Thin Ice (10 page)

“He sound okay otherwise?”

“Like he's been sounding for the past few months. Cryptic. Serious. No joking around.”

“I wonder what's eating him?”

“I don't know—and he's not talking. I tried a little subtle digging but got nowhere.”

“We'll have to corner him on his next leave.”

“He did hint he might make it in for my birthday.”

“Yeah?” Lance claimed the last piece of bread. “That's only six weeks away. We'll give the runt a talking to then. If we double-team it, we might wrestle some information out of him.”

“It's worth a try, I guess. I've had a bad feeling ever since . . .” He stopped and pulled his phone off his belt.

The ensuing conversation was short and cryptic, but Lance got the gist of it.

“You're going to bail on
me
, aren't you?”

Mac pulled out some bills and tossed them on the table. “Sorry. A double homicide takes precedence over dinner with a brother.”

“You managed to finish off most of your food, at least.” Lance inspected his brother's plate as Mac scooped up a few stray noodles and took a final swig of iced tea.

“A skill I picked up as a SEAL. It's come in handy on this job too.” He slid from the booth. “Good luck on the skater case.”

“Thanks. I can use it.”

“Hey—you'll do fine. You might be new on the job, but you're a fast learner, and there's not a thing wrong with that brain of
yours, despite all the ribbing I give you. Just take it a day at a time.” He grinned. “And good luck with the figure skater too, once you get this solved. You may need a
lot
of help on that one, if the lady is as classy as she looked in the clip.”

Before Lance could respond with a witty comeback, Mac took off toward the exit.

Just as well, since he didn't have one.

Because his brother had nailed it. He
would
need help wooing Christy, if that's what he chose to do when this was over. She
was
a class act. She was also strong. Steady. Smart. Solid. Any one of the tough blows she'd been dealt would have caused a lot of people to fold, yet she was still carrying on. Not only surviving, but forging ahead.

And he suspected her faith had a lot to do with that.

He forked another bite of pasta but didn't eat it.

The faith situation was an issue. On more than one occasion, she'd mentioned the importance of prayer in her life. How it had sustained her through the trauma of the past year and played a big role in her decision to leave competitive skating. Difficult as it must have been given all the ups and downs in her past, she'd managed to hold on to her belief in a loving, caring God.

Too bad he hadn't been able to do the same.

But all the stuff he'd seen and done in The Unit? Faith-busters—even for a guy who'd been raised in a faith-filled household.

For a woman like Christy, who clearly put God at the center of her world, that could be a deal breaker.

Expelling a breath, Lance set his fork down and signaled to the server for the bill. So much for the nice, relaxing evening he'd expected to spend with his brother.

On the upside, though, this case was in the early stages. Maybe a solution to the faith issue would come to him before it ended.

Unfortunately, that might take a miracle—and he'd seen far too few of those . . . no matter how hard he'd prayed.

T
hey're all Boy Scouts—or Girl Scouts.” Mark dropped into the extra chair in Lance's cube and waved the folder in his hand. “My topline review turned up zip. Not one name on the Ginny Reed friend/acquaintance/co-worker list is connected with anything that suggests fanaticism or criminal inclination. How'd you fare?”

“Not much better. In general, Christy's people all sound like normal, law-abiding citizens.”

“Doesn't mean someone couldn't go off the deep end, though. That's what happened in my wife's case. In hindsight, there were signs the guy was slipping—but no one who knew him ever suspected he had murder on his mind.” He lifted the edge of the file on the desk. “What do you mean, ‘in general'?”

No surprise that Mark hadn't missed his caveat.

He pulled out Christy's acquaintance list, glancing at the name he'd added after his phone conversation with her last night. “The only person who set off any alarms was a Bob Harris—one of Christy's co-workers who's been hitting on her. After he and his wife separated, the ex got a protection order against him. It's still in effect.”

“What kind of order?”

“HRO.”

“Harassment versus abuse. Not quite as bad.”

“Bad enough to put him on the top of my list for questioning.”

“Makes sense. Anyone else on your radar?”

“No.”

“Then we might want to give the victim's list priority. Her friends and co-workers all sound squeaky clean, but they might pass on a tip about some connection her sister doesn't know about.”

“Agreed. Sounds like a road trip to the Potosi area is in our future—or mine, anyway.”

Mark leaned back. “Maybe not, if we want to keep this low-key. Our guy in Rolla is sharp, and if he has time, we might want to ask him to do the interviews. Agents from St. Louis showing up would be a bigger deal, and the news would have a higher probability of getting back to the subject.”

“Good point. As long as you think he's up for the job, I can give him a call. This has to be handled with a lot of discretion.”

“He'll be fine. I've worked with him on a couple of higher-profile cases.”

“I'm also going to call Quantico and try to push the DNA analysis. If we can ID the body, that will give us a definite link to the kidnapper.”

“You might get lucky. The database is a lot more comprehensive than it used to be.” Mark rose and handed over his file. “I'm available if you need another set of hands or eyes.”

“As a matter of fact . . .” Lance shifted in his seat. He had to position this carefully, since Steve had already discerned that his interest in this case was more than professional. “Christy Reed and I have fallen into a role-play of being friends. It was her idea the first time we met, in case the kidnapper was watching.
She didn't want to run the risk of him thinking she'd gone to the cops. We've continued that whenever we've gotten together. I'd prefer not to blow that cover until I have to. It might prove useful.”

Mark folded his arms. “You want me to talk to Harris.”

“If you have time.”

Mark pursed his lips. “Your ruse isn't bad. Go ahead and give me what you have on him and I'll drop by later today.”

Lance opened his file and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem. I'll let you know what I find out.”

As Mark exited, Lance swung back to his desk and picked up his phone. He might be new, and he might not have much pull, and the ME might be swamped—but it couldn't hurt to keep pushing for fast results. Then he'd talk to the agent in Rolla.

And unless one of those efforts panned out, Christy was going to be back to waiting for the kidnapper's next move—fretting, frustrated, frightened . . . and as much a hostage as Ginny might be.

Which could be exactly the intent.

Friday night—and he was free for the weekend.

Perfect.

Nathan smiled, dropped into the chair in front of his computer, and pressed the start button.

While he waited for the laptop to boot up, he pulled on his thick leather gloves and removed the wire mesh over the small box on the floor. Why not amuse himself for a minute or two?

The mouse tried to elude him as he chased it, but to no avail. He toyed with it, teased it, then wrapped his fingers around the quivering body. The critter squirmed, but after going through this drill dozens of times, he was used to their tricks.

Holding it in front of his face, he slowly tightened his fist until the rodent's eyes bulged. After a few moments, he reduced the pressure and let the mouse gasp for air. He repeated the process several times, always stopping short of finishing it off.

He had a different end in mind.

Once he tired of the game, he angled sideways and dropped the mouse into a galvanized bucket of water. As its legs began pumping, he leaned back to enjoy the show.

In less than a minute, the mouse slowed.

Soon after, it gave up the struggle—like any creature did when confronted with insurmountable odds.

Except humans.

A lot of them fought to the end.

His smile faded as the mouse went limp and sank to the bottom.

Daris would have fought longer if he'd had the chance. His brother might have been only fourteen, but he'd been tough. Even after those soldiers had ganged up on him, he'd punched and kicked and struggled with every ounce of his strength—until two quick, sharp retorts reduced him to a crumpled, lifeless heap.

The finality of those bullets hadn't stopped his mother from rushing into the fray, though. She'd pushed through the crowd, half crazed, and flung herself at the men, beating on them, flailing at them, cursing them for what they'd done to her oldest son. But they'd only laughed and grabbed her arms. Ripped her clothes. Dragged her into the alley.

Her gut-piercing screams had followed him as he ran as hard and as fast as he could.

They still did.

Nathan sucked in a sharp breath. Crushed the memories. Wasn't he always berating the old woman for living in the past? He needed to focus on the present.

On Christy Reed.

He turned his attention to the screen, scrolling through until he had the information he needed. Then he pocketed the ziplock bag containing the third letter and considered the mouse. He could leave it somewhere for the old woman to find, as usual. On her pillow. In the refrigerator. Inside one of her slippers. Her screeches were always amusing.

But he wouldn't hear them tonight.

Better to save that tactic for another day.

He fished the mouse out of the water and thumbtacked its tail to the corkboard above his desk, letting it dangle next to the autographed photo of Christy. The inscription was engraved on his memory, but he read it again anyway.

“To Neven—I'm glad our paths crossed. Wishing you happiness and great success. Your friend, Christy Reed.”

He snorted.

What a joke.

She wasn't glad their paths had crossed. How could she be, when she'd forgotten him so easily?

And she wasn't his friend. She'd never been his friend. Friends didn't desert each other.

Did she have any clue what havoc that deception had wrought?

Probably not.

But she would.

Soon.

One more letter to send after tonight, and the end of this game would be in sight. The final payback. A chance to make her suffer as he'd suffered.

In the meantime, he had preparations to . . .

A clatter sounded from the kitchen, and he frowned. What was the old woman up to now?

He shot to his feet and marched down the hall, stopping in the doorway. She was upright, clutching her side, but the walker had tipped over and lay on the floor. Beside it was a broken glass.

Her frightened gaze sought his, and a rush of power surged through him. This was what he was born for. To be in control. To make the decisions. To hold people's fate in his hand. Maybe that chance had passed him by in the bigger world, but in this apartment, he was in charge.

The key to using fear to your advantage, however, was to keep people off-balance. Leave them wondering if—and when—you might strike. And he'd been hard on her at dinner the other night.

Time to turn on the charm.

“Ah, Baka, did you hurt yourself?” He gentled his voice as he walked toward her.

She peered at him warily. “No, no. I okay.”

“Are you certain?” He righted the walker and positioned it in front of her. She flinched as he reached toward her, but he just patted her shoulder. “What happened?”

“It . . . fall.” She gestured to the broken glass and clutched her rib cage, wincing as she drew in short, shallow puffs of air. “I try to . . .” She made a clenching motion with her fingers.

He got the picture. She'd tried to grab for the glass, knocking over her walker in the process.

“Did you fall against the counter?”

“Yes.” Her expression was guarded. “I . . . okay.”

That was a lie. Lines of pain scored her face. She must have bruised or broken a rib—and dealing with an injury wasn't on his agenda for the evening.

Suppressing a surge of irritation, he patted her shoulder again. “Well, if you're hurting tomorrow, you let me know, okay?”

She gave a slow nod, the taut line of her shoulders relaxing a fraction.

“Are you finished with dinner?”

Again, she dipped her head.

“Let me walk you back to your room, then. And I'll get you something to help with any discomfort.”

Calling up his most solicitous manner, he took her arm and guided her down the hall. After assisting her into bed, he brought her a glass of water and two Aleve.

“Hvala . . . no, no!” Her eyes widened with fear again as she handed the glass back and switched to English. “Tank you.”

He let the language lapse pass as he adjusted her pillow. “You're welcome. Now get some rest and we'll see how you are in the morning.”

He shut the door of her room behind him as he left, pausing in the hall. The monthly government checks she signed over to him were nice, but sometimes she was more trouble than she was worth. Once he was finished with Christy, he might have to reconsider their arrangement. There had to be easier ways to get the power rush than by dealing with a decrepit old woman.

Maybe that promotion at work would come through. Having other people to order around might satisfy his craving for power.

In the meantime, he had places to go and things to do tonight.

Sitting in a cold car on a frigid evening wasn't on his list of top ten ways to spend a Friday night.

Lance tugged the sheepskin collar of his jacket as high as possible and hunkered down behind the wheel. Mark had warned him that new agents often got stuck with the less desirable assignments, and doing night surveillance in the winter on a bank robbery suspect's girlfriend definitely qualified.

He could think of a lot better uses of his time. Like sitting beside Christy on that comfy couch in front of the fireplace in her living room, sharing a bowl of popcorn while they watched some chick flick.

Chick flick?

He shook his head.

If Mac or Finn ever got wind he was thinking along those lines, he'd be dead meat. They'd have enough ribbing material for the next ten years.

His cell began to vibrate, and he pulled it out, watching his breath cloud the chilly air as he answered. “What's up, Mark?”

“I hear you drew the short straw.”

“Yeah.”

“Cold duty.”

“I've been colder.”

“If you put in time in the Middle East—and I'm assuming you did—that goes without saying. I wanted to let you know I talked to Harris today.”

Lance zeroed in on a guy ambling down the street. This wasn't a strolling kind of neighborhood—especially in the winter. Maybe that anonymous tip they'd received was going to pay off.

He leaned sideways to keep the guy in view. “What's your take?”