Chapter 3

Three

AS THE BLADE SLASHED across her finger, Lindsey let out a yelp, dropped the knife, and dashed toward the sink, leaving a trail of crimson dots on the wood floor.

Annoying as it was to admit, she should have followed Detective Tucker's advice and called it a day instead of trying to muscle through with her scheduled cooking session.

Sometimes there was a fine line between perseverance and stubbornness—and she'd crossed it today.

Lindsey twisted the faucet and stuck her left index finger under the spout. As water diluted the crimson stream, she pumped out hand soap from the dispenser beside the sink and washed the cut.

She could blame the accident on the unfamiliar knives, but why kid herself?

Her nerves were shot.

In fact, if anything, her shakiness had worsened over the course of the past few hours.

She rinsed her finger, dried it with a paper towel, and held it up to examine the cut.

No, not cut. It was more like a slice. Straight down, from the outside of the middle knuckle to the one closest to her nail. Even elevated above her heart, it was already filling up again with blood.

There were bandages in her kit, though, along with other first-aid supplies. If she could get through this cooking session, she'd have the whole weekend to chill. All she had to do was take the remaining prep slower than usual and focus on pleasant thoughts while she worked, like her first therapist in South Carolina had taught her.

Lindsey pulled out antiseptic cream and bandages, doctored up the cut, and cleaned the blood off the floor and counter as she psyched herself up for the task at hand. At least her mise en place was finished, and today's clients had chosen familiar dishes that weren't difficult to prepare.

She could manage this. Especially since both halves of the couple were working late tonight, which would minimize interruptions and eliminate chitchat. Unlike Heidi Robertson, these clients liked to talk.

Calling up the calming memory of her last rowing session at Creve Coeur Lake before the abrupt cold front had descended, she moved at a measured, deliberate pace rather than charging ahead at her usual high-speed velocity. She made steady progress too—until her phone began to chirp.

At the sudden noise in the quiet kitchen, her hand jerked, sending two of the shrimp she was sautéing skidding out of the pan and across the floor.

Well, crud.

She needed that soothing music and relaxing hot bath.

Fast.

Continuing to stir the remaining shrimp with one hand, she tugged her tote bag across the counter, fished out her phone, and skimmed caller ID.

Madeleine Clark.

Perfect.

She could use a friendly voice about now, and Madeleine's more than qualified. If they hadn't met at church, and if Madeleine hadn't gone above and beyond to welcome a stranger in their midst—plus convinced that stranger to volunteer at the nonprofit she ran—the transition to both a new city and new career direction would have been much harder.

After removing the pan of shrimp from the burner, Lindsey put the phone to her ear. "Hi, Madeleine. What's up?"

"Praise the Lord! You're okay."

Lindsey frowned.

How could Madeleine know about—

Wait.

During their phone conversation last night about the six-week class she was teaching for Madeleine's Horizons organization, she'd mentioned the forgotten knife roll she had to retrieve today.

"You heard about the murder at the Robertson house." Lindsey pulled out a stool at the counter and sat.

"It's all over the news. Were you there?"

"Yes."

"Before or after?"

"After, but not by much." She gave her a quick recap of the day's events.

"Oh, Lindsey." Dismay and sympathy suffused Madeleine's inflection. "I'm sorry you have to deal with that on top of everything else."

"Me too. I'm beginning to feel like Job."

"Are you all right?"

"Physically, yes." Except for a persistent case of the shakes. "Mentally, we'll see."

"Go see that psychologist again if you need to."

"Trust me, I have his card at hand. Did the news story mention any suspects?"

"No. Do they have one?"

"Not as far as I know. I wasn't much help, even though I saw the person. I doubt Chad was able to offer anything either."

"Who?"

"Chad Allen, from church. He did some carpentry work at my condo a few months ago, and I recommended him to Heidi Robertson when she mentioned having trouble finding someone to do small projects. He was working in the pool house today."

"That's unfortunate, given his background."

True. A former homeless veteran who'd lived on the street for two years no doubt preferred to walk a wide circle around law enforcement.

"I hope the cops don't hassle him. From everything I've seen, he's got his act together now."

"I agree. But I expect the police will consider everyone a suspect until they find the real culprit."

"Let's hope that's soon. The killer didn't see me, but knowing they're still on the loose is more than a little unnerving."

"Understandable. You know, I think I'll call Dara. If I were Chad's wife, I'd be glad to have a friend reach out in support."

"I may call her too when I get home." After that hot bath.

"Aren't you there now?"

"No. I'm finishing up the cooking for my every-other-Friday client." She slid off the stool and put the pan of shrimp back on the burner.

"After everything that happened today, you should be home decompressing, not cooking."

"You sound like the detective who interviewed me." A man she was trying hard to forget. But Madeleine didn't know that story, and this wasn't the time to bring it up.

"Why didn't you listen to him? Your clients would have understood."

"I think you two compared notes." She shook the pan of shrimp with more force than necessary. "I know the world wouldn't have ended if I'd slacked off, but that's not how I'm wired. Besides, it isn't professional to walk away from a job. This is a career, not a hobby."

"Hey. I'm not your mom." Madeleine's rebuke was gentle but firm. "You don't have to prove anything to me—or to her."

Lindsey drew in a slow, steadying breath. Madeleine was right. She was an established chef. A pro with American Culinary Academy and Le Cordon Bleu credentials. Her job was every bit as legitimate and important as the marketing VP position her mother held.

No matter what Mom thought.

"Thanks for the reminder. And as soon as I wrap up here, I'm going home—where I intend to hibernate and indulge for the entire weekend."

"I like that plan. Will you emerge for church on Sunday, assuming this sleet is short-lived?"

"Yes."

"In the meantime, call if you want to talk."

"Will do. Thanks for checking in."

Once they said goodbye, Lindsey plunged back into the task at hand, doing her best to ignore the throb in her finger. Thank goodness she was right-handed—and at least the cut hadn't bled through the bandage. She ought to be able to finish up here within the hour.

And barring any other glitches, she'd be in that hot bath surrounded by scented candles and soft music fifteen minutes after she walked through the door.

HEIDI ROBERTSON was a mess.

Jack paused on the threshold of the gargantuan living room and surveyed the woman with the bowed head and slumped shoulders who was sitting beside the chaplain.

Talking to grieving next of kin, forcing people in pain to try to carry on a rational conversation, was the worst part of the job.

But it had to be done.

While it was possible the victim had surprised a robber and ended up dead, it was also possible this had been a deliberate crime with a specific target.

And if anyone would know about a man's enemies, it ought to be his wife.

The chaplain glanced his direction, touched the back of the new widow's hand, and spoke softly.

She met his gaze as he walked toward the duo, and he gave her a rapid but thorough perusal.

Chic outfit with designer written all over it. Highlighted hair cut into one of those complicated layered styles. Flawless manicure. Slender figure.

If not for the red-rimmed eyes and streaked mascara, she would have been photo-shoot ready.

He stopped three feet away, introduced himself, and took a seat across from her.

"I'll be nearby." The chaplain rose and exited.

"I'm sorry to have to disturb you further today, but I do have a few questions." Jack pulled out his notebook.

"I understand." She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with the tissue wadded in her fingers.

"Did the chaplain give you any details about what happened?"

Her irises began to shimmer. "Only the most important one. That James is g-gone. That someone k-killed him." A tear spilled over her lower lashes, and she wiped it away. "Do you have any idea who did it?"

"We're hoping you can help us answer that question. Let's start with what happened today from your perspective. What time did you leave the house, and where did you go?"

"I left about eleven for a salon appointment, then met a friend for lunch in Kirkwood. After we finished, I stopped at a small boutique. I was there awhile, trying on several dresses. When I found one I liked, I bought it and came home."

"Do you usually leave your garage door open when you go out?"

"No, but sometimes I forget to close it. Why?"

"Lindsey Barnes said it was open when she arrived."

She rubbed at her temple, as if a headache was forming. "I saw her as I drove in. She wasn't supposed to be here today—but I did see two missed calls from her after I finished at the salon."

"She said she came by to get a knife roll she forgot."

"That's possible, I suppose. She was here yesterday. Did she see the person who did this?"

"Briefly. But their clothing masked their features and gender. Is your husband often home in the middle of the day, Ms. Robertson?"

"Only on days he has business trips. He was supposed to fly to Atlanta this afternoon. His pattern is to go to the office for a few hours, then swing by here for his luggage en route to the airport."

"Did anyone know he would be home around that time today?"

"Some of the people at his office, I suppose. I don't know why he would have told anyone else."

Giving credence to the theory that her husband had surprised a robber, who'd reacted by killing him.

But the obvious answer wasn't always the right one. That's why nothing in a case could be taken at face value.

Time to move on to the harder questions.

"Ms. Robertson, did your husband have any enemies?"

She stared at him. "You mean ... someone who would want him dead?" She swallowed. Shook her head. "None I'm aware of. But he does work in a cutthroat business. He can be aggressive if a big deal is at stake, and I doubt his competitors are happy about losing out to him. But you don't kill someone because of that."

Maybe not in her world of lunches with friends and shopping and day spas, but big bucks could be at stake in commercial real estate.

"Any recent deals cause animosity?"

She dabbed at her nose again. "James did mention not long ago that one of his competitors was angry. The man thought James had plotted with a seller to raise the bids on a property my husband really didn't want in exchange for a deal on another property he did want. An apartment building, I believe."

"Was that the case?"

"I have no idea. My husband didn't often share details of his business dealings with me."

"Did this competitor threaten your husband?"

"Not that I know of."

"It would be helpful to have his name."

Heidi hesitated. "I hate to cause trouble for an innocent party."

"If they're innocent, they have nothing to worry about. And I'm sure you want us to find the perpetrator as soon as possible."

"Of course." She swiped the tissue under her lashes again. "I believe the man's name is Matthew Nolan."

"We'll have a conversation with him."

"Did the contractor who was working in the pool house see anything?"

"He says he didn't."

The woman bit her lip. "I hope it wasn't a mistake to hire him."

Jack's antennas went up. "Why do you say that?"

"I wouldn't normally hire someone with his background, but Lindsey gave him such a glowing recommendation." She shrugged.

Lindsey knew Allen?

Why hadn't she mentioned that?

And what background was Robertson's widow referring to?

"What can you tell me about him?" Jack flipped to a new page in his notebook.

"Only what Lindsey passed on. That he'd had a rough stretch after his stint in the service and lived on the street until he got his act together. She knows him through her church, and he's done work for her. I thought it would be charitable to give him a few jobs here and there."

"What other work has he done for you?"

"Just one small job. He installed a chair rail in our bedroom before we repainted about a month ago."

So the man had been inside the main house, knew the layout, and had had the opportunity to poke around the master bedroom closet—and discover the jewelry armoire.

Jack asked a few more questions that provided no additional helpful information, then closed his notebook. "The only place we see evidence of activity beyond the kitchen is the master bedroom closet. It appears jewelry may have been stolen."

"Do you think this was a robbery? That James surprised the person?"

"That's one possibility. After we release the scene, I'll have someone walk with you through the house. Please let them know if you see anything else out of order. We'll also need a list of any items that are missing. Is there somewhere you can go until we're finished here, perhaps overnight?"

"I have a friend with a guest cottage."

"That would work." He gave her one of his cards, rose, and extended his hand. "My condolences on your loss. I promise we'll do our best to find whoever is behind what happened here today."

"Thank you." She stood too, unfolding her model-like frame as she placed her cold fingers in his and returned his squeeze. "I'll call my friend."

"Whenever you're ready to leave, I'll have someone walk with you to the bedroom so you can pack a bag." And keep her away from the kitchen, where Lacey was still at work. "I'll be in touch."

After leaving the room, he rounded up an officer to accompany her, then continued to the kitchen.

Lacey looked up from beside the body as he entered, her short, gray-streaked ebony curls barely contained by the cap she'd pulled over them. "Keep your distance or Hank will have your head." The twinkle in her eyes offset the warning.

"Duly noted. I'll stay on the threshold. What do you have?"

She pushed herself to her feet and stretched her back. "I'm getting too old for this kind of work."

"Never. The medical examiner's office would be lost without you."

"Everyone's replaceable. But thanks for the ego boost." She motioned to the victim. "I'm seeing two gunshot wounds to the chest as probable cause of death. To be confirmed by an autopsy, of course."

"You done here?" Hank bustled in.

"Yes." Lacey stripped off her gloves. "We're ready to transport the body."

"You don't have to hang around." Hank turned to him.

Jack edged toward the door. "Wasn't planning to. I want to talk to Cate."

"She's in the laundry room. Through there." He waved a hand toward a hallway, set his kit on the floor, and opened it.

"Talk to you soon, Lacey." Jack headed the direction Hank had indicated.

"Don't make it too soon. We're backed up. Be patient."

"As if," Hank muttered.

Jack sent him a dark look. Apparently everyone at County knew about his reputation for wanting answers yesterday. "I can be patient."

That drew a snort from Hank.

"I'm out of here." Jack turned to go.

"Good." Hank got to work.

With a wave at Lacey, Jack escaped to the laundry room.

Cate had claimed a straight-backed chair by the laundry-folding table, and her head was bent over her laptop. She motioned to a stool against the opposite wall as he entered. "Have a seat."

"Happy to oblige. I'm pushing twenty-four hours straight."

"Were you at the mall shooting?"

"Yeah."

"You should go home and crash after we're done here."

"I want to talk to a few neighbors."

"We can round up reinforcements to handle that."

True. And one of these days, he'd learn to delegate. To accept that he couldn't control everything. To trust other people to do what they were supposed to do.

But not today.

"I'll see."

"Uh-huh." Cate gave him an I'm-not-buying-that look and waved toward her screen. "Want to hear what I have on Allen?"

"Yes."

"Age thirty-one, decorated army hero who served in the Middle East. Awarded a Distinguished Service Cross."

Jack frowned.

Major disconnect.

How had a guy who'd been recognized for extraordinary heroism with the second-highest army military decoration ended up on the street?

"Heidi Robertson told me he was homeless for a while."

"Correct. He came back with PTSD, and his life spiraled out of control. He lived on the street for two years. After he got his act together, he went to trade school, did a carpentry apprenticeship, and opened his own company. He got married a few months ago."

"How did you dig all that up?" In light of Allen's background, it wasn't likely the man would have much of a social media presence.

"I'm good at what I do." Cate smirked at him.

"Let me rephrase my question. Where did you dig all that up?"

"Well, if you want to get technical ..." She angled the laptop toward him.

He scooted closer and leaned in, skimming a feature article about Allen in a church newsletter dated a few months back.

"Send me that link."

"Already done."

"How did you stumble on that?"

"The truth? Blind luck. I saw a bulletin from this church in Allen's truck while we were searching it and decided to browse through their website. This popped up while I was scanning their quarterly newsletters."

"I owe you."

"I'll take my payment in the form of a few of those phenomenal chocolate mint squares you brought to Mike's retirement party last spring. They don't beat my sister's baklava, but they're close."

"You got it."

"You want me to coordinate the neighborhood canvas while you go home and sleep?"

"I'll stick around for a while."

"That's what I figured." She shut down her laptop and stood. "Let's see if anyone spotted suspicious activity, or if any security cameras caught a helpful snippet of action. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"A few more clues would be welcome."

But as he turned up the collar of his coat, followed her out, and braced for another blast of frosty air, the gut instinct he'd learned to trust said this wasn't going to be a case with a fast resolution.

Even more disturbing?

That same instinct was telling him other people might get hurt—or worse—before it was over.