Thin Ice (25 page)

“Let me guess.” Lance fingered the end of the tape sticking out of the tree as he did a quick analysis. “The headlights caught the tape and illuminated it, making you think it was a wire.”

“Yep—and it scared us to death. The skid marks were on our street for months . . . and if the night had been rainy, we'd have ended up wrapped around one of the big oak trees that
lined the sidewalk. Turns out a couple of teenagers thought it would be a funny practical joke.”

Lance angled back toward the road. “This placement is too perfect to be coincidental.”

“Agreed.”

“Our guy could have waited here until GPS told him Christy's parents were getting close, laid the tape on the road, and tucked himself in by that tree.” He pointed to another dense cedar on the bluff side of the road. “All he had to do was watch for their headlights, wait for the right moment, and pull the tape taut.”

So simple—yet so deadly.

“That would do the trick.” Mark shifted sideways as another gust of wind whipped past.

“Then he just gathered up his tape and hightailed it to wherever he'd parked his car.”

“I'm surprised he left any souvenirs, though.”

“Maybe another car came along, or he thought the tape would stay hidden in the branches.”

“Possible. I would never have noticed it if the sun hadn't hit it.”

“Well, we were due for a break. Let me get an evidence bag.”

“Hey.” Mark grabbed his arm. “Don't hold your breath for prints. This guy isn't sloppy—and without fingerprints or witnesses, there's no way we can pin this on him.”

Like he didn't know that.

“True—but is there any doubt in your mind this is related to the accident?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. And leaving it behind was a mistake. If our guy made one, he may make more. That's my positive takeaway from this. Give me a minute.”

With that, Lance jogged toward the car—praying their man would, indeed, make another error.

Soon.

Because he was now absolutely certain Ginny's killer had also taken the lives of Christy's parents.

And he had a feeling the man had one final victim to cross off his list.

“So how are you holding up after Saturday?” Sarah gave a perfunctory knock on the edge of Christy's cube wall, then took the chair beside the desk and set a Panera bag near the keyboard.

“Okay.”

Liar, liar.

Burying her sister a second time had been the hardest thing she'd ever done.

Sarah scrutinized her. “Not buying. You look like you haven't slept in two days.”

Probably because she hadn't.

“I'll catch up. Listen . . .” She cocooned Sarah's hand in hers. “Thank you again for coming. I know how busy your weekends are.”

“Never too busy to be there for a friend. But between the minister and your FBI agent, you didn't need me.”

“Yes, I did. You've been the one steady person in my life through all these nightmare months. Your presence meant the world to me.”

Sarah sniffed and swiped at the corner of her eye. “Keep that up, I'm going to have to raid your tissue box. And speaking of your FBI agent—I approve. He struck me as a keeper.”

“I agree.”

“From what I observed, the feeling is mutual.” Sarah slid the bag closer to her. “In case you didn't eat breakfast, I picked up one of those asiago bagels you like. Not the healthiest way to start the week—but comfort food has a place.”

“You're a great friend, you know that?”

“You'd do the same for me if the situation was reversed.” She sighed and shook her head. “But we could do with a little less tragedy around this place, that's for sure. Did you hear about Nathan?”

Christy ran the name through her mind and came up blank. “Nathan who?”

“You might not know him. He's been on the maintenance crew less than a year, and he usually handles outside stuff. But you may have seen him filling in here and there since Dennis broke his leg. I know he was working on some carpet issues around the conference room about a week ago.”

“Oh yeah. I know who you mean.” Not much about the guy had registered beyond dark hair and muscular arms. She'd been too busy trying to absorb Lance's news about his brother. “What happened to him?”

“Not him. His grandmother.” Sarah glanced around, leaned closer, and dropped her volume another few decibels. “She lived with him, and the scuttlebutt is he came home from work on Thursday and found her hanging in her bedroom. She killed herself.”

Shock reverberated through Christy. “That's terrible!”

“Yeah. Apparently she's from some country in eastern Europe and didn't speak much English. He took her in after she broke her hip and was left somewhat disabled. I heard she was his only relative, so I imagine they were very close. He must be devastated.”

“I wonder why she would take her life?”

Sarah shrugged. “From what I hear, her health has been deteriorating. Chronic pain, with no hope of getting better, can lead to depression. I can't begin to imagine what Nathan is going through.”

“Yeah.” All these months, she'd been so wrapped up in her
own problems she'd forgotten other people were facing personal crises too. “Is anyone taking up a collection for flowers?”

“No flowers. There's no visitation. He had her cremated after the coroner released the body, and I think there's a private graveside service tomorrow. But a card is circulating, and people are contributing toward a donation to the literacy council. Nathan told his boss his grandmother had always wanted to learn the language but was never able to master it.”

“I need to track the card down. I'd like to contribute.”

“You have enough going on without worrying about anyone else. You don't even know him.”

“We may have spoken. I've talked to a few of the maintenance guys over the past year. Besides, that doesn't matter. If he has no family left, it might raise his spirits to see a lot of names on that card.”

Sarah pushed the Panera bag toward her. “Moments like this remind me why we're friends. Now eat.”

“I will. And moments like this”—she patted the bag—“remind
me
why we're friends.” Her phone began to ring, and she checked caller ID. “It's Lance.”

“I'm out of here.” Sarah rose. “Catch you later.”

As her friend disappeared out the door, Christy swiveled away from the hall, picked up the phone, and greeted him. “Thank you again for delaying your flight to Washington so you could be there Saturday—and for helping to expedite the arrangements with Memphis.”

“I wish I could have done more. No one should have to bury someone they love twice.”

At the warmth and compassion in his voice, her throat tightened. “Having you and Sarah and my minister there helped. How's your brother?”

“Fever's down. They moved him out of ICU right before I caught the red-eye back last night.”

“That's good news—but you must be dead on your feet.”

“I've gotten by with less sleep.”

She ran a finger over the edge of the Panera bag. “I don't suppose there's anything new.”

The infinitesimal hesitation before he responded raised her antennas. “No new leads on the kidnapping, unfortunately.”

Maybe not . . . but he had some kind of news.

“What aren't you telling me?”

Another tiny pause. “We've been doing some digging, but we haven't found anything directly pertinent to your sister.”

More dodging—not his usual modus operandi.

Why?

As if sensing her question, he spoke again. “I'll tell you what. I'll give you a complete briefing next time we get together.”

“When will that be?”

“As soon as I can find a legitimate excuse to pay you a visit.”

“I like that answer.”

“I hoped you would. How are you coping at work today?”

She inched the bag closer. “Sarah stopped by a few minutes ago to ask the same question and drop off one of my favorite treats from Panera. It helps a lot to know people care.”

“Count on it.”

Silence.

She waited him out.

“You know . . . I just thought of a reason to pay you a visit. If I can arrange my schedule, would you be available for lunch? I could grab some sandwiches, run by, and bring you up to speed. Is there a quiet corner at the rec center we could claim?”

Quiet corners were hard to come by, but she wasn't about to pass up a chance to see Lance.

“I'll find one. Call me if you can swing it and I'll meet you in the lobby.”

“Sounds like a plan. See you soon.”

The line went dead, and Christy dropped the phone into the cradle. Slowly leaned back in her chair.

What news might he be bringing her that he couldn't relay over the phone?

A twinge of unease scuttled through her, and despite the bagel inches away and the grumble in her stomach, her appetite ebbed. She might not yet know Lance well, but she was already learning to pick up his subtle signals.

And those signals were warning her that whatever he was going to share would once again tip her world off its axis.

W
henever you're ready to arrange burial, we'll be happy to assist.” The funeral director reverently placed the urn containing the old woman's ashes on the polished wood of his desk.

Nathan eyed the $279 cedar box. What a waste of money. The bamboo urn for thirty bucks would have been good enough, but a heartbroken, distraught grandson wouldn't go low end—and he needed to keep up that pretense here, as he had at work . . . and with the cops who'd nosed around the apartment, asking questions. But forking over 975 bucks for the expensive bronze job this guy had tried peddling?

Fat chance.

“Thank you.” He picked up the urn. The thing couldn't weigh more than five pounds. All that was left of the troublesome old woman.

Good riddance.

But it would have been a lot simpler if she'd died in her sleep.

“Do you have any timing in mind for a final interment?”

Nathan swallowed past his disgust. The man's oozing sympathy was nothing but an act. All he cared about was padding
the bottom line. Man, what a racket! Who knew death was so profitable? The prices on the fee schedule for a traditional funeral could have paid for a first-class trip to Tahiti—and he was about as likely to traipse off to the South Pacific as he was to invest one extra dime to maintain the charade of loving grandson.

“No. Not yet.” He stroked the urn and blinked, laying the grieving-grandson act on thick. “Letting go of Gram would be too hard right now.”

When he sniffed, the funeral director discreetly passed him a tissue from the handy box on his desk. “I understand. It takes time to adjust to a sudden loss. But we're here whenever you're ready.” He pulled a card out of a silver holder and passed that over as well. “Feel free to call at any hour. My home number is on the card too. Don't hesitate to use it. We like to be available 24/7 to our clients.”

“Thank you.” Nathan slid the card into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “That should cover all the expenses.” Almost a thousand bucks to burn a body. What a racket.

The man hesitated. “We'd be more than happy to send you an invoice.”

“Gram taught me to pay my bills immediately.” A lie, but the slimy death broker needed no further urging to take the envelope and slip it into a desk drawer.

“There are many excellent lessons to be learned from the older generation. Let me walk you out.” The man started to rise.

“No need. I know the way.” The faster he could get out of this rook joint, the better. “Thank you again for your help.”

“Of course. And again, please accept my condolences on your loss.”

Nathan dipped his head, pushed through the door of the office, and hurried toward the exit. The place reeked of death—and greed.

Once outside, he lifted his face toward the sun and drew in a lungful of the cold, crisp air.

Much better.

Shoving the urn under his arm, he pulled out the guy's card, ripped it into tiny pieces, and hurled it into the wind. The nightmare was over—and despite the hassle, the old woman's death had ended up causing nothing more than a brief postponement of his plans rather than a major delay.

Plus, one positive had come out of all this. He'd been able to use the bereavement leave from work to finalize his plans for Christy—and he had one more free day tomorrow. The day he'd told his boss he'd set aside for a private burial.

He opened the car door, slid behind the wheel, and dumped the urn onto the passenger seat.

Private burial?

Ha.

He had better things to do with his Tuesday. Far better.

And they all involved Christy.

Smiling, he fitted the key in the ignition—but as he spared the wooden box one more look, his mouth flattened. Who'd have guessed the old woman would cost him not only a ton of aggravation but some serious money?

Money.

Hmm.

He started the engine, put the car in gear, and accelerated toward the exit.

Maybe once this annoying snag blew over, he'd dump the ashes in the trash—and see if there was a market for used urns on eBay.

Lance pulled up in front of Christy's condo, cut the engine, grabbed the bag of sandwiches he'd picked up at the deli by the office—and hesitated.

Was it a mistake to tell her about the discovery he and Mark had made on the country road?

Maybe.

Based on her colorless face as he'd stood beside her in the cemetery on Saturday while the minister echoed the same words he would have said less than three months ago, she was close to caving.

One more blow might push her over the edge.

Yet she needed to fully understand the extent of the evil they were up against. This guy had orchestrated the deaths of her entire family—and every instinct Lance had honed during his years in The Unit told him she was now in his sights. The man's plans might have been temporarily derailed by the discovery of Ginny's body, but he'd be back to finish the job he'd started—meaning Christy needed to be more vigilant than ever.

Bringing her up to speed was the right thing to do . . . and better here than at her office. The spur-of-the-moment lunch suggestion had been a mistake—one he'd rectified within the hour. He needed to break this news away from the public eye, where she could crumble in private.

Sack in hand, he covered the short walk to her door in a few long strides.

She pulled it open before he could ring the bell—looking better than she had Saturday at the interment, but still too pale.

And tonight's news wasn't going to restore her color.

“Hi. I've been watching for you.” She stepped back and motioned him in.

He slipped past her and hefted the bag. “In the kitchen?”

“Yes.” She fell in behind him. “What would you like to drink?”

“Any kind of soda is fine.”

“Go ahead and have a seat while I grab it.”

He unpacked the bag as she moved about the kitchen. “I got turkey and chicken salad. I hoped you'd like one of those.”

“Both, actually.” She smiled at him across the counter that separated the kitchen and dining area. “Want to split?”

“I'm game.”

Before she joined him, he'd unwrapped the two sandwiches, divided them between the plates she'd already set out, and opened the containers of pasta salad and coleslaw he'd added to the mix.

“Hot food would be better on a cold night.” He sent her an apologetic glance.

“Cold food travels better in the winter—and I love sandwiches.” She set their glasses on the table and took her seat. “This looks great.”

“It's from a favorite lunch spot of my colleagues.”

She picked up the chicken salad croissant, took a bite, chewed. “Mmm. Excellent choice. So what news brings you out on this frosty night?” Though her tone was conversational, she wasn't able to hide the underlying thread of tension.

The bite of turkey he'd just swallowed stuck halfway down, and he grabbed his can of soda. No surprise she hadn't waited until after dinner to broach the reason for this get-together. The former Olympic athlete was a let's-put-the-information-on-the-table-and-deal-with-it kind of woman.

But he'd hoped she'd down some of her dinner first—because he doubted she'd feel like eating after he shared his news.

He set his sandwich back on the plate, took a long swig, and groped for some sort of gentle lead-in.

“This isn't good, is it?” Her voice was controlled and even, but an erratic pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat, above the vee of her dark green cardigan.

“No.”

She scrutinized him. “Short of you telling me our guy has disappeared off the face of the earth and the FBI is closing the case, I'm at a loss as to what bad news you could be bringing.”

He tried again to think of a way to soften the blow.

Failed.

Instead, he reached for her hand.

Her gaze flicked down to their joined fingers. Lifted to his. Panic flitted through her eyes as she wrapped the fingers of her free hand around the edge of the table. “This is really bad, isn't it?”

“Yeah.” He took a steadying breath. “It's about your parents.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “My parents?”

“Mark and I have been digging into their accident.”

“Why?”

“In light of everything that's happened, it wasn't sitting right.” He tightened his grip on her cold fingers as he delivered the bombshell. “We can't prove it at the moment. We may never be able to prove it. But Mark and I are convinced your parents' accident wasn't an accident.”

She stared at him as she absorbed the news, the silence broken only by the keening of the wind as it whipped past the corner of the house and the wail of a distant siren.

He knew the instant she realized she was the link in all the deaths in her family. . . that she was the reason they'd been killed. Anguish flooded her jade-hued irises, so deep, so profound, so pain-filled it stabbed his gut with the physical intensity of a knife thrust.

“No.” She shook her head, the tortured denial a broken whisper as she searched his face. “You must be wrong.”

“I wish I was—but all the evidence points that direction.”

“Tell me.”

He did as she asked, giving her all the details of their search—and their conclusions.

By the time he finished, all the color had drained from her complexion and her eyes were glazed with shock. “So it's true.
Everything that's happened is my fault. They all died because of me.”

Tremors began rippling through her, and he squeezed her hand, forcing her to look at him. “No, it's not your fault. This guy's mind is twisted. He's blown whatever you did to incur his wrath out of all proportion. The fact that you weren't able to come up with one single enemy when we first discussed this proves that. I know you better now, so I also know you would never intentionally do anything to hurt anyone. This lowlife has a warped view of the world. What happened is not your fault.”

“It feels l-like it is. And the end result is the same. My family is still g-gone, and . . .” Her voice choked, and the moisture in her eyes spilled over.

Lance grabbed one of the paper napkins that had come with their dinner and dabbed gently at her tears. “We're going to catch this guy, okay? And he'll pay the price for what he did.” Small consolation in the face of such devastating loss—but it was the best he could promise.

“That won't bring back Mom and Dad or Ginny.”

No, it wouldn't—and nothing he could say or do would change that reality.

But there was one other consolation he could offer.

Rising, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in his arms. Forget FBI protocol. Forget keeping personal and professional behavior separate. Forget every rule he'd ever followed about avoiding romance during a mission—or a case.

For this moment, he was going to play one part and one part only—a guy falling in love with a remarkable woman whose heart was breaking. If he couldn't take the hurt away, restore her family, put joy back in her soul, he could at least let her know she could count on him not just tonight but in the dark days and months to come.

She clung to him, sobs wracking her slender body, and he
rested his cheek against her soft hair as he reread the quote from Ecclesiastes. As far as he was concerned, Christy's season of weeping and mourning had gone on far too long.

Not until her tears began to taper off did he speak. “We'll get through this together. I'm here—and I'll be here going forward. Things will get better. You need to keep believing that.”

“It's hard right now.” Her anguished words were muffled against his chest.

“I know. Sometimes the darkness can overwhelm—and blind. When that happens, it's easy to get lost. I've been there—and it's not a pretty place. Don't get lost, Christy. Hang on to the faith that's sustained you all these years. It will get you through this.”

She didn't respond.

Way to go, McGregor. Who
are you to offer pious platitudes after abandoning God? She
has every right to resent your advice, tell you to—

She pulled back and lifted her chin to look at him. “Thanks for that reminder.”

He listened for sarcasm but heard only sincerity. Still . . . best to be cautious. “I may not be the best person to give that advice.”

“You're the perfect person. You've been through the fire. You watched your best friend die and have carried a load of guilt for eighteen months. Now you're dealing with your brother's injuries. If you found your way back to God through all that, you're more than qualified to offer advice.”

“I hope it helps you as much as yours helped me.”

Her eyes clouded. “When did I give you advice?”

“After I told you about Taz. You suggested it might be time Debbie heard my side of the story. I visited her while I was in Washington last weekend, and putting everything on the table did help. My somewhat awkward attempts to reconnect with the Almighty have too. Life looks a lot different through the lens of faith. I'd forgotten that.” He searched her eyes. The
glassy shock was fading, but the bleakness remained—as did the shakes. “Why don't we sit by the fire for a while?”