Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

  “A gentleman too. That’s nice.” She offered him one of her business smiles.

  He ignored that as well. “Let’s talk about Tammy.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she . . . is she okay?”

  “No. I’m sorry. She died the day after she disappeared.”

  The color drained from her face. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Why?”

  “She would never have taken off without telling me. Everyone knew that—including my . . . boss. He assumed she’d told me her plans, and he tried hard to get me to talk. But I didn’t know anything.” She hunched forward and picked at the chipped crimson nail polish on her thumb.

  Lance studied her. Despite the makeup, she didn’t look more than nineteen or twenty. Just a kid who should be going to college and fretting over choosing a major instead of worrying about keeping her pimp happy.

  He softened his tone. “My interrogation methods aren’t painful.”

  “That’s a nice change.” Moisture filmed her eyes as she stroked a yellowish patch of skin on her wrist. “Was Tammy . . . was it murder?”

  “That’s our conclusion.”

  Her nostrils flared. “Why would someone do that?”

  “To cover up another crime.”

  “How did she . . . what happened?”

  “There was a fire.” Close enough. The body had been too badly burned and decayed for the ME to determine cause of death, but most likely fire hadn’t taken her life. Odds were she had been dead before it ever started.

  A shudder swept over her. “What a terrible way to go. And she was so pretty . . .”

  As her words trailed off, Lance angled toward her. “I read the missing person report. I was hoping you could give me a few more details.”

  “I told that cop everything I know.”

  “There’s nothing in there about Tammy’s background or next of kin.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know much about either.”

  “I thought you said you were close.”

  “We were, but we didn’t share everything. All I know is she had some problems in high school—drinking, smoking pot. Her old man was the straight-arrow type, and he threatened to turn her over to the state if she messed up again. When she did, he kept his word—and she ran away. There aren’t many options to earn a living when you’re fifteen and homeless, if you know what I mean.”

  Yeah, he knew. The vast majority of teens who ended up on the street got involved in prostitution, drugs, gangs, stealing, pornography—or all of the above.

  “I get the picture.”

  “I figured you would. Look . . .” She leaned closer. “You aren’t going to bust me, are you? I stuck my neck out going to the cops and meeting you today.”

  “That’s not why I’m here. I’m only interested in Tammy. Tell me about this guy she was meeting for the second time.”

  After searching his face, Brenda relaxed back against the bench. “We didn’t talk a lot about our customers. Mostly we tried not to think very much about them before, during, or after, you know? But this guy was different. She said he treated her nice, that he wasn’t just interested in her body. He asked a bunch of questions about her, like he really cared. She even told him a little about how she ended up on the street, which blew me away.”

  Their guy was smart. He’d won Tammy’s trust and persuaded her to open up. Once she’d told him she was estranged from her family—meaning no relative would know if she went missing—she’d sealed her fate. The killer had found the perfect candidate to make disappear.

  Except he hadn’t counted on a friend going to the police.

  “Did she describe him?”

  “Not in a lot of detail. He was medium height, like five-eight or nine, and in good shape—a rarity, believe me.”

  “What color hair?”

  “Black. And he had dark eyes too. She also liked how he talked. Said it was different. Like he wasn’t from the Midwest.”

  That could be helpful.

  “What was different about it? Did she describe it as a Southern drawl, a Texas twang, anything like that?”

  “No. She said he sounded high class. Spoke real precise. And there was a tiny accent she couldn’t place.”

  Someone who had learned English as a second language, perhaps?

  “Did he tell her anything about himself?”

  “No. Most guys don’t. She was just glad he treated her nice. She was looking forward to seeing him again.” Brenda bit her lip. “Do you think he was the guy who killed her?”

  “It’s a strong possibility. Do you know where they went?”

  “No. The first night, he took her to a motel south of the city. Some place she’d never been to before. She didn’t tell me the name, but it sounded like a dive. The walls were real thin, and she said the sheets were frayed at the edges.” Brenda shrugged. “She didn’t complain, so I guess the company made up for the location. The second time, they met on the East Side.”

  “At the Wild Duck.”

  “Yeah. That was in my report. I don’t know where they went from there.”

  “Does your . . . boss know?”

  Panic whipped across her face. “No. This was a side job. Tammy picked guys up herself sometimes, even though it was dangerous. She wanted to keep more of the profits from her jobs.”

  So contacting the pimp would be useless.

  Another dead end.

  He pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to her. “If you happen to think of anything else that might help us identify this guy, I’d appreciate a call. You can reach me day or night on my cell.”

  She folded her hands in her lap as she inspected the card. “I can’t take that. The wrong person might see it.”

  He flicked a glance at the fading bruise on her wrist and repocketed the card. “You can always call me at the main FBI number.”

  “Or on your cell.” She recited the number on the card back to him. “I’m good at memorizing.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  A cloud passed over her eyes. “About one thing, anyway.” She stood and tugged at the hem of her skirt. “I might check in with you in a couple of weeks, see if you found out what happened to Tammy. She may not have been the girl next door, but she sure didn’t deserve to end up murdered.”

  Lance rose too. “Can I buy you an ice-cream cone before you leave?”

  She did a double take. “Why?”

  Because it’s the least I can do to thank you for the risk you took coming forward. Because you seem like you could use a friend. Because I wish I could do more to help young women in your situation.

  But he said none of those things.

  “Why not?”

  She chewed on her lower lip. “Are you having one?”

  “Yes.”

  She eyed the storefront with the tubs of colorful ice cream, then lifted one shoulder. “Okay. Sure.”

  He followed her over, waiting while she vacillated between butter pecan and double fudge brownie. Finally he stepped in.

  “One scoop of each for the lady.” He handed the clerk some cash.

  “You don’t have to buy me a double.” Brenda’s protest was halfhearted at best.

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  Lance ordered his cone, and silence fell while the woman behind the counter scooped out their selection and handed them each a cone.

  Lance dug into his at once.

  Brenda followed more slowly, watching him.

  Grinning, he waved his paper napkin at her. “Do I have chocolate chips on my chin?”

  She gave him a melancholy smile. “No. I was just thinking how nice this feels. How normal. A guy out for ice cream with his girl.” She sighed. “Thanks for giving me a few minutes of pretend.”

  “You could make it real if you wanted to.”

  “Yeah?” She snorted. “What kind of decent guy would want a girl with a past like mine?”

  If there was an upbeat re
sponse to that question, it eluded him.

  “See what I mean?” She pasted on her professional smile again, tossed her hair, and lifted her cone. “Cheers, Lance McGregor. Now you go back to your world and I’ll go back to mine.”

  With that, she sauntered down the mall toward the exit, hips swaying as she licked her ice cream.

  Lance took a few more swipes of his, then pitched it in the trash container before following her out. There wasn’t much he could do for the Brenda Roses of the world, short of making this one feel for a brief moment that she had more to offer than their body.

  Unfortunately, Tammy Lee’s killer understood the power of that approach too—and had used it to manipulate rather than brighten a day.

  Thanks to Brenda, however, he had a better feel for who that killer might be: a dark-haired, well-built, medium-height man with a slight accent who might not be American born.

  It wasn’t much, but every piece of new information helped.

  And before this day was over, he intended to run that description by Christy and pass it on to the Rolla agent so he could recontact the subjects he’d interviewed. See if the new information produced any names of possible suspects.

  Because a man who fit that description, who’d lured Tammy Lee to her death, was also the man who’d kidnapped Ginny Reed and created the elaborate ruse that continued to baffle him. As Christy had said early on, why would someone go to such effort to disguise a kidnapping with a fire and a fake victim, only to undo all that effort two months later?

  The answer to that question would lead them to the kidnapper . . . but so far, none of the few puzzle pieces they’d uncovered were fitting together.

  Worst of all, he had a feeling time was running out to complete the picture. That unless they solved this soon, Ginny and Tammy Lee weren’t going to be their quarry’s only victims.

  And as he pushed through the door into the numbing chill of a dark winter evening, that possibility made his blood run cold.

  12

  You up for ditching this place for an hour and grabbing some lunch? I have a buy one, get one half price coupon for Ruby Tuesday.”

  Christy glanced up from her desk as Sarah waved a slip of paper at her from the doorway of the cubicle. “I wish I could, but this is due back at the printer by three o’clock and I’m barely halfway through.”

  “What is it?”

  “The summer youth program proof.”

  “Already? It’s only the end of January.”

  “We always get them out four months ahead—and I’m behind.”

  “That’s not like you.” Her friend entered and dropped into the chair beside the desk. “Then again, nothing’s been exactly usual in your world of late, has it? Bob told me about his visitor. When you said last week there’d been a major glitch in your life, you must not have been kidding.”

  Her friend’s tone was conversational, but the slight quiver of hurt tugged at Christy’s conscience. “I wanted to tell you about it.” She lowered her volume and leaned forward. “But until they figure out what’s going on, they thought it would be safer to clue in as few people as possible.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  No, she didn’t, based on that glib, too-bright reply. And the last thing Christy wanted to do was lose her best friend over this.

  “Look, there’s a lot more to this than anyone knows.” All at once, pressure built behind her eyes, misting her vision, and she groped for a tissue from the box on her desk.

  “Hey.” Sarah touched her hand, her tone contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as miffed. It sounds like you’re under plenty of stress without me adding to it.”

  True. But what harm could there be in sharing a bit of the story?

  Christy rose and did a 360 over the tops of the low-walled cubes. The place was deserted. Everyone else must have gone out to lunch.

  Perfect.

  She sat down and rolled her chair closer to Sarah. “I am under a lot of stress. What exactly did Bob tell you?”

  “Not a lot. He just said somebody was hassling you. But I didn’t understand why the FBI was involved instead of the police.”

  “Because the investigation isn’t about harassment.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “This has to stay between us, okay?”

  The other woman nodded.

  “The body in my sister’s house didn’t belong to Ginny.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “Oh my word.” She breathed, rather than spoke, the shocked phrase. “Who did it belong to? And where’s your sister?”

  Christy hesitated. Should she tell her Lance had called yesterday with an ID on the body?

  No.

  There were too many details they didn’t yet know.

  “They’re working on those questions now.”

  “I had no idea something this . . . bizarre . . . was going on.” Sarah gripped her hand.

  “Bizarre is an appropriate word for it.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Just keep being my friend.”

  “Count on it. And I won’t ask any more questions after this one. Do you feel everything that can be done is being done and that the people handling this are competent?”

  Christy summoned up a smile. “That’s two questions, but the answer to both is yes. The agent who’s been assigned to the case is sharp and dedicated. He’s on it.”

  Sarah squinted at her. “Is this the guy you were referring to last week when you said meeting him was good even if the reason wasn’t?”

  No surprise her romantic friend would remember that.

  “Yes.”

  “Still feel the same?”

  “More so.”

  “Well, that’s one positive outcome from this mess, anyway.” She stood and tucked the coupon in the pocket of her slacks. “This doesn’t expire for a month; we’ll use it after things quiet down. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll be bending the good Lord’s ear about this every day. Keep the faith and don’t lose hope.”

  “Right.”

  But as Sarah disappeared around the corner of her cube, Christy’s lips drooped. Faith she could keep. Hope? Much harder to sustain. The impending sense of doom that had sprouted after the kidnapper’s second letter, then mushroomed after Ginny’s locket had arrived, continued to swell.

  It could just be nerves. She hoped it was just nerves. She wanted to believe the notes weren’t a hoax, that the kidnapper would, indeed, return Ginny to her in the end. Because losing her sister once had been bad. Losing her twice?

  Unthinkable.

  And while she prided herself on her fortitude, on hanging tight through all the tough stuff that had happened over the past few months, that could be the blow that might finally make her crumble.

  “All right, admit it. You liked your lunch.”

  Lance pressed the tines of his fork against the minuscule crumbs of coconut cake on his plate, captured one small glob of icing clinging to the edge, and finished off his dessert before responding to Lisa’s smug comment.

  “It was passable.”

  “Hah. You scarfed down the grilled sirloin sandwich, demolished the potato salad, and I’m not certain your Evidence Response Team would find enough trace evidence on the plate in front of you to identify your dessert.”

  He set his fork down and put his napkin to use. Hard to refute facts. The lunch had been decent, even if he was the lone guy in the place.

  “I’ll admit it was better than I . . .” His words trailed off as he caught sight of his brother striding toward the back of the store, where the tearoom was located. “Was Mac planning to join us?”

  Lisa frowned and turned in her seat. “No.”

  The eldest McGregor sibling exchanged only a few words with the hostess before scanning the diners and homing in on them.

  At Mac’s grim demeanor, Lance’s lunch hardened in his stomach.

  Something was very wrong.

 
He was out of his seat and already weaving through the diners as Mac lifted his hand to motion to him.

  Bracing himself as he drew close, he clenched his fingers. “What’s wrong? Is it Dad?” As far as he knew, his father was doing fine after his mild heart attack six weeks ago—but Mom and Dad didn’t tell them everything.

  “No.” Mac took his arm and propelled him out of the line of traffic, next to a rack of the handmade kids’ clothes the place was noted for. “It’s Finn.”

  The rock in his gut turned to granite.

  “Is he . . . ?” He couldn’t say the word.

  “No, but he’s bad. Critical.”

  His stomach churned, and for a moment he was afraid he was going to lose his lunch.

  Mac’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Take a deep breath.”

  He followed his brother’s advice until the nausea abated. “What happened?”

  “I didn’t get a lot of details from Dad. I don’t think he has many. The report the Army reps dropped off when they came to inform them was sketchy, at best. But from what I can piece together, Finn’s team was fast-roping for an insertion, and an RPG took down the helo. Most of his team didn’t make it.”

  Guys descending on ropes trailing from a helicopter, exposed to enemy fire. Then the helo goes down after taking a hit from a rocket-propelled grenade—maybe on top of them.

  It was a miracle there’d been any survivors.

  “Where is he?”

  “Landstuhl. Apparently he’s been there since Tuesday. Once he’s stabilized, they’re moving him to Walter Reed.”

  “How soon?”

  “I’m trying to get the information now. Dad thought it might be tomorrow.”

  “I’m going.”

  “So am I. I checked flights on the drive over. There are several directs to Reagan tomorrow.”

  Lisa joined them, and while Mac gave her a fast recap, Lance stepped back, angled slightly away, and forced his lungs to keep functioning.

  His kid brother was critically wounded.

  Maybe dying.

  It wasn’t computing.

  As he struggled to absorb—and accept—the news, one of the handmade kids’ outfits caught his eye. A pair of coveralls for a three- or four-year-old, with a parade of animals stitched across the top—elephant, giraffe, monkey. The kind of wildlife you might see on an African safari.