Chapter 9

Nine

IT WAS A PERFECT MORNING to be on the lake. And gliding over the calm water as the sun crested the tree-lined shore was exactly what she needed to soothe her frayed nerves on this barely post-dawn Sunday.

Knees bent, shins vertical, back straight, Lindsey leaned forward and breathed deep as she dipped her blades into the water, pushed with her legs, and propelled the scull forward. Once the seat slid back and her legs were flat, she lifted the blades from the water and swung them behind her. Relaxing her upper body and arms, she bent her knees and let the seat slide forward again.

Dr. Oliver had been right. Getting back into her routine did help restore a sense of normalcy to her life. Thank goodness Mother Nature had cooperated with warm, windless weather ideal for sculling.

As she skimmed over the surface of the lake, Lindsey exhaled, the tension melting from her shoulders. The rhythmic cadence of the strokes calmed her even more than her session three days ago with Dr. Oliver had. And while the text from Heidi canceling Thursday's cooking slot had been bad news for her budget, the welcome reprieve from returning to the scene of the crime more than compensated for the lost income.

The sun inched up another notch, the trees casting long shadows on the serene lake in the early morning light. Best of all, she had the expanse to herself. There would be more lake traffic later, once the chilly sunrise temperature rose to the predicted low seventies, but at this hour no sound broke the stillness save the soft dip of her blades and the occasional honk of a goose.

Should she extend her session today? Do an extra lap or two of her usual route? She could always attend the later service at her church. And afterward, thanks to the additional exercise, she could afford to splurge on a sweet treat from—

Whoa!

Her pulse stumbled as one of the blades came to an abrupt stop, violently rocking the scull.

Reflexes kicking in, she summoned up every ounce of her skill to rebalance and keep herself from ending up in the lake.

Once stable, she repositioned her blades and gave the water a sweep, searching for a clue about what had happened.

Other than the ripples from her near-capsize, nothing marred the glassy surface.

Lindsey furrowed her brow.

Had she hit a submerged object? Run into a school of the Asian carp that had evaded capture during the 2018 attempt to vanquish the invasive species from the lake?

Whatever the cause of her strange upset, it had ruined her tranquil interlude. The calm that had settled over her was evaporating as quickly as the thin layer of early morning mist hovering above the surface of the water.

So much for extra laps. The prospect of a comforting cup of hot chocolate in the safety of her own condo was much more appealing and—

The scull rocked again, harder than the first time. And not because she'd hit anything. She wasn't moving.

What in the world?

Before she could attempt to steady the scull, it tipped hard to the right, dumping her into the cold, numbing water.

Not good.

Adrenaline kicking in, she pushed back toward the surface, brain morphing into emergency mode.

While her cold-weather rowing attire offered more than sufficient protection in her scull, it provided none in water hovering in the low-fifties range. Hypothermia was a very real danger. At best, she had eight to ten minutes to get aboard and stroke to shore.

Not a problem, Lindsey. You've practiced getting back into an overturned scull ad nauseam, done it on many occasions during your rowing career. You've got this.

With that encouraging mantra looping through her mind, she crested the surface. All she had to do was step on the rigger, flip the scull back over, reset the handles, and—

A vise wrapped around her ankle and yanked, giving her no chance to do more than catch a quick gasp of air before the water closed over her again.

She kicked against the restraint, fighting to release her foot as she was tugged downward.

It held fast.

Heart racing, she tried again.

No luck.

Whatever had clamped onto her ankle continued to drag her deeper—and her small amount of reserve air wouldn't last long.

Quashing the instinctive urge to keep struggling toward the surface, Lindsey forced herself to switch direction, pushing downward through the dark water, toward whatever had latched onto her foot. At this early hour, the sun was too low to mitigate the always poor visibility in the lake water, meaning she'd have to work blind.

But she could feel.

And as she bumped into a solid object and tried to free her ankle from whatever was holding it, what she felt was ... hands?

How could that be?

Lindsey peered through the murky water, but only a bulky, shadowy outline registered as her lungs began to burn.

She had to breathe.

Now.

Unless she freed her ankle in a matter of seconds, she was going to drown. And after all she'd been through, that wasn't how she wanted to die.

She reached down again, but all at once the hands clenched around her ankle released their hold.

Relief surging through her, she shot toward the surface, inhaling water as her lungs caved a millisecond before she broke through to fresh air.

Treading water, she coughed and searched the lake for her scull.

It was ten feet away, upside down.

She swam toward it and grasped the edge, trying to process the bizarre scenario as she hacked up lake water.

Failed.

A shiver rolled through her, and she forced herself to focus on the immediate danger. Namely, hypothermia. She had to get out of the water and back to shore ASAP.

Following the rote procedure she'd learned long ago, she righted the scull. With both oar handles in her left hand, she clasped the opposite deck edge with the other, scissor kicked, and pulled her hips up and over the edge. After retaking her seat, she scanned the water.

The placid surface offered no hint of the trauma that had taken place a dozen feet down minutes ago.

Lindsey grasped the oar grips, maneuvered the scull in the direction of the boathouse, and picked up her rhythm again. Or tried to. But a severe case of the shakes left her strokes jerky rather than smooth. Besides, it was hard to concentrate on technique after coming within a heartbeat of death.

Again.

Right on the heels of her close encounter with James Robertson's killer.

She almost lost her grip on the oars as that connection registered.

Was it possible the killer had somehow learned her name? Could they have decided to dispense with her in case she remembered a pertinent piece of information that would help the police identify him or her?

Or was she jumping to conclusions? Being overly dramatic? After all, the hands had released her.

Someone fully briefed on the case would be able to provide the best answer to her questions.

Someone like the lead detective.

As the dock came into sight, Lindsey squeezed the oar grips. If she never saw Jack Tucker again, it would be too soon.

But who else could she talk to? The cops in this municipality would file a report if she called them, perhaps poke around the lake and ask a few questions. But they had no connection to the Robertson case, nor any clue as to whether a dangerous leak may have occurred.

Only Jack Tucker could provide that kind of insight.

So as a matter of self-defense, she'd have to touch base with him. Like it or not.

Definitely not.

LINDSEY BARNES WAS CALLING him at—Jack checked the cell he'd set on the bathroom vanity—seven thirty on a Sunday morning?

Did that mean she'd remembered a pertinent detail about the killer?

He exited the shower, secured a towel around his waist, and snatched up the phone. "Tucker here. How can I help you, Ms. Barnes?"

"I'm sorry to bother you on a weekend." A tremor ran through her stilted apology.

He tensed. "No bother. What's up?"

"More like what's down."

It was too early for riddles, especially after tossing most of the night over the lack of progress in the Robertson case.

"Sorry. You'll have to explain that."

He listened while she gave him a quick recap of her experience at Creve Coeur Lake, frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as she wound down.

"At first, I thought maybe I'd hit something under the surface. But when it happened again, and then hands grabbed my ankle and pulled me down, I knew it had to be deliberate." Her voice hitched again. "So I wanted to ask you if someone involved in the investigation could have let my name slip."

Jack took a moment to digest her story. Another to grasp why she'd asked that question.

"You're wondering if Robertson's killer could be targeting you."

"I know it seems off the wall, but why else would someone do that to me?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

First a misplaced car. Now an attack by an underwater phantom.

Was it possible the trauma from nine days ago had affected her mind? Could she have simply run into a submerged obstacle, panicked when she'd ended up in the drink, and imagined all the rest?

"I know my story sounds crazy." Her voice grew taut, defensiveness vibrating through it. "But I also know there were fingers around my ankle. And I don't think the attack was random."

Jack maintained an even tone as he replied, composing his response with care. "No one could survive more than a few minutes in a lake at this time of year unless they were suited up for scuba diving. Are you thinking this person was lying in wait for you under the water?"

Maybe if he put the scenario she was describing into words, she'd realize how far-fetched it was.

"Like I said, I know my story is bizarre. But what other explanation could there be for what happened?"

He could think of a few. None of which she'd appreciate.

"You have been under a lot of stress." If there was a more diplomatic way to phrase his reservations about her story, it eluded him.

The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line spoke volumes about her reaction to that comment, as did her glacial tone. "I'm sorry I interrupted your weekend. I'll let you get back to—"

"Hold on a sec." He pulled another towel from the rack and began scrubbing his hair. She was the only one who'd seen Robertson's killer, and alienating her in the midst of that investigation wouldn't be smart. "Are you absolutely sure about what happened?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

Jack sighed.

So much for his quiet Sunday agenda of church followed by a relaxing afternoon meal with his siblings.

"Where are you?"

"In my car at the boathouse next to the lake."

"Are you hurt?" That was the first question he should have asked. An obvious lapse, now that his brain was clicking into gear.

"No."

Not physically, perhaps, but the catch in her voice suggested she'd taken an emotional hit from today's episode, whatever the cause.

"Are you warm and dry?"

"Yes. I ch-changed in the locker room."

Smart. She didn't need a case of hypothermia on top of the rest of her trauma—real or imagined.

"Are there any other people around?"

"A few are starting to show up."

"Lock your doors and keep your phone in hand. I'm going to get a few eyes on the lake perimeter. Watch for me in twenty minutes and call again if anything happens that concerns you."

"All right. Thanks."

The line went dead, and Jack flew into action. In six minutes flat he was dressed, shaved, and jogging toward his car, phone pressed to his ear as he connected with his sergeant, who could get officers on-site fast. If they didn't canvas the area ASAP to see if anyone had spotted suspicious activity around the lake, the opportunity to find potential witnesses would be lost.

That call completed, he put the car in gear and set his cell on the seat beside him as it pinged with a text notification.

He picked it up again while he pulled out of his driveway.

A message from one of the undercover officers watching Pop, including a photo.

This guy doesn't fit the homeless mold. He and the subject are at Al's Diner.

Jack pulled over, enlarged the somewhat grainy photo that had been taken on the sly, and homed in on Pop's companion. The man was in profile, a cap pulled down over his hair, but there was no mistaking his identity.

It was ex-homeless veteran Chad Allen.

Bingo.

And the link fit. Pop had been on the streets for years. It was very possible his path had crossed with Allen's and the two had struck up a friendship.

If so—and in light of Allen's connection to the Robertson murder—the obvious conclusion was that he'd given Pop the jewelry. Payback, friendship, concern for the man's welfare ... there could be any number of motives for the gift.

Only Allen could provide that answer.

Whether he would cooperate remained to be seen, but that had to be the next order of business. Not a trip to Creve Coeur Lake.

He put his fingers in motion, returning the text.

Pop's companion still there?

No. They talked for a couple of minutes and he took off. Seemed upset.

No doubt after Pop told him he'd been questioned and passed on the message that law enforcement wanted the name of his generous friend.

Jack pulled away from the curb and stepped on the gas.

It was possible Allen would run, but with a new wife at home, odds were he wouldn't bail.

In fact, he could be headed home now to warn her there were storm clouds ahead.

After thanking the undercover officer, Jack punched in Lindsey's number.

She answered on the first ring, and after explaining that officers were en route, he got to the real reason for his call.

"I'm going to have to bail on the lake reconnaissance. A solid tip came in on the Robertson case, and I have to follow up on it. I'll stay in the loop with the officers at the scene, though, and touch base with you later to take a statement."

"Okay."

But it wasn't. As they signed off, her inflection suggested she thought he was humoring her, had dismissed her story as one of those reports that had to be investigated even though everyone knew from the outset nothing substantive would be found.

That wasn't true. Well ... not exactly. While he might have a few doubts about what had transpired this morning, it was clear Lindsey didn't. And nothing in their encounters to date suggested she was less than stable.

Nevertheless, it might be prudent to do a bit of research on the previous traumatic incident she'd alluded to. Anyone subjected to too much stress could end up having emotional and mental issues. It would be foolish to discount that possibility.

Or the possibility she could have deeper psychological issues with no relation to recent or past incidents.

Like the kind that had plagued his mother.

Gut twisting, Jack mashed his lips together and pressed harder on the accelerator.

That was ancient history. He should let it go once and for all. Allowing those memories to color his perceptions of others was a mistake. Not everyone who had mental lapses was sick.

On the other hand, there was nothing wrong with a healthy dose of caution based on experience. It was called self-preservation.

So while he'd give Lindsey the benefit of the doubt despite the two recent incidents that had implausibility written all over them, some doubt was wise.

And he'd also have plenty of it on hand when Allen came home and found a St. Louis County homicide detective waiting to talk to him.