Thin Ice (12 page)

But the icy chill in her heart remained.

C
hristy!”

Guilt tugging at her conscience, Christy turned as Bob waved at her from the far side of the rec center lobby. She should have sought
him
out, not the other way around. She owed the man an apology for adding more hassle to his already stressful life. According to Lance, he'd been freaked to find an FBI agent at his door. Who wouldn't be?

As for Lance's query about the met-a-new-guy excuse she'd given Bob—thank goodness their Saturday conversation had been by phone. Despite her explanation that it had been nothing more than a kind brush-off, her blush would have tipped him off that the excuse actually had legs . . . and they were attached to him.

Tightening her grip on the skates in one hand and the bulging satchel of summer youth program proposals in the other, she summoned up a smile as Bob approached. “Hi. I see you're working late too.”

“Par for the course. Besides, there's not much to go home to these days.”

The perfect opening.

She looked around. No one was in the lobby except a maintenance guy, and he was busy mopping, buds plugged into his ears. Still, she lowered her voice. “About that . . . I didn't mean to cause you any aggravation.”

He waved her apology aside. “No sweat . . . once I realized my ex hadn't sicced the feds on me. But I did want to say I'm sorry someone's hassling you.”

So that's the excuse Lance's colleague had used for the visit.

It was true too—even if
hassle
didn't come close to describing the terror and confusion that had kept her awake more nights than she could count since the kidnapper's first letter.

Lifting one shoulder, she managed the facsimile of a smile. “I'll get through it—but I appreciate your understanding.”

“Despite what Diane tells anyone who will listen, I do have a few empathetic bones in my body.” His features tightened for a moment, then he dipped his head toward her skates. “Heading to the rink?”

“Yes. Skating is about the only thing that feels normal and predictable these days.”

“Normal and predictable are good. Better than I realized until recently.”

“You'll get there again.”

“Maybe. But it will be a different normal.”

She couldn't argue with that.

“Anyway, I won't hold you up.” He took a step back. “I just wanted to apologize for bugging you about a date when you had all that other stuff going on.”

“I was flattered by your interest.” True enough—even if the interest wasn't reciprocated.

“Thanks.” With a lift of his hand, he started to walk away—then paused and turned back. “And I'm happy you met someone new—even if it killed my chances.” After offering her a crooked grin, he strolled down the hall.

She exhaled, some of her tension evaporating. At least he was being a good sport about her rejection and the awkward visit from the FBI. And with her conscience appeased, she'd be able to give her full attention to tonight's student. She might even hang around afterward and lose herself for a few minutes in the motion and the music.

Two hours later, agenda accomplished, she arrived home tired but less tense—and ready for a hot meal. An omelet, perhaps? That would be fast, easy, and filling.

But all thoughts of food fled when she retrieved her mail.

Because tucked among the ads and the bills was another envelope addressed in her sister's hand.

“What do you think about this one?”

Lance stifled a groan as his future sister-in-law dragged him toward yet another couch in the vast sea of furniture. This shopping trip was worse than a visit to the dentist.

“Lance?”

He gave the tan leather couch a fast once-over. “It looks fine to me.”

Lisa planted her hands on her hips. “You've said that about everything I've shown you.”

“That's because I like everything you pick out. You have excellent taste.”

“Resorting to flattery, are we?”

“It's the truth. Besides, if I'd known what to buy, I wouldn't have bribed you to come with me in the first place.”

“But I can't help you if I don't have a handle on your tastes. You must have some preferences.”

Not about furniture.

When it came to women—different story. He knew exactly what he preferred in the female gender. Tall, leggy, blonde, blue-eyed . . .

He frowned.

Wait a minute.

Christy didn't fit any of those parameters. Except for the legs, of course. On that score, she—

“Lance!”

He jerked back to reality. “What?”

“I need to know your taste—in furniture.” Lisa's eyes twinkled as she tacked on the last two words.

Had she read his mind?

Maybe.

A former Chicago homicide detective turned police chief was apt to have solid intuitive skills.

He forced himself to think about furniture preferences. “I like quiet stuff. Not a lot of patterns, no real bright colors. Homey but not froufrou. Clean lines, no knickknacks, no modern art. A few pictures are okay, and I wouldn't mind a bookcase. Some polished wood would be nice too.”

Huh.

That pretty much described Christy's living room.

“Now we're getting somewhere.” Lisa gave a satisfied nod and consulted the clipboard she'd been toting around the massive furniture store as she dragged him from item to item.

Lance scanned the store and shook his head. The choices were stupefying. How in creation did anyone wade through the clutter and pick stuff to create a room like Christy's?

He sneaked a peek at his watch. Only seven? It felt like they'd been here for a day and a half rather than an hour and a half.

“I think we should go with a fabric couch—one with a nubby texture, sort of like a Berber carpet—and pair it with a leather chair.” Lisa tapped her pen against the clipboard as she pondered her scribbled notes. “That will give the room a masculine feel. We saw a couple of pieces that would work. We can accent them with some jewel-tone throw pillows, and—”

His phone began to vibrate, and he grabbed for it. Maybe the person on the other end would be speaking English instead of whatever lingo Lisa was spouting.

When Christy's name appeared in the window, he reined in his smile and gave his personal shopper a sober look. “I need to take this. Business.”

“Fine. I'll scout out some end tables.”

Pressing the talk button, he shifted away from her. “Hi. What's up?”

“I got another letter.”

The impulse to smile vanished. “Let's follow the same drill. Set it on the counter and don't open it. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“How soon?” Christy sounded spooked.

“Twenty to thirty minutes.”

“I'll be waiting. Sorry to interrupt your evening again.”

“Believe me, I'm grateful to have an excuse to cut this one short. My brother's fiancée took me furniture shopping for my apartment. I'd rather be getting a root canal.”

“That's a very stereotypical male comment.”

“Some stereotypes are accurate. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Sliding the phone back on his belt, he went in search of Lisa.

He found her on her hands and knees inspecting the drawer in an end table.

“Look at that.” She pointed to the inside, her tone indignant. “For this price you should expect dovetailing. Your budget might be modest, but we can do better.” She rose before he could extend a hand to help her.

A twinge of guilt tugged at his conscience. “You know, I really appreciate you taking the time for this.”

She brushed off the knees of her jeans. “I sense a ‘but' coming.”

Leave it to Mac to find himself a smart, insightful lady.

“But there's been a new development on a case, and I need to follow up.”

She squinted at him. “Was that Christy?”

Just how much had his big brother told his fiancée about this case?

“Uh, yeah. She's the sister of the victim.”

“Also the figure skater you have the hots for.”

Mac and his big mouth.

His older sibling was going to get an earful the next time they talked.

“I'll admit she's a nice, attractive woman. But for now, our relationship is 100 percent professional.”

“That's smart. So what do you want to do about the furniture?”

He rubbed his neck as he surveyed the display floor. “I trust your judgment. You did a great job with your house. Could you just pick out some basic living room stuff? As long as the room's not empty and looks like a guy's place, I'll be happy. And a small table for the breakfast area would be nice too. I'm tired of sitting at the counter.”

“What if you don't like what I order?”

“I'll like it.”

“You're giving me carte blanche to spend your money?”

“Yeah. Have at it.”

“Fine. But you still owe me lunch.”

“I know. At the salad place.” He leaned over and gave her a quick hug. “You pick the day.”

“Thursday. Noon. Be there.”

“This week?” A hint of panic crept into his voice. He needed more time to psyche himself up for his ladies-who-lunch experience.

“Yep. And you know what? You might like it.”

Rabbit food? Not a chance.

But a deal was a deal.

He sighed. “Fine. I'll be there.”

“Try to contain your enthusiasm.”

“Hey, it's not the company. I'm just more of a steak and baked potato kind of guy.”

“Not the healthiest diet.”

“Better than that tutto mare Mac was chowing down when I met him for dinner.”

“Usually he eats healthier meals.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Guilty as charged. Okay, go ahead while I shop for your cave. I'll email you the grand total and delivery dates.”

“Just don't break the bank.” He began to back away.

“I'll keep your budget in mind.”

With a wave, he jogged toward the exit, already switching gears.

And hoping the kidnapper's latest note held more helpful clues than the previous ones had.

Twenty-four minutes after she and Lance ended their call, Christy's doorbell rang.

Reining in her pulse, she smoothed her hands down her leggings, adjusted the hem of her sweater, and crossed her foyer. Hand on the knob, she peered through the peephole.

So much for trying to make her heart behave.

Even the distortion from the fisheye lens couldn't detract from Lance's rugged good looks—and his off-duty attire added to his appeal. That make-my-day leather jacket and those worn, nice-fitting jeans should carry a blood-pressure warning.

She pulled back, fanning her face. Oh, for pity's sake. You'd think she was some teenager on a first date.

But she was thirty-two years old, and this was no date. The man was here on serious business.

Life-and-death business.

With that sobering thought dampening any romantic notions, she pulled open the door and ushered him in.

After a quick greeting, he moved past her, leaving a woodsy, masculine scent in his wake. “Is the letter in the kitchen?”

“Yes. It's stiffer than the last one. I think there's something inside.” She followed him to the back of the condo. “The postmark's from Columbia, Missouri.”

He fished some latex gloves out of his pocket and reached for the same knife he'd used on the last letter. Once again, he positioned the note over an evidence envelope. After carefully slitting the top, he bowed it and looked inside. Then, in silence, he slid the contents onto the evidence envelope.

A folded piece of paper lay on top of two sheets of cardboard held together with small pieces of tape.

Lance opened the note and angled it so she could read along with him.

Did you like the pixture I sent you, Christy? Here's something even better. As for that new boyfrend—you can give him presents in fancy bags if you want to, but keep him out of this or you'll never see your sister again.