Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

"READY TO CALL IT A NIGHT?" Cate clapped a hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. "I'm beat."

"I hear you. I've been going nonstop since sunrise." Jack twisted his wrist to see his watch. "That would be eighteen hours ago, give or take."

"I'm in the same boat. Unless you can think of anyone else to interview tonight, I say we're done."

"No one who can't wait until tomorrow. As far as I can see, this has crime of passion written all over it." Jack scanned the scene in the suburban home where the tragedy had unfolded. The two bodies had been removed, and the betrayed wife who'd apparently sought revenge was in custody. Every interview had painted a picture of a love triangle gone awry.

"I agree. We'll compare notes in the morning." She pulled a knit cap over her ponytail. "Midmorning. I'm sleeping in."

"You're the lead on this one, you set the schedule. And that works for me. I wouldn't mind clocking an extra hour or two myself after our late night."

"Speaking of late nights—did all of this interrupt your plans for the evening?" She swept a hand over the scene, where the CSU techs continued to work.

"Nothing that can't be rescheduled." The only upside to cancelling tonight's cheesecake rendezvous with Lindsey was that he still had it to look forward to.

A definite spirit-lifter.

"I get the feeling your plans would have been a whole lot more pleasant than this."

Jack flattened the slight bow in his lips. Nothing got past Cate. His fellow detective and Bri were cast from the same mold. "Anything would be more pleasant than this."

"True." Cate perused him for a beat, then moved on to a different topic. "I heard about the blood on the Robertson witness's car. Maybe that will lead somewhere."

"Not yet. There wasn't a DNA match in the databases."

Cate's eyebrows peaked. "You got DNA run already?"

"The lab did a rapid test for me."

"What strings did you have to pull to make that happen?"

He hiked up one side of his mouth. "I borrowed a page from your playbook. You know how Hank likes your sister's baklava? Someone in the lab is partial to my chocolate mint squares and was willing to work through lunch with that as an incentive."

"Bribery."

"Kindness." His grin broadened as he parroted her words back to her from their conversation weeks ago about Hank. "What can I say? I'm a nice guy."

"Hmph." She pulled out her gloves. "It's a shame your effort to expedite the process didn't lead to a match in the system."

"It may confirm a suspect as our killer down the road, though."

"You're an optimist. If you want my opinion, that case will die on the vine unless your witness remembers something else useful."

"That could happen."

"Keep the faith. Whoever killed Robertson needs to be behind bars. Let's regroup on this one tomorrow and hope the wife ends up confessing."

"Now who's being optimistic?"

"At least I have a suspect."

"I will too, one of these days."

"In the meantime, go home and get some sleep. See you tomorrow." She fished out her keys and strode toward the door.

Jack followed more slowly.

The truth was, Cate was spot-on. The Robertson case was cold, and getting colder by the day. Their few breaks hadn't produced any usable leads, and as Oliver had reminded him during their chat, the more time that passed, the less likely Lindsey would remember anything—and the less reliable her memory would be if she did. That wasn't a negative assessment of her mental stability. It was a fact. Memories had a tendency to fade and become fuzzy.

So unless the killer made another mistake or they got a lucky break, the Robertson murder seemed destined for the cold case file.

MAYBE SHE WAS BEING PRESUMPTUOUS.

Frowning, Lindsey braked in the circle drive in front of Dr. Oliver's house as darkness fell, leaving the world in shadows.

The chicken and broccoli casserole she'd put together for him last night after their session, stored in a cooler in her trunk, was a thoughtful gesture—but did a home delivery to your therapist cross a line between professional and personal?

She surveyed the upscale, contemporary house. While not as glitzy as some of the homes she visited as a personal chef, it was at the high end of the housing spectrum. Obviously well-established psychologists with a solid client base made big bucks.

Not that she begrudged him a handsome return for his work. Heck, anyone who helped people get through tough stretches deserved to live in a mansion as far as she was concerned.

It was clear, though, he had the means to order a meal from any restaurant in town and have it delivered by one of the many services that had sprung up during the Covid era.

However, the food was in the trunk and she'd veered far off her usual route to do a good deed. As long as she was here, she could apologize up front for invading his personal space, hand over the casserole, and make a fast exit.

It would be hard for anyone to find fault with such a kind gesture, right?

Mind made up, Lindsey slid from behind the wheel, scooped the casserole from the cooler, and ascended the steps that led to the front door.

A muted, musical echo sounded in the house after she pressed the bell, and she tucked herself into the recessed doorway to avoid the biting wind while she waited for a response.

And waited.

And waited.

Drat.

He must be sleeping. Or in the bathroom. Or perhaps his condition had worsened and he'd gone to the doctor.

Peeking out from the alcove, she surveyed the porch. It was cold enough to leave food outdoors, but unless she could find a secure spot, an animal might get to it before Dr. Oliver did.

And a parade of raccoons across his porch wouldn't endear her to—

The door rattled, and she stepped back.

Problem solved.

The therapist peered at her, bleary eyed, from the dim interior. "Lindsey?"

"Yes. Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"I was going to get up anyway." He blinked, as if to clear his vision. "What can I do for you?"

"I don't want to invade your turf, but I brought you a casserole for when you're feeling better." She lifted the container. "The heating instructions are on top."

"That was very kind of you." He leaned forward as she held it out, but as he took it and straightened up, he swayed.

Lindsey surged forward and grabbed his arm to steady him, her pulse picking up. He must be really sick. "Maybe you should sit down. Or I'd be happy to drive you to an urgent care."

"Thank you, but I'll be fine."

Fine didn't come close to describing his wan appearance.

"At least let me help you to a chair." Getting up close with flu germs was a risk, but walking away from someone in obvious need of assistance was wrong.

He hesitated. "I can get to a chair, but a walk to the kitchen may be beyond me. If you could put this in the refrigerator for me, I'd appreciate it." He held out the casserole.

"I'll be happy to."

As she took it, he retreated a few steps and sank onto a chair in the foyer. "I'll be okay after I sit for a minute and clear the sleep from my brain."

Not based on the flush in his cheeks and the beads of sweat above his upper lip, but she'd already butted in more than she should have by showing up at his door uninvited.

"Is the kitchen in the back of the house?"

"Yes." He waved a hand that direction.

She dispensed with the chore fast, giving his fridge a quick inspection as she slid the casserole inside.

A few containers of takeout leftovers, eggs, juice, jam, cold cuts. Not much else.

Her casserole would come in handy after all.

Back in the foyer, she found him standing again, one hand braced on the back of the chair. "Thank you for stopping by. I'm sure the food will be delicious."

"You're welcome." She paused. "Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?"

"No. I don't want to delay you. You probably have plans for the evening."

"Not until later."

"Still, I don't want to give you my germs. Whoever you're meeting tonight will be nervous about catching the flu if you stay too long."

"No worries on that score. No one even knows I'm here. But if you don't need anything else, I'll head out. You look like you should lay down again, anyway."

"I think I will." He started to turn toward the door to let her out. Lurched sideways.

Again, she sprang forward to grasp his arm.

With an agonized moan, he yanked it back and cradled it against his chest, every ounce of color vanishing from his already pale complexion.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." If he had body aches that bad, he needed medical attention. "Here, let me help you over to the chair again." She moved closer. "Why don't you lean on me?"

"No." He lifted his arm, palm forward. "I can manage."

She halted, her gaze shifting to a dark mark on his forearm when his sleeve rode up, an oddly familiar scent swirling around her.

Funny that she'd never noticed his aftershave during any of their sessions. He must reserve it for—

All at once, she froze. Sucked in a breath.

This was the same subtle scent she'd smelled that day in the Robertson kitchen. The one that had mingled with the odor of charred bread. Faint and indistinct then, but clear as a bell now.

And was that a tattoo on Dr. Oliver's arm?

As the pieces clicked into place with the same ominous, measured cadence of an executioner's footsteps, Lindsey's heart stuttered.

Anthony Oliver, the prominent and respected psychologist, was James Robertson's killer?

No.

Impossible.

Wasn't it?

LINDSEY HAD FIGURED IT OUT.

Stomach knotting, Anthony bit back a curse.

He should have shut the door in her face. Never let her come in.

Now it was too late.

Meaning his partner in crime was going to get her wish.

Lindsey would have to be eliminated.

"Um ... I think I should be going, Dr. Oliver. I, uh, don't want to risk getting the flu." A combination of panic and incredulity etched her features.

He grasped her arm as she edged away. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave, Lindsey."

Fear flared in her irises. "What are you talking about?"

But she already knew. He could see it in her eyes.

"I think you've figured out the puzzle. I don't know exactly how, but it doesn't matter. You've forced my hand."

Her complexion paled. "What does that mean?"

"I think you can figure that out too."

Summoning up every ounce of his dwindling strength, he pulled her purse off her shoulder and tossed it aside. Dragged her down the hall, to the linen closet where he stored his valuables when the housecleaners came.

She put up a formidable fight. There was power in her arms and legs, the muscles honed from her fitness regimen and rowing. Not difficult to counter if he was in peak form, but he was far from that today.

Even with the surge of desperation-fueled adrenaline that gave his waning energy a temporary boost, it took every ounce of his strength to deflect her blows and subdue her enough to shove her inside and lock the door.

"Hey! This is crazy." She began pounding on it. "Let me out! You'll never get away with whatever you have planned."

Yes, he would.

As soon as he developed a plan.

But he wasn't in this alone. Two heads would be better than one, especially when one of those heads was fuzzy, thanks to a raging fever.

Ignoring Lindsey's hammering and her shouted demands for release, he pulled out his burner phone and walked down the hall toward his bedroom, away from the noise.

She answered on the second ring. "You're a day early. I thought you weren't going to call until—"

"We have a problem." He explained it in three clipped sentences.

The word she uttered burned his ears. "I knew she was going to be trouble. Didn't I tell you we should get rid of her?"

"I hoped it wouldn't be necessary. Now that it is, the question is how."

"You said you were working on a plan."

"I was going to. But the tattoo's infected. I'm not operating at full capacity."

Her tone changed from agitated to solicitous in a heartbeat. "Oh, Anthony. How bad is it? Do you need to see a doctor?"

Yeah, he did.

But that wasn't going to happen.

"You know I can't risk having anything about a tattoo on medical records."

"I'll take you somewhere out of town. An urgent care. You could give a fake name and pay cash." Alarm raised her pitch.

"Urgent care centers require IDs." An ER might work, but they didn't have time for an out-of-town drive tonight to reduce the risk of someone recognizing him. "I have antibiotics. I'm hoping they kick in. We have a bigger issue to deal with at the moment than a sore arm."

"Do you have a fever?"

He had to get her back on track.

"Yes. It's not that high, but I do have a bit of brain fog. We need to focus on the more immediate crisis. Any suggestions?"

"Let me think for a minute."

In the silence that followed, he sank onto the edge of his bed.

She'd be pacing right now, her brain processing at warp speed. When it came to subtle conniving, she was in a league by herself.

"I have an idea."

"I'm listening."

As she spelled it out, his sluggish brain searched for flaws in her rationale.

None jumped out.

While it would be easier to simply kill Lindsey here and dump her body somewhere, the cops would assume a death with no other obvious motive was related to the Robertson situation. This way, there would be no concrete evidence to prove that theory.

And the idea to use Lindsey's propensity to do good deeds against her—like delivering food to people who were ill—was ingenious, if chilling.

For an off-the-cuff plan, it wasn't half bad.

"Do you think you're up to this?"

At her question, he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "I'll have to be."

"Rest until I get there. I'll move as fast as I can."

"Bring the dark car."

"I don't like that one."

He reined in his temper. Like they had time in the midst of this mess to worry about vehicle preferences. "Put up with it for tonight. Turn off your lights on the approach and pull behind the house. I'll watch for you and meet you in the garage. Cover up completely and tuck your hair under a hat."

"I know the drill. Believe me, I'm not taking any chances at this point."

She should have thought of that Wednesday night.

But he left that unsaid.

"Glad to hear it. I'll follow you to the drop site, then we'll come back here until we leave for the final destination. Are you certain there won't be anyone there?"

"Yes. We'll have the place to ourselves."

He stood. Began to pace. "I wish it hadn't come to this."

"I do too. But I can't see any way around it, can you?"

Unfortunately, no. Not if he wanted to avoid going to prison for the rest of his life.

"I guess not."

"It will be fine, Anthony. She's a troubled young woman who was never going to have any impact on the world anyway. Not like you or me. And after all we've both been through, we deserve a happy ending with each other."

No, they didn't—not that it mattered. Besides, however this played out, there would be no happy ending in his future.

"I'll see you soon."

"Try not to worry too much. We've got this. Once she's out of the picture, we'll be safe. Love you, hon."

"Love you too." As the lie spilled past his lips, he pressed the end button.

The next few hours would be taxing if he was operating at full capacity. In his present state, he was in for a rough ride physically and emotionally with Lindsey. She was a fighter, or she wouldn't have survived all the traumas that had plagued her. It would take both of them to pull off the final deed.

A wave of nausea washed over him at the prospect of another killing, but he swallowed past it. Second thoughts and regrets were useless. He was in too deep to escape.

But getting rid of Lindsey wasn't ideal. The police would be suspicious. Especially that detective she'd taken a fancy to. If they set it up right, though, and left no clues behind, no one would be able to prove it was anything but another example of his client's propensity to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yet there were any number of ways this could go south. No matter how careful they were, the margin for error was high.

Too high.

So until they pulled this off and emerged unscathed, he wasn't going to take anything for granted.

Nor was he going to dwell on the innocent woman in his closet, whose luck in escaping deadly situations was about to run out.