Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

Christy looked up from the copy machine as Bob Harris approached. “No. The road crews around here did a great job, as usual.”

  “I’ll pass that along.” The city administrator stopped a few feet away. “The storm played havoc with the Monday morning rush hour yesterday, though—not to mention everyone’s weekend plans. Did you manage to do anything fun?”

  She pulled out a stack of copies and tapped them into alignment, praying he kept the conversation light and friendly. She wasn’t up to dodging a date today. “I had some lessons on Saturday, but I didn’t set foot out the door Sunday, even to go to church. What about you?”

  “My weekend was pretty quiet.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  Uh-oh. She knew that posture. He was getting ready to move into personal territory.

  Summoning up a bright smile, she grabbed her originals and eased back a step. “It was quiet around here today too. A lot of residents must not have wanted to risk a trip to the rec center in case Mother Nature got grouchy again.”

  “I guess not.” He edged closer. “Listen, I was wondering if you might want to get together for a drink after work tonight. Celebrate the fact we’re not still snowed in.” He gave her a hopeful grin.

  She stifled a sigh.

  So much for the subtle evasion tactics she’d been employing for the past three weeks.

  But blowing him off wasn’t an option, either. Bob was a nice guy. Attractive, fit, early forties. Also newly divorced and lonely. He had to be missing his kids, missing the house he’d called home for fifteen years, missing female companionship—even if his marriage had been on the rocks for a while. No surprise he’d be trolling for dates.

  Too bad he’d parked his boat in her pond.

  “I’m not a drinker, Bob.” She maintained a pleasant, conversational tone. “And like I’ve told you, I don’t think it’s smart to date people at work.”

  “I don’t think a drink qualifies as a date.”

  “Close enough.”

  He studied her. “You’re serious about not mixing work and dating, aren’t you?”

  Maybe he was finally getting the message.

  “Yes.”

  “I wish I could convince you it won’t be a problem. We’re both adults. We can keep business and pleasure separate.” His brow wrinkled. “Unless you’re seeing someone new? I made some discreet inquiries before I approached you, so I know you weren’t involved with anyone a few weeks ago.”

  Yes! The perfect out.

  “As a matter of fact, I have met someone.” Her relationship with Lance McGregor was new. Plus, they were pretending to be friends.

  Also close enough.

  Bob’s face fell. “I was afraid of that. Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying. Be careful on the roads tonight.” With a lift of his hand, he wandered back down the hall.

  Sighing in relief, Christy swung around, stepped forward—and almost ran into Sarah Marshall.

  “Whoa!” The rec center community liaison grabbed her arm to steady her, then leaned sideways to watch Bob disappear. “Let me guess. He was hitting on you again.”

  “Good guess.”

  “How’d you ditch him this time?”

  “He asked if I was seeing someone, and I said yes.”

  The other woman’s eyes lit up. “Are you?”

  “Uh-huh.” She checked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “But it’s not a dating thing.”

  Sarah gave her a puzzled look. “Then what kind of thing is it?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. If there was anyone she’d trust with her story, it was Sarah. How many evenings over the years had her friend dragged her home to dinner in the raucous house she shared with nine-year-old twin boys and a teddy bear of a husband? How many times had she provided a shoulder to cry on during the past few difficult months? How many times had she gone out of her way on one of the tougher days to share a funny story or a homemade treat?

  Too many to count.

  Yet Christy held back, the kidnapper’s warning echoing in her mind.

  Strange how she’d take a chance on her sister’s life with a stranger like Lance McGregor but wasn’t willing to do the same with the woman who’d been her friend since her first day on the job three years ago.

  Go figure.

  As the silence between them lengthened, Sarah scrutinized her. “Hey, is everything okay? You seem majorly stressed. And what’s with those dark circles under your eyes? I thought you’d gotten past the sleepless nights.”

  So had she . . . until a certain letter arrived a week ago.

  “Let’s just say I’ve run into a major glitch in my personal life.”

  Sympathy softened her friend’s eyes. “You’ve already had more than your share of those in the past few months.” Sarah cocked her head. “So should I assume that meeting this man you mentioned to Bob wasn’t a good experience?”

  “Meeting him was good. The reason for it—not.”

  Sarah latched on to the first part of her response. “Does that mean once the reason is resolved, there might be some potential for romance?”

  “You’re not going to rest until I’m married, are you?” The hint of a smile whispered at Christy’s lips.

  “Nope. You’ve been to our house—look what you’re missing.” Sarah stopped and held up a hand in mock horror. “Wait. Erase that image of chaos central from your mind. Marriage is so much more than that.”

  “If I was anxious to get married, I could always take Bob up on his offer. I have a feeling dating him might lead to the altar.”

  “You can do better.”

  An image of Lance popped up in her mind. “Yeah, I think I can—at some point.” Once Ginny was safe.

  “In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do to help with whatever is going on, all you have to do is say the word.” Sarah touched her arm. “You know that, right?”

  “Yes.” The word came out choked, and she blinked to clear her vision. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now why don’t you cut out for the day? It’s almost five. And pick up dinner at a drive-through. I know fast food isn’t your style, but indulge for once. Grab a high-carb meal, take a hot bath, and go to bed early.”

  “I like the sound of that plan.”

  “Then stick with it. You could use some . . .” Sarah pulled her cell off her belt, rolling her eyes as she put the phone to her ear and listened to the caller. “Got it. I’ll be there in three minutes.” She sighed and punched the end button. “The senior club is arriving early because of the snow. Like an hour early. Can’t miss casserole night, ya know. Gotta run. Be careful going home.” She called the last over her shoulder as she took off at a jog down the hall.

  Hefting the stack of paper in her arm, Christy wandered back to her cube. Sarah could be right. A quiet, relaxing evening might be just what she needed—topped off with a mug of hot chocolate. If she was lucky, that calming regimen would help her get to sleep before two in the morning.

  She dumped the copies on her desk for sorting tomorrow, grabbed her coat, and headed for the exit, nodding to some of the casserole-toting seniors as she passed them in the lobby.

  The lot had been cleaned and well salted, thanks to the hard work of Bob’s road crew, and the streets were in excellent condition. Much better than rush hour last night.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a quick pass through the Golden Arches, she was pulling into her attached garage. After dumping her work tote and bagged dinner on the kitchen counter, she went to retrieve her mail, glancing around as she walked down the short front path to the mailbox. It appeared the condo association had risen to the challenge of the storm too. Every townhouse walkway had been thoroughly salted.

  She grabbed her mail, riffling through it as she hurried back to her door, head bent against the bitter wind.

  But she stopped cold when she came upon a letter addressed in a familiar hand.

  The kidnapper was back in touch.

  Yawning, Lance stood, stretched, and pu
lled his suit jacket off the hanger on the hook in his office.

  “Calling it a day?” Steve Preston paused as he passed the cubicle.

  Lance resisted the urge to check his watch as the reactive squad supervisor pinned him with a keen look. The lean, late-fortyish man might have more than a few flecks of silver in his dark hair, but he hadn’t slowed down one iota from his street- agent days, according to office scuttlebutt.

  Nor did he cut the agents in his squad any slack.

  “I can hang around if you need me.” It had to be at least five thirty, and with all the extra hours he’d put in last week on the bank robbery, not to mention his evening and weekend meetings with Christy, he’d assumed it was okay to leave at a normal hour once in a while.

  Maybe not—though Mark’s informal briefing on office protocols hadn’t included that as a faux pas.

  “Relax. It wasn’t a trick question. You’ve had plenty on your plate for the past few days. Sitting around fiddling your thumbs after hours won’t earn you any brownie points with me. I’d rather you take advantage of normal days and leave on time so when I really need you, you’re up for it.”

  “Good to know.”

  “What’s the latest on the possible kidnapping case?”

  “The body was exhumed yesterday. We were on the ME’s docket for today, but another high-priority autopsy ran a lot longer than he expected. I talked to him a few minutes ago, though, and he did take a quick look at the remains. They’re in bad shape, but he’s confident the teeth are in decent enough condition for him or an odontologist to establish an ID from dental records.”

  “That’s a plus. Waiting for a DNA ID would slow things down. Keep me in the loop.”

  “I will.”

  He started to walk away. Turned back. “Did Mark talk to you about the SWAT team?”

  Why did that have to keep coming up?

  “Yes.” He strove for a conversational tone, maintaining his nonchalant expression. “I told him I want to get acclimated before I think about taking on anything else.”

  “No problem. Just wanted to make sure you know you’d be welcome if that kind of duty appeals to you. Now go home before the phone rings.”

  Great advice—but too late. As Steve disappeared around the edge of the cubicle, Lance’s cell began to vibrate.

  If fate was kind, it would be Mac calling to give him a hard time about something.

  He scanned caller ID. Smiled.

  Even better.

  He put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Christy. I was going to call you later with an update.” From home. Here, anyone in the open-office environment could tune in to their conversation . . . no matter if said conversation was business related.

  “I got another letter.”

  His good humor evaporated as he snatched his overcoat off the other hook in his office. “In the mail?”

  “Y-yes. I just found it.” Her voice was shaking.

  He picked up his pace, stopping only long enough on his way out to grab some evidence bags and gloves. “Are you home now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Are you wearing a suit?”

  “Yes. But my leather jacket is in the car.” He hoped. Near as he could recall, he’d tossed it on the backseat yesterday in case his duty vehicle got stuck in the snow and he had to dig it out. “You didn’t open the envelope, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Sit tight, and expect me in less than half an hour.”

  He strode toward the back door, swiped his badge, and jogged to his black Chevy Cruze, shoes crunching on the salt. A quick glance confirmed that the jacket was in the backseat, and he made the switch in the parking lot before sliding behind the wheel.

  The Chevy might not have as much power as he’d like, and the snarl of rush-hour traffic hadn’t yet abated, but with a heavy foot on the pedal and some creative twists of the wheel he made it to Christy’s condo in twenty-two minutes.

  She opened the door as he reached for the bell. “I was watching for you. Come in.”

  A gust of wind at his back seconded the invitation, and he moved into the small foyer, wiping his feet on the mat by the door.

  “Sorry to drag you out on such a miserable night.” She shut the door and rubbed her upper arms.

  “Not a problem. I’ve dealt with far colder weather than this. Where’s the letter?”

  She led him to a small but spotless kitchen and motioned toward the counter, where the envelope rested near a bag emblazoned with the Golden Arches. Based on the aroma emanating from the sack, her takeout dinner hadn’t yet been consumed.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, leaning close to read the postmark.

  Springfield, Illinois.

  Their guy was moving around.

  “May I?” He crossed toward a knife block on the counter. At her nod, he chose a small paring knife, carefully slit the top of the envelope, and bowed it open. A single, folded sheet of paper was inside.

  Positioning one of the evidence envelopes underneath to catch anything that might fall out, he withdrew the paper and opened it.

  The message was again typed and brief.

  In case you’re wondring if I really have her, here’s proof. Poor thing—she looks scared, doesnt she? If you want to see her agin, don’t call the cops. Wait for further orders.

  Below the note was a laser-printed photo of a thirtyish woman, her blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. One eye was black, and there was a fresh cut on her chin. She was sitting on what appeared to be a dirt floor, hands bound in front of her with crude rope, back against a concrete wall. The image wasn’t the best quality, but it was clear enough to make a definite ID.

  Christy leaned in to see. Gasped. Groped for the edge of the counter.

  Setting the document on the evidence envelope, he turned his attention to the pale woman beside him. “Why don’t you sit for a minute?” Without waiting for a response, he pulled out one of the stools at the counter and urged her down.

  She collapsed onto the seat as if the stiffening in her legs had dissolved, never taking her gaze off the letter on the counter. Shock rolled off her in waves.

  Strong as she was, this had thrown her. Big time.

  Without weighing the pros and cons, Lance reached for her hand. That tactic wasn’t in any agent protocol rule book, but he wouldn’t have been nearly as successful as a Delta Force operator if he’d always played by the rules.

  “Christy.” He waited a moment, then tried again in a firmer tone, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Christy.”

  With obvious effort, she dragged her attention away from the photo.

  “I take it that’s your sister.”

  “Yes. I . . . I suppose I should have expected something like this, but . . .” She turned back to the note, her fingers tightening on his. “Seeing the photo makes it much more real. And she’s . . .” Her voice choked. “She looks hurt and scared.”

  Lance slid onto the stool beside her without relinquishing her hand. He didn’t relish making his next request, but she knew her sister better than anyone. If there was a personal clue of some kind in this shot, she would be the one to spot it.

  “I want you to take a very close look at this.” With his free hand, he slid the envelope with the sheet of paper on top toward her. “Tell me if anything in this picture seems out of character or suggests your sister was trying to send a message of some kind.”

  A pulse was hammering in the hollow of her throat, and her respiration was shallow, but she leaned close and did as he asked, scrutinizing the image for a full minute.

  In the end, she shook her head. “I don’t see anything unusual. If there’s a message, I’m missing it—but I doubt there is. She looks too terrified to be thinking rationally.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  With one more squeeze, he released her hand and slid the note into one evidence sleeve, the envelope into another. Then he
removed his gloves and tossed them in her trash can. “The quality of the image isn’t great, but the lab can blow it up and do some analysis. They might find a relevant detail or two that will give us some useful information or clues about location. Do you have any recent photos of your sister?”

  “I have a couple from when I took her out to dinner for her birthday in early September.”

  “Why don’t you email them to me? The lab might find them helpful for comparison purposes. The address is on my card.”

  “I’ll do that before I go to bed.” She twisted her fingers together on the counter. “Did you hear anything from the medical examiner?”

  “Yes. I was planning to call you this evening.” He gave her the same information he’d passed on to his boss. “But based on this photo, I think we can safely assume the body doesn’t belong to your sister. The ME should be able to verify that tomorrow.”

  Her gaze strayed back to the evidence envelopes. “So ever since the fire, some crazy person has been holding Ginny captive. And hurting her.” She closed her eyes, a spasm of pain rippling over her features.

  Not necessarily.

  But Christy needed comforting, not unsettling speculation.

  “We’re going to do our best to find her as fast as we can.”

  “I know—and I appreciate that.” She motioned toward the envelopes holding the latest missive from the kidnapper. “I’m sure you noticed the different postmark. Do you think this guy’s hauling Ginny around with him?”

  “It’s possible. But he also might have stashed her somewhere and is traveling to different locations alone to do the mailing, hoping to keep us off-balance. Did you have a chance to put together a list of Ginny’s acquaintances?”

  “Yes. I was going to email it to you tonight. I’ll send it along with the photos—but there’s no one suspicious on the list.”

  “We’ll check them out, anyway. If nothing else, one of them might offer us a lead.”

  “When will you start talking to them?”

  “As soon as we run some background. I’d like you to put together a similar list for yourself.”

  “You still think this could be about me rather than Ginny?”

  “I’m not ruling anything out. This case isn’t following any typical pattern. Our guy disguises the kidnapping and lets you think Ginny’s dead. He gives you a chance to mourn. Two months later—about the time a lot of people begin to come to grips with their grief and loss—he contacts you to say she’s alive. Your world is thrown into turmoil again. He gives you instructions but makes no demands. Now he’s stringing you along. This sounds like a very deliberate strategy to make life as difficult as possible for you.”