Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

"ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE ALL RIGHT, Dr. Oliver?" Lindsey frowned at the therapist as their session wound down. "You're flushed again."

He offered her a strained smile. "Much as I hate to admit it, I've been feeling progressively worse this afternoon. In hindsight, I should have cut the day short. But I don't like to let clients down."

"People would understand if you got sick. There's a nasty flu bug going around."

"It doesn't feel quite like the flu or I wouldn't have continued to see clients all day. Maybe it was something I ate. If I'm still under the weather tomorrow, though, I'll have to reschedule my Friday clients. Fortunately, you're my last appointment of the day. After this, I plan to go home and crash."

"Why don't we cut our session short? In case you do happen to be coming down with the flu, I should keep my distance." Because if she didn't cook, her income flow would dry up. There was no paid sick leave for personal chefs—one of the downsides of working for yourself. A bout with the flu would deplete her bank balance and disappoint the clients who counted on her.

"If you don't mind, I think that would be advisable for both our sakes. I'll alert Margie about our shortened session so she can adjust your bill."

Lindsey waved that aside. "I'm not worried about a few dollars after all the nights you've stayed late to see me over the past few weeks."

"No. Fair is fair. If I don't give a full hour, I don't charge for a full hour. Is there anything else we should talk about before we both call it a day?" He closed his notebook.

"I don't think so. I'm just glad whoever moved my car last night made a mistake. It proves to me—and the police—that the other incidents were real too. I can't tell you what a huge relief that is."

"I'm sure it is. I know how worried you were that all the trauma had taken a serious mental toll." He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. "And now, it's time for this doctor to heal himself. I think my temperature is spiking."

Lindsey picked up her purse and stood. "I'll let myself out. Take care of yourself."

He rose too, much more slowly. As if pushing himself to his feet took supreme effort. "I'll try."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" While he never talked about his personal life, from the few comments Margie had made, he didn't have much, if any, family. And an ex-wife wasn't likely to be waiting in the wings to run emergency errands in case of illness.

"No, thank you. I'll be fine. Nothing a few aspirin, plenty of liquids, and rest won't cure."

"Well, my offer stands if you change your mind."

"Thank you."

"I'll see you next week." She left the office, crossed to the door, and exited into the hall.

As she headed toward the main entrance of the profes sional building, she turned her phone back on and scrolled through messages.

No voicemails, but there was a text from Jack.

Sorry, but I have to cancel on the cheesecake tonight. Got pulled into a double homicide. Will be working very late. Rain check until tomorrow? Also, none of the nearby residents saw any suspicious activity around your car. DNA came back too. No match in databases. Still handy to have when we round up a suspect. Talk to you soon.

When, not if. At least he was staying optimistic.

But as she bundled up to brave the winter chill outside, her spirits drooped.

Wherever the killer was on this cold, inhospitable evening, they were probably gloating that despite the evidence they'd left on her car last night, and despite the fact that her credibility had been restored, the police were as baffled as ever about who'd murdered James Robertson. Neither of the clues she'd remembered had led anywhere, and without a match in the databases, last night's blood sample wasn't much use—which the killer no doubt knew when they bled on her car.

She exhaled and pushed through the outside door.

While it was possible another tidbit or two would surface from the depths of her mind, the odds there would be enough to identify the perpetrator were minuscule.

Bottom line, the police were no closer to finding out who was behind the murder than they'd been on day one.

Lindsey exhaled, a frosty cloud of breath forming in front of her face.

How galling to think that someone who had murdered in cold blood could be sitting in front of a cozy fire or enjoying a gourmet dinner with nary a care in the world, basking in the assurance they were home free.

A very real possibility.

And at this point, nothing short of a miracle was going to bring the culprit or culprits to justice.

HE DID NOT WANT to take this call.

But she or her lawyer would bug him all weekend if he didn't.

Vibrating cell in hand, Anthony Oliver locked the hall door behind Lindsey and dragged himself back to his desk.

A stiff drink, antibiotics, and peace of mind. That's what he needed.

The first two he could manage. The third? Not so much.

He carefully lowered himself into his chair and answered the call from his ex-wife. "I asked you not to disturb me during office hours."

"Office hours should be about over. It's late. Just like your alimony payment is. In case you've forgotten, yesterday was the first of the month. No deposits were made in my bank account."

As if he didn't know that.

But it was hard to pay the exorbitant amount she'd stiffed him for when the so-called sure-bet investments his broker had talked him into continued to nosedive.

"The money will be in your account by Monday." Somehow. Some way. Liquidating tanking stocks wasn't ideal, but if that kept his ex off his back and bought him more time, it was worth it. His money troubles should be over soon.

Unless his partner in crime continued to make mistakes.

Anger flared in his gut at the stupidity of last night's stunt, but he held it in check, just as he had when he'd learned the news. He'd deal with that complication after this call.

"You're late every month, Tony."

He pulled out his handkerchief again. Patted his forehead.

The aspirin alone weren't cutting it anymore. He needed antibiotics.

"I'm doing the best I can. I don't make a fortune."

"You do very well."

"Not as well as I used to. A therapist who can't even salvage his own marriage loses credibility—and clients. My reputation took a hit after the divorce. People assumed that if I couldn't solve my own problems, I couldn't help them solve theirs. Rebuilding my practice has been slow going."

"You should have thought of that before we broke up. If you'd cared half as much about me as you do your clients, we'd still be together." Her whiny petulance grated on his nerves, as always.

"I couldn't be with you twenty-four seven, like you wanted. One of us had to work. And I was tired at the end of the day. I have a demanding job intellectually and emotionally."

"As you never failed to remind me."

Anthony started to respond to her sulky comeback. Stopped. They'd been over this territory ad nauseam. It was impossible to reason with her.

"You'll have your money Monday."

"I better. You owe me, Tony."

"Not anymore. You've been bleeding me dry for three years."

"It's those speculative stocks that are killing you."

"I only got into those because you and your fancy lawyer are soaking me for every penny you can get." How had he lived with this sniping woman for fifteen years while she spent money like there was no tomorrow? And now she'd driven him to the verge of bankruptcy. Between the hit his practice had taken after the divorce, the obscene amount she'd been awarded in the settlement, and the increasing debt he was sinking into as he tried to maintain his lifestyle, he'd be flat broke in six months.

That's why his plan had to succeed, despite last night's blunder.

On the plus side, the police wouldn't be able to trace the blood—as far as he knew.

"You never were good with money, Tony."

"You were certainly good at spending it." He bit back another retort. Getting into a shouting match would accomplish nothing. "This conversation is over."

"Fine. It's not a joy to talk to you, either. I'll watch for the deposit on Monday."

The line went dead.

Slowly he lowered the cell to his desk. Picked up the tepid bottle of water he'd sipped during Lindsey's session. Forced himself to take a long pull. Adding dehydration to his woes would be foolish.

As soon as he psyched himself up, he'd call—

A knock sounded, and Anthony lifted his arm to swipe at his forehead again. Winced. "Yes?"

Margie cracked the door. "Sorry to interrupt. Anything else you'd like me to do before I leave for the day?"

"Find a cure for the flu?" May as well go with that diagnosis. It was convenient if not accurate.

She cocked her head. "I thought you looked a little green around the gills at lunchtime. You should go home and rest."

"Next on my agenda. Could you contact my clients for tomorrow and reschedule them?"

"Of course. Do you mind if I do that from home? I have to pick up my daughter at ballet."

"Fine by me. I'd rather you avoid any germs I'm spreading." Not that there were any germs to spread.

"I won't argue. The flu can knock you flat. Take care of yourself, and let me know how you're doing in the morning."

She closed the door behind her, and Anthony pulled out his burner phone. On to the next call. One that would require much more finesse than the last one. Difficult to manage if you weren't in top form and were seething with anger, but it couldn't be put off. Loose cannons had to be dealt with as fast as possible.

He punched in the number.

She answered on the third ring. "This is a surprise. I thought we were confining our communication to texts."

"That was the plan. But this is an emergency. Let's not use any names during our conversation." He took a calming breath. "I heard about the car incident."

Silence.

He waited.

"I suppose your client told you. Did you have a session today?"

"She left a few minutes ago."

"I did tell you I was tired of waiting. And I miss you. We were supposed to be able to get together by now. Move on to the next part of our plan."

"If we hadn't had an unexpected complication, we'd already be there."

"We can get rid of that complication."

"I don't want any more killing. Once was bad enough."

"What if she keeps remembering things?"

"There can't be much more to remember. I was covered head to toe. I'm more worried about last night. They found blood on her car. Yours, I presume."

"Yes. I cut my finger. But my blood isn't in any database. I've never had a run-in with the law, served in the military, or submitted a sample to any of those genealogy places. That tattoo of yours is a bigger problem. You should have gotten rid of it after you divorced Shelley."

"No names, remember?" He rested his arm on the desk, gri macing as the sensitive skin and pus-filled blisters stretched beneath the bandage under his long-sleeved dress shirt. Combined with fever and joint pain, those symptoms suggested infection—and the over-the-counter hydrogen peroxide cream hadn't had any effect. Thankfully, his doctor had been willing to prescribe an antibiotic after a phone consultation. For an infected cut, not a tattoo.

"Fine. I stand by what I said."

"I'm getting rid of it now."

"You-know-who has already seen part of it. Can't you speed up the process?"

"No. The skin has to heal for four to six weeks between each treatment. We're off the subject. I called to talk about our plan, and sticking with the program. Last night could have caused big problems."

"I was careful. I covered up, and no one saw me." She shifted into cajoling mode. "Oh, honey, don't be mad at me. I just want us to be together."

"I do too." He summoned up every ounce of his acting skills, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. She had to believe he loved her as much as she loved him. Otherwise, he'd lose his ticket to financial security. "But we'll have a whole lifetime together if we're patient and let this play out. I wish we didn't have to deal with the witness complication, either, but another killing will increase the risk."

"Not if it looks like an accident or suicide."

"Suicide is no longer an option. The blood from last night gives her previous stories credibility, which would bolster her confidence, not demoralize her and lead to suicide. An accident would require careful planning."

"You're an excellent planner."

He tamped down his annoyance. "I'll tell you what. I'll think about it and come up with a plan we can implement if necessary." Which would be never, as far as he was concerned. But if that concession appeased her in the short term and kept her toeing the line, it was an easy offer to make. "How does that sound?"

"Better than nothing." She sighed. "Why does love have to be so complicated?"

"I think it's the nature of the beast. Keep hanging in and we'll get through this."

"Can we at least talk now that you've broken radio silence?"

"Texts are still safer." If she was getting restless, however, an occasional call might help keep her in line. "But why don't I call you on Saturday night? We'll have a phone date."

"I suppose that will have to do. It's hard to get romantic over the phone, though."

"If we talk about all the things we're going to do once we're together again, it could get downright racy."

A soft, throaty chuckle came over the line. The one she liked to use in their private moments. "I'll hold you to that."

"You may. Until then, we're going to play it safe, right? No more risky stunts."

"No more stunts."

"Good. Watch for my call at nine o'clock Saturday night."

"I'll be waiting." She gave him a smooch over the line.

Rolling his eyes, he reciprocated. "Happy dreams."

"That's a given after hearing your voice. Love you, honey."

"Love you back. Good night." He stabbed the end button. Scowled. Slammed a drawer shut.

Women were more trouble than they were worth.

But he'd come too far down this path to backtrack. And he'd earned the payoff, even if he'd continue to pay a price for it well into the future.

Summoning up his energy, he pushed himself to his feet, circled his desk, and retrieved his coat from the closet. As soon as he picked up his antibiotic, he was going home and crashing. If the drugs kicked in, maybe by tomorrow his fever would be down and the pain in his arm would subside.

He shook his head in disgust.

Getting a tattoo to please Shelley was more proof of the folly of love. Or infatuation. Or whatever he'd felt for her long ago that had faded to nothing as the years passed.

Anthony eased his arm into the sleeve of his coat, flinching as the fabric put pressure on the bandage covering his sensitive skin—and trying not to think about the painful sessions yet to come over multiple months and the long drive to Columbia each time to minimize the risk of being recognized.

He settled the coat on his shoulders and exhaled.

The only positive on this cold, stressful night?

Despite the slipup with the car that had ruined all the work they'd done to cast doubt on Lindsey's mental health, and despite her resurfacing memories, there was virtually no chance the police would ever be able to pin James Robertson's murder on him.

After all, he had an airtight alibi, thanks to the professional conference he'd attended in Clayton that day. People constantly slipped in and out of sessions to take client calls, so no one had paid any attention when he'd left soon after one began and came in late to another after he returned following the lunch break.

And no one had seen him at the vacant house next to the Robertson place that had provided perfect cover. It had been a simple matter to cut through the bushes separating the properties, let himself in, and wait for the victim to come home.

Everything would have gone like clockwork if Lindsey hadn't shown up.

He muttered a word he would never use in front of clients as he stepped out of his office suite and locked the door behind him.

If he was lucky, everything would quiet down and there would be no reason to take another life.

But an unnerving sixth sense told him his luck was running out ... and that Lindsey's days were numbered.