockets of her quilted coat, she waited for him by the cruiser.

As he drew close, Meyers backed off.

"Ms. Barnes, I'm Jack Tucker with the County Crimes Against Persons Bureau." He extended his hand.

Instead of grasping his fingers, her lips parted slightly, and she stared at him, her eyes going a tad glassy.

Aftershock?

Was she going to pass out?

"Why don't you sit again for a minute?" He moved forward to take her arm and help her back into the car.

"No." She scooted along the fender, toward the trunk—and out of his reach. "No. I'm f-fine."

That was a lie. Quivers rippled through her, and her pallor had worsened.

"I'd like to speak with you for a few minutes. Shall we find a warmer spot?"

"Here is fine. But I already told the officer everything I know."

At the chill in her voice, he scrutinized her. Fear ... anxiety ... nervousness ... all of those emotions were understandable in this situation.

But what had prompted her subtle animosity?

Once again, his antennas went up. "I'd like to hear it straight from you, if you don't mind." He pulled out a notebook and pen, reining in a shudder as a frigid gust of wind whooshed past. Man, it was way too early for this kind of cold. "Tell me why you were here and what happened after you arrived."

She burrowed deeper into her coat and repeated the same story Meyers had relayed.

He let her finish before speaking. "Was the open garage door unusual?"

"It seemed strange to me, but I haven't worked for the Robertsons long enough to know if it's that uncommon."

"Has it ever been open on any of your prior visits?"

"No."

"Same question about the deactivated security system."

"Same answer. But James Robertson was home. He must have turned it off."

Not necessarily. The murderer could have gained access prior to Robertson's arrival.

The question was how.

"Other than you and the owners, are you aware of anyone else who has the access code?"

"No. And mine was unique to me. To all users, I assume. Ms. Robertson was very clear that their system tracks the codes entered and they could find out if anyone visited without an invitation." Her shivering intensified. "Are we almost f-finished?"

"For now. But let's talk a little more about the person you saw in the kitchen."

"I don't have anything else to say. As I told the officer, they were covered head to toe. I gave him a description of the clothing."

"How tall would you say this person was?"

"I don't know." A puff of cold air materialized in front of her face as she blew out a shaky breath. "My view was from an odd angle, and I only saw the full figure for a handful of seconds."

"Best guess."

Twin furrows appeared on her brow. "Using the Sub-Zero fridge they passed as a gauge, maybe five nine or ten?"

On the tall side for a woman, but the perpetrator could have been female.

"Any hints about gender?"

"No. The coat was unisex and almost knee-length. The feet were kind of large"—her frown deepened—"but now that I think about it, the boots were more like overshoes rather than real boots. The kind some people wear to protect their shoes in bad weather."

Or to mask footprints at the scene of a crime.

And they tended to be bulky, so the size of the foot didn't provide much of a clue to gender, either.

"How long after the person came out of the bathroom and left through the back door did you call 911?"

"A couple of minutes. I wanted to make certain they were gone."

Jack flipped his notebook shut. "We're done for today."

"Would it be possible for me to get my knife roll? It's on the coffee bar in the kitchen. I have a client who's expecting me this afternoon."

Until the cause of death was determined, her knife roll wasn't going anywhere.

"Sorry. You'll have to do without the knives this afternoon. And you may want to reschedule your client."

"Why would I do that?" She brushed back a wind-whipped strand of hair that had escaped from her barrette.

Instead of responding, he shifted his attention to her hand.

She followed his gaze to her quivering fingers. Clenched them into a fist. Let her hand drop to her side. "They're counting on me."

"In light of the extenuating circumstances, I doubt they'll mind eating pizza or takeout for a few nights."

"But I have all the ingredients in my car." Her chin rose a hair. "And I try not to let people down." Her comment lingered in the cold air as a shadow passed over her eyes.

What was that all about?

Since the answer to his question wasn't pertinent to the investigation, Jack moved on. "Speaking of your car—we'll need to look at it."

Her face went blank for a moment before shock replaced confusion. "Am I a suspect?"

"Anyone connected with a crime is a person of interest."

She groped behind her for the cruiser and sagged back against it. "This is surreal."

"I can get you out of here faster if you'll give us permission to examine your vehicle rather than make us wait for a search warrant."

"Have at it." She waved a hand toward the back of the house. "There's nothing incriminating in my car except the candy bar I splurged on for lunch and never got to finish."

"Would you like to wait in the cruiser again, out of the cold?"

She eyed it, her reluctance to spend any more time in the back of a police car obvious. But in the end she bowed to logic. "Yes. Thanks."

Jack signaled Meyers to rejoin them. "Ms. Barnes will borrow your backseat again while we check out her vehicle." As the man unlocked the door and pulled it open, Jack once more extended his hand toward the chef, whose manner remained as glacial as the air. "Thanks for your assistance."

"My hands are like ice. I wouldn't want to give you frostbite." She sidled away from his outstretched fingers and slid into the car.

Meyers closed the door behind her and turned to him. "What did you do to rankle her?"

"Nothing. I just asked the standard questions in my usual polite manner."

"Huh. Even though she was shook earlier, she wasn't unfriendly. Maybe the events of the day are catching up with her."

"Could be."

Yet as he walked back to the rear of the house, that explanation didn't ring true. While anyone would be upset after going through a life-threatening experience, that wasn't why Lindsey Barnes had frozen him out.

For whatever reason, she'd taken an instant dislike to him.

Which didn't sit well.

Tamping down a surge of annoyance, he turned up the collar of his coat.

Why should he care what a stranger thought about him? He ought to put their encounter out of his mind and concentrate on the looming murder investigation. A man lay dead inside the walls of this high-end house, and finding the killer deserved his full focus.

If he'd rubbed Lindsey wrong, so be it. As long as she didn't end up a suspect, he never had to see her again.

Instead of giving him comfort, however, that notion left him feeling somehow disappointed.

Weird.

But that wasn't a subject worth pondering when he had vehicles to search, neighbors to talk to, security camera footage to review, and interviews to conduct—including one with the dead man's wife once she was located and the police chaplain broke the bad news.

A task that never got easier, even after more than a decade in law enforcement. And one he wasn't looking forward to on this cold November afternoon.