Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

  Nice.

  She retrieved his jacket and met him in the hall, holding it up for him to slip his arms through.

  “Now that we know our kidnapper is monitoring your movements, I want you to take extra precautions.” He tucked the evidence envelopes inside his jacket. “No deserted parking lots at night. If you work late, have someone escort you to your car. No malls after dark. No solitary walks. Okay?”

  The present reality crashed back over her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, suppressing a shudder as fear once again began lapping at the edges of her composure.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be very careful. I’m totally creeped out by this.”

  “If you see or hear or feel anything that makes you nervous, call me—day or night. Trust your instincts.”

  “I will.”

  “Is your phone GPS equipped?”

  “Yes, but it’s turned off. The guy at the store told me it sucks battery life.”

  “Turn it on for now. You never know when it might come in handy.” He pulled the door open, but instead of leaving, he swiveled back to her. “In case we’re being watched, let’s make sure our guy continues to believe the boyfriend ruse.”

  Before she had a chance to react, he wrapped her in his strong arms and pressed her cheek against the scuffed leather of his jacket.

  And he didn’t let go any too fast.

  When at last he pulled back, she couldn’t tell if the shivers racing through her were the result of the cold wind whipping in from outside or the adrenaline rush of knowing that this time, there was more to his hug than mere playacting.

  “As soon as I have any information from the lab about the DNA from the body, I’ll call. Hopefully tomorrow.” He turned up the collar of his jacket.

  “I’ll be waiting to hear.”

  He hesitated, as if he was as reluctant to leave as she was to see him go. “Thanks for dinner—and for being so understanding.”

  “Thank you for being so honest about us . . . and for trusting me with your story.”

  “You’re easy to trust.” With a lift of his hand, he retreated down the sidewalk. Only after he slid into his car did she shut and lock the door. Then she wandered back to the dining room and surveyed the table.

  Just two cookies had been taken from the serving plate. Hers lay mostly untouched. Lance’s was gone. Both mugs were half full of coffee.

  Not much of a dessert party.

  Then again, it was hard to get in the mood for sweets while tragedy unfolded.

  Yet strangely enough, life felt sweeter than it had in a long while. Despite all her losses, despite the renewed trauma with Ginny, despite the sometimes oppressive quiet of her solitary home, she felt less alone.

  Of course, this thing with Lance could peter out. Hormone-charged infatuations didn’t always last—and enchanted evenings, falling in love with strangers across crowded rooms, didn’t happen in real life. Not in her real life, anyway.

  But perhaps tonight was the beginning of a new season—for both of them.

  She picked up his mug and plate, pausing to reread the plaque the minister had given her while she’d been struggling to decide whether to leave competitive skating behind. How often during the intervening years had she turned to that beautiful passage in Ecclesiastes for hope and comfort and encouragement? And always, she came away renewed and receptive to the promise of brighter days ahead.

  Lance had made his intentions clear tonight, and she appreciated his candor. They were too old for the game-playing of adolescent dating. He’d set the stage to see where the potent electricity between them might lead once this case was over and Ginny was safely back—please, God, let that happen!

  In the meantime, she planned to do exactly what her dinner companion had suggested—be extra careful and watch her back.

  Because with a man like Lance waiting in the wings, she didn’t want some understudy stepping into her role.

  11

  You’re in luck, Agent McGregor. I’ve got a CODIS match for you.”

  As the crime lab tech in Quantico bypassed a greeting and got straight to business, Lance leaned forward in his desk chair.

  They had a hit in the National Missing Person DNA database.

  What a great start to a Wednesday.

  “Who is it?” He shifted the phone to his other ear and grabbed a pen.

  “A woman by the name of Tammy Lee. Do you want the contact information and report number from NamUs?”

  Nice of the tech to save him that step. “Sure. Thanks.”

  He jotted down the information from the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System as the man dictated it. The report had been filed with the St. Louis city cops. Excellent. That would simplify follow-up.

  Thirty minutes later, after a quick conversation with the detective who’d handled the case, a fax of the report was printing out.

  Mark joined him in the copy room, a sheaf of papers in hand as he headed toward one of the machines. “Anything new on the kidnapping case?”

  “Your timing’s impeccable. We just got a match on the DNA.” Lance retrieved the last page as the report finished printing and filled him in on the ME’s call.

  “And what does that have to say about Tammy Lee?” Mark waved a hand toward the document as he set his stack of papers in the feeder.

  Lance scanned the report. “Age twenty-one, five-six, one-fifteen, long blonde hair, blue eyes. Disappeared the night before the Ginny Reed house fire. Profession is listed as escort.”

  “A hooker.” Mark arched an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

  “But logical. A lot of those women lose contact with their families, so who would know if they disappeared? Not much chance any of their pimps would file a missing person report and risk prosecution.”

  “Then who put out the alert?”

  “A Brenda Rose. She listed herself as a roommate—and friend.”

  “Friend for sure. She took a chance by coming forward.”

  “Yeah. The two of them must have been close.”

  “She offer any theories about the disappearance?” Mark pulled out a stack of copies and rapped them into alignment.

  Lance sped-read the write-up. “She says the night Tammy disappeared, she had an appointment with a guy she’d seen the prior week. They were supposed to connect at a place called the Wild Duck.” He shot his colleague a questioning look.

  “A hot spot on the East Side. Known as a meeting place for rendezvous of the less genteel kind.” Mark removed the rest of his copies from the machine. “Did Brenda leave any contact information?”

  “A phone number.”

  “Good luck with that. Assuming it’s legit, odds are the phone’s a throwaway and is long gone.”

  “It’s only been two months since the fire. It could still be in service.”

  “If it’s not, some of the vice guys in the city might know her whereabouts.”

  “A working number would be easier—and faster.”

  “Who knows? You might get lucky. Keep me in the loop.” He stopped in the doorway as he exited. “I know you’re still settling in and dealing with a hot case, but don’t let the SWAT team drop off your radar.”

  “I won’t.” No need to tell him the SWAT team wasn’t even on his radar.

  With a mock salute, Mark disappeared out the door.

  Report in hand, Lance returned to his office, pulled out his cell, and weighed it in his hand. Caller ID spoofing program or *67? Both would hide the source of the call if Brenda’s pimp happened to be monitoring her phone—but chances were the guy was little league and not all that sophisticated. The *67 strategy should suffice.

  Taking his seat, he keyed in the masking code, followed by Brenda’s number.

  Three rings in, he expected the call to roll to voice mail. Instead, it kept ringing.

  Four rings later, a groggy female voice greeted him. “’Lo.”

  Lance twisted his wrist. Maybe calling someone in Brenda’s profession at eight-thirty in th
e morning hadn’t been the smartest move.

  “Brenda Rose?”

  “Yeah.” A yawn came over the line. “Who’s this?”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah. And I was sound asleep.” Irritation sharpened her words. “Who is this?”

  “Special Agent Lance McGregor with the FBI. I’m calling in reference to the missing person report you filed two months ago for Tammy Lee.”

  A gasp came over the line. “Did you find her?”

  “I’d prefer to discuss this in person—ASAP. Pick a time and place and I’ll meet you.”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay?” An anxious note crept into her voice. “From you or . . . or anyone else.”

  Like her pimp.

  He changed his tone from crisp to cordial. “Making trouble for you isn’t on my agenda. We appreciate that you filed this report. It could help us with more than one case. I just need to ask a few questions.”

  “Can’t you do that by phone?”

  Yeah, he could—but it wasn’t as informative as looking someone in the eye and watching body language.

  “In person is better.” Especially since she was the sole connection they had to Ginny’s stand-in. Clues weren’t exactly pinging off the walls; he needed to milk this for all it was worth.

  “Okay. Fine. Four o’clock. Edy’s Ice Cream in Union Station.”

  Walking distance from his office.

  Perfect.

  “Watch for the guy in the leather jacket.”

  “I thought FBI agents always wore suits?” Wariness crept into her voice.

  “Not if we want to avoid attracting attention. But I’ll be happy to wear my suit if you prefer.”

  “No, no. That’s okay. Low-key is better.”

  No surprise she’d backpedaled. “See you at four.”

  “I’ll be there.” The line went dead.

  Slowly Lance replaced the receiver. Hard to say whether she’d show—but if she’d cared enough to put her neck on the line with her pimp by making the report in the first place, she’d probably follow through.

  If she didn’t?

  He had other ways to track her down—and if necessary, he’d use every one.

  Nathan opened his eyes. Sniffed.

  Something was burning.

  He swung his feet to the floor and stood, the mattress creaking as he snatched his jeans from the chair beside the bed.

  The old woman must be cooking.

  He thrust his legs into the denim, unlocked the door, and raced down the hall to the kitchen.

  From the doorway, he took in the scene in one quick sweep.

  A faint haze hovered inches below the ceiling. His grandmother was waving her hands to disperse it, like she’d done in Baščaršija Square during their family trip to Sarajevo years ago. That spot had definitely lived up to its Pigeon Square nickname—and she was having no more success getting rid of the smoke than she’d had shooing away the pesky birds.

  The apartment would stink all day.

  He glared at her. “What did you burn this time?”

  At his terse question, she twisted toward him. Gasped. Winced. “Bread.” Her reply came out more quaver than word as she gripped her ribs.

  He moved beside her, grabbed the charred piece of toast that lay on the counter, and crushed it in his hand, letting the burnt crumbs tumble into the sink. “I do the cooking. You know that. Why didn’t you eat some cereal?”

  “Gone.” She pointed to a box on the counter.

  He frowned. Picked it up. Shook it. Hadn’t he bought cereal last week?

  No, maybe not. His mind had been on more important priorities than grocery shopping lately. They’d run out of milk yesterday too.

  Not that he intended to acknowledge his lapse.

  Turning, he scowled at her. “Have you been eating more than usual?”

  “No, no!” She shrank back, fear darting through her eyes.

  “Why didn’t you wait for me to make breakfast?”

  “I hungar.”

  So what else was new? She was always hungry.

  Still . . . it was after ten. Past breakfast—unless you’d worked the night shift.

  His scowl deepened. All these late fill-in hours thanks to Dennis’s broken leg were playing havoc with his efforts to monitor Christy’s activities. And watching her squirm had been one of the pleasures he’d most looked forward to while making his plans. It wasn’t fair that he was missing out on half the fun.

  He yanked open a cabinet, reached in, and grabbed a pot. “Sit down. I’ll fix you some oatmeal.”

  The old woman remained motionless.

  He took a step toward her. “If you want to eat, sit. Otherwise, you can wait until lunch.”

  She shuffled to the table and sat.

  Better.

  She needed to remember who was in charge. He chose what she ate—and who cared if she disliked oatmeal? After stinking up the kitchen, she didn’t deserve to be coddled.

  “I’ll be gone the rest of the day and won’t be home till late.” He dropped the pot with a loud clatter onto the chipped counter. “Your food will be in the refrigerator. Don’t touch anything else. You understand me?”

  “Da.”

  He glowered at her, and she cringed.

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “After all these years, your English is pathetic.” He shook some oatmeal into the pot with more force than necessary, added water. “Why do you hang on to the language of a country that treated you like dirt? That killed your husband and daughter-in-law and grandson? That forced you to flee to a foreign land that also treated you like dirt?”

  She remained silent.

  Banging the pot onto the stove, he watched her flinch. “And how did you and Tata cope with this new country? The respected businessman became a janitor who spent his free time in a drunken stupor and walked in front of a bus on his way home from a bar one night without a thought for the son he left behind. You were no better. Did you ever care that your drinking—and neglect—were the reasons I got carted off to that foster home and was forced to live with strangers who cared more about the government check that came every month than about me?”

  He twisted on the burner, watching the fire shoot up around the bottom of the pot. Like he’d watched those flames in November, through his binoculars, listening to the dried-out wood crackle as Ginny Reed’s house was consumed.

  But the best moment of all had been the screams.

  Christy’s screams.

  And there were more to come.

  The old woman coughed, a harsh, grating hack she tried to stifle.

  He turned to her. “You didn’t understand half of what I said, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, you didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. I survived, no thanks to you.”

  Or Christy.

  Who knew where he might be if she hadn’t abandoned him, like everyone else had?

  But she was paying for her betrayal now—just like the old woman.

  The oatmeal behind him started to sputter, and he reached for a spoon to stir it. Silence fell in the apartment, which suited him fine. What could Mevlida say in response to his rant, even if she’d understood it? Everything he’d said was true. Thanks to her and Christy, he’d ended up no better than his old man, working a crummy job and living in a mouse-infested apartment. Who wouldn’t want to escape a fate like this?

  But unlike Tata and Baka, he’d found something better than alcohol to soften the harsh edges of his life, despite the occasional beer he allowed himself.

  Nathan picked up the pot, dumped the lumpy oatmeal in a bowl, and set it in front of his grandmother.

  She bent over the bowl and began scooping up the thick, unappetizing paste. Milk and sugar would make it more palatable, but she could eat it plain today. He owed her nothing. No kindness, no consideration, no compassion. She should be grateful he’d rescued her from the rehab place after she broke her hip instead of letting her go back to the s
eries of homeless shelters she’d lived in for who knew how long.

  Reminding her of that—and tossing out the occasional threat to throw her back out on the street if she started complaining—was all it took to keep her in line.

  He dropped the sticky pot in the sink and crossed the room. “Don’t forget to clean up after you’re finished.”

  She lifted her head and met his gaze. The abject sorrow in her eyes, the desolation and grief, were profound enough to touch the hardest of hearts.

  But they didn’t reach his.

  Not even close.

  On the contrary.

  Her misery was like a tonic. It meant he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do when he’d taken her in.

  He was in control of her life—and that kind of power made up for a lot of his other disappointments.

  Now he was exerting the same power over Christy. Calling the shots. Throwing her world into turmoil. He didn’t have total control yet . . . but he was close.

  And once he got it, he intended to enjoy every minute.

  No one by the name of Brenda Rose had shown up in any of the databases Lance checked, but he had no problem spotting her the instant she came within sight of the Edy’s Ice Cream shop.

  Though she’d toned down her working attire, the too-short skirt, calf-hugging boots, mane of blonde hair, and smoky eye makeup broadcast her profession as clearly as a PA announcement.

  He remained behind a pillar when she stopped in front of the deserted ice cream shop, scanning the sparse crowd at Union Station. At least she’d shown up. Now he needed her to reveal some helpful piece of information she’d neglected to include in the missing person report.

  Once he was confident she hadn’t been followed, he stepped out from his concealed position and strolled toward her.

  She stopped pacing as soon as she caught sight of him.

  “Brenda Rose, I presume.” He discreetly offered his creds.

  She gave them no more than a quick glance. “You aren’t what I expected.” Tipping her head, she gave him a brazen once-over. “Are all FBI agents so sexy?”

  He ignored that. “Let’s sit over there.” Indicating a bench off to the side, away from the main concourse, he led the way, waiting until she was seated before claiming the far end.