Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

WHY WASN'T LINDSEY answering the door?

Frowning, Jack aimed the face of his watch toward her porch light.

Seven thirty on the dot. The time they'd agreed on earlier in the day, after she'd told him she had an errand to do tonight on her way home.

Strange.

If she was running late, she would have let him know. She wasn't the type to leave someone waiting.

He pressed the bell again.

Thirty seconds passed.

No response.

A niggle of unease rippled through him.

If she was home, something was wrong.

Leaving the quasi-shelter of the porch, he turned up his collar and circled around to the back of the condo. It took some maneuvering to get a line of sight through the window to her security keypad in the laundry room, but once he did, the red light was visible.

Her system was armed.

She wasn't home.

His unease ratcheted up.

He pulled out his cell. Tapped in her number. Waited as it rang ... rang ... rang ... rolled to voicemail.

Slowly he slid the phone back in his pocket.

Now what?

Chin tucked into the collar of his coat as he pushed into the cold wind, he returned to the front of the unit. Hesitated. Continued to his car.

There was a remote possibility she'd been delayed and wasn't in a position to answer her phone or send him a text.

But that didn't feel right.

In fact, it felt all wrong.

Doing his best to quash a rising wave of panic, he slid behind the wheel and tried to think through next steps.

He could try to locate her phone, but that would take both a court order and precious time. It might also be overkill.

If she didn't show up within fifteen minutes, however, he was getting the legalities in the works.

Jack started the engine, cranked up the heat, and pulled out his cell. Maybe her friend Madeleine had heard from her.

A quick search of the internet for the Horizons organization that sponsored the cooking class Lindsey taught yielded the director's last name. Further digging produced her address. After that, it was a simple matter to get her number through the national cell directory.

She answered three rings in, sounding harried.

After he introduced himself, he explained the reason for his call.

"No, I haven't heard from Lindsey since the car incident on Wednesday night. Hold one sec. It's a bit noisy where I am." The background din faded while he waited for Madeleine to speak again. "Tell me what's going on."

"I don't know. I was supposed to meet her at her condo at seven thirty, and she hasn't shown."

"That's not like her." A thread of worry wove through her voice.

"I agree. I'll wait another few minutes, then move on to next steps. You're certain she didn't mention anything to you about an errand this afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Do you happen to know who her last client was today?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. She cooks for a family in Frontenac named Martino. They have a friendly dog, and she told me once she likes to end her workweek by playing with it for a few minutes before she leaves."

It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd had five minutes ago.

Jack ended the call, found a phone number for a Martino in the exclusive suburb Madeleine had referenced, and put a call in.

A woman answered, and he got straight to business after introducing himself.

Unfortunately, Lindsey's client didn't have much to offer.

According to her, Lindsey had been ready to leave when she got home about 5:30 and hadn't lingered to chat.

Jack ended the call and skimmed his watch again. Tried Lindsey's cell once more.

It rolled to voicemail.

He texted her.

His message went unanswered.

No more waiting.

He called Sarge.

It didn't take long to convince his boss to make a court order to get her cell location a top priority. Not in light of all that had happened over the past month to their only witness in the Robertson case. Sarge also promised to get a BOLO alert in the works for her car.

Everything that could be done was being done.

Yet as Jack set the phone on the seat beside him, he knew deep in his bones it wasn't enough. That while the previous pranks directed against Lindsey had been focused on inflicting mental rather than physical damage, the intent had changed.

This time, the endgame wasn't deception and distress.

It was death.

brUISED TEMPLE THROBBING where it had connected with a shelf when Dr. Oliver shoved her into the closet, Lindsey squeezed her fingers into tight fists and tried to keep breathing.

It was impossible to know how long she'd been confined in the suffocating blackness, but at least she was safe for the moment.

All bets were off once the door opened again, however.

And when that happened, she had to be ready to defend herself.

But how?

It was the same question she'd been asking herself over and over once the shock had begun to wear off about the identity of James Robertson's killer. The same person who'd been trying to push her over the edge of sanity these past few weeks.

While that still wasn't computing, it was impossible to deny the reality.

Once again, she felt along the shelves, searching for something—anything—that could be put to use as a weapon.

But there was nothing in here other than towels and sheets, based on the textures of the fabrics. Metal hangers that had the potential to inflict damage were hard to find in linen closets. How in the world could she fashion the plush towels and four-hundred-thread-count sheets filling the shelves into a weapon?

Wait.

Shelves.

AKA wooden planks.

If they weren't nailed in place, could she remove one and use it as a flat bat? If she came out swinging, that might give him pause. Maybe distract him enough to let her gain the upper hand.

Mights and maybes didn't make for great odds, but it was the only plan that came to mind.

Swiveling around until her back was to the door, she swept the sheets off one shelf and dumped them on the floor. Felt around the sides.

Yes!

The shelf was just resting on supports. She could remove it. Better yet, each was comprised of two boards. Handling a smaller board wouldn't be as unwieldly.

She lifted the front board and drew it toward her. Once it was clear of the supports, she tipped it and let one end slide down until the board was vertical.

Then she pivoted and faced the door.

It was impossible to know how this was going to play out, but she wasn't going down without a fight.

A fight with her trusted therapist.

She exhaled.

The whole scenario was surreal.

Why on earth would Dr. Oliver kill James Robertson and steal jewelry? A man with a thriving practice, who lived in a house like this, couldn't need money.

It made no sense.

But whatever his motive, it had to be powerful. Nothing less would induce him to commit murder.

And if he'd killed once, he wouldn't hesitate to do so again. Would do it again, now that she'd discovered his secret. Letting her live would destroy him. That's why she had to charge out of this closet the instant it opened like she had nothing to lose.

For in truth, she didn't.

Unless she escaped, before this night was over, she'd be as dead as—

She froze.

Were there voices on the other side of the door?

Gripping the shelf, she pressed her ear to the wood panel.

Yes.

Though the sound was muffled, two people were talking.

Jack had been right. The killer did have an accomplice.

Her spirits tanked.

Two against one reduced her already slim odds.

But she had to give it her best shot. No knight on a white horse would be charging in to rescue her. While Jack would be worried if she wasn't home for their cheesecake date, he wouldn't have a clue where to look for her. Dr. Oliver was a smart man. He'd know her phone could be used to locate her and would have turned it off by now.

She was on her own at this point—except for God.

So while she waited for the next act to unfold, she prayed for the same things she'd prayed for that day in the South Carolina grocery store.

Courage. Fortitude. And deliverance.

AT THE VIbrATION on his hip, Jack stopped pacing in his living room and yanked out his phone.

Sarge.

"Court order came through. We've located her phone." In typical fashion, Sarge cut to the chase without any greeting.

Fine by him. He had no patience for niceties after more than an hour of snowballing anxiety.

"Where?"

Jack narrowed his eyes as his boss gave him the location.

Same street Chad Allen lived on.

That couldn't be a coincidence.

"She's still not answering." Jack strode toward the door, snatching up his coat en route. "I tried again five minutes ago." And every five minutes since his first call.

"City's dispatched an officer to the location."

"I'm on my way there too. Will you let me know what they find?"

"Yes."

"We should alert the officer to stay clear. We may want our CSU people on this."

"Already done."

Jack ended the call as he continued to the garage. Once behind the wheel, he accelerated toward the city at speeds that weren't exactly prudent.

Ten minutes into the drive, his phone vibrated. Sarge again. He put the call on hands-free before answering. "What have we got?"

"Not only her phone, but her car."

"What about Lindsey?" He braced for bad news.

"MIA. The phone is lying on the street at the back of the car. The trunk's half-open."

His stomach somersaulted. The facts added up to a grab.

Unless ...

"I assume the trunk's empty?"

"Except for two large coolers."

The ones she must use for food transport.

"Is CSU on the way?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there in less than five minutes."

"You looking for anything in particular?"

"No, but I have people I want to talk to." He explained the proximity to Allen's house.

"Weird coincidence."

"Or not."

"I hear you. Keep me in the loop."

"Goes without saying."

Jack completed the drive in less than five minutes. Lindsey's car wasn't parked in front of Allen's apartment, but it was close.

There had to be a connection.

He parked and jogged toward the officer. "You see any activity since you've been here?" He scanned the area as he spoke, the few overhead streetlights giving the scene an eerie glow.

"No."

Jack pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Looked inside the two coolers.

One of them contained a foil-covered disposable container.

A delivery, perhaps?

He moved to the side of the car. Flashed his phone light inside. No sign of her purse there or on the ground.

Another indication she'd been snatched.

Leaving the officer to keep watch over the car, he sprinted down the street to the Allens' and took the steps to the front door two at a time.

Dara Allen answered after three rings, her husband behind her, their expressions wary.

"I'm not here about the Robertson case." Best to make that clear fast or they weren't going to be receptive to his questions. "I'm trying to locate Lindsey. Her car was found parked down your street. Was she expected here—or have you seen her?"

Dara's forehead wrinkled. "No to both. She dropped food off for us Tuesday afternoon when she found out I had the flu, and she called yesterday to see how I was, but I haven't seen or talked to her since. Is she missing?"

"She's not with her car, and her cell phone was found on the ground. There's a casserole in her trunk. Could she have been dropping off more food?"

"It's possible. That's the kind of person she is. But last time she called to tell me she was coming. I don't think we're on her usual route, so I'd be surprised if she came without checking first to make sure someone was home."

It was hard to argue with that logic, but why else would she be on their doorstep with a casserole if not to do a good deed?

"Is there anything we can do to help?" Chad joined the conversation.

"Not at the moment, but if you hear from her, I'd appreciate a call. Or you can ask her to call me." He fished out a card.

Chad waved it off. "I have your contact information already. We'll let you know if she gets in touch."

"Thanks." He left the apartment and retraced his steps to Lindsey's Focus.

A crime scene van had arrived, and a tech was already gloved and ready to go.

The man greeted him. "Am I looking for anything special?"

"Clues to help us figure out where the driver is and who took her."

"You think she was abducted?"

"Her phone was on the ground and the trunk was half-open when I arrived. Her purse is also missing."

"Got it. I'll see what I can find."

Jack handed him a card. "I'm going to knock on a few doors. Call me if you spot anything significant."

The tech offered a salute and got to work.

An hour later, after ringing the bells of every apartment that had a line of sight to Lindsey's car, he was nowhere. Residents either ignored his summons, weren't home, or had seen nothing.

He circled back to the car.

The tech straightened up from the trunk as he approached. "Any luck?"

"No. You?"

"No trace evidence, if that's what you're asking. I did find one thing that may be helpful. The driver's seat was pushed back. Unless the owner is very tall, she wasn't driving."

That put a whole different spin on the situation.

The obvious conclusion from the setup was that Lindsey had been abducted while removing a casserole destined for the Allens from the trunk.

But she wasn't tall—so if she hadn't driven the car here, that conclusion was toast.

Had she even been in the car when it had been parked here?

And if not, why drop her car here and set the stage for what appeared to be an abduction?

His brain began to spin as he spoke to the tech. "Go over every inch of the car."

"SOP—which means I'll be here another hour. Minimum. I should have worn my long underwear."

Biting as the cold was, it was hard to feel sorry for anyone complaining about the weather when Lindsey could be—

"Is there a problem here?"

At the question, he swung toward the sidewalk.

A bundled-up older man with a knit cap pulled over his ears and forehead had stopped a few feet away, a puppy straining at the leash he held.

Jack walked over to him. "We're trying to find the owner of this car. Do you live around here?"

"One block over." He waved to the south. "I'm out here every couple of hours with the pup. It was my wife's idea to get a dog, but she doesn't like walking her at night in the cold. Who knew a puppy had to do its business so often?" He leaned down and gave the pooch an affectionate pat. "I saw a woman park this car during my last circuit."

Jack's pulse picked up.

Was he finally getting a break?

"Can you describe her?"

"No. It was dark, and she was dressed like I am with a hat and a muffler wrapped around her face. Maybe her heater didn't work."

Or she didn't want anyone to be able to identify her.

"You certain it was a woman?"

"Well ..." The man tightened his grip on the leash as the pup strained forward. "I couldn't swear to it in a court of law, but it looked like a woman. She was tall, though. Taller than most women. Her head was close to the roof."

Supporting the tech's comment about the seat being pushed back.

"What time was this?"

"Oh, about seven fifteen, I guess."

More than two hours ago.

Not good.

A lot of bad stuff could happen in two hours.

"Is there anything else you can think of?"

"There was one other sort of odd thing. When I got to the end of the street and turned the corner, Missy here"—he motioned to the dog—"found a tree she liked. While I waited, I glanced back. The driver got out, walked around to the back of the car, then came down the street like she was in a hurry. About fifty feet from the corner, she stopped by another car and got in on the passenger side."

"What kind of car was the other one?"

"I don't know the make. I'm not into cars. If it runs and gets me where I need to go, that's all I care about. But it drove by me as it turned the corner, and I noticed it was a dark sedan. Couldn't see the people inside, though. The windows were tinted. But it looked expensive."

"Did you by chance notice the license plate?"

"I did. The first two letters happened to be my wife's initials—NL. Norma Lewis. They jumped out at me."

Jack took out his notebook and began jotting down the information the man had passed on. "And your name is?"

"Dick."

He asked a few more questions, got the man's contact information, and tucked his notebook away as his fingers started to grow numb. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Lewis."

"I hope you find the owner of that car. Hate to see crime in our neighborhood."

"If more citizens like you stepped forward, the streets would be safer." He took out another card. "Please give me a call if anything else comes to mind."

"I'll do that. Now I should take this little lady home before we both get frostbite. Good luck."

"Thanks."

But as the man continued down the street, Jack knew it would take more than luck on this cold night to find Lindsey.

While an abduction would have been bad enough, there was an elaborate plan in the works here. As there had been at the lake and in the park and at the church.

The big difference was that in those cases, Robertson's killer had been trying to make it appear as if she was losing her mind.

Tonight they were setting her up to lose her life.