Thin Ice (26 page)

“I'm sure you have places to go and things to do.” But she didn't pull back from his arms.

“They can wait.” He walked her into the living room, urged her down onto the couch, then nodded toward the kitchen. “I'll put away the food. We can eat later.”

Lance quickly relegated the meal to the fridge and returned to Christy. When he put his arm around her and tugged her close, she dropped her head to his shoulder, as if it was the most natural thing to do despite their short acquaintance.

A positive omen for the future—he hoped.

She didn't talk much for the next forty-five minutes, and he didn't push her. People dealt with bad news in different ways. If she needed a sympathetic ear in the days ahead, he'd make himself available.

Before he left, he did manage to coax her into eating some of the food, and by the time she walked him to the foyer, a trace of color had returned to her face.

Too bad he had to ratchet up the tension again.

He turned at the door. “Call me if you want to talk later—or anytime.”

“You already have a lot of stuff on your plate with your brother.”

“There's plenty of room left for you—including the issue of your safety. If the Bureau had the resources, I'd put a bodyguard on you 24/7.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “If you're trying to scare me, it's working.”

“Not scare you. Put you on alert. Red alert. I don't know what this guy's plans are for you, but I guarantee they're not pleasant.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Maybe he's already
accomplished what he set out to do. Maybe he just wanted to make my life miserable. Take away everyone I cared about so I'd have to spend the rest of my life mourning them—and missing them. That's possible, isn't it?”

He hated to burst her bubble, but they needed to face the grim reality. “It might have been—except for his last note. Now that we know Ginny's dead, his ‘you will see your sister soon' message has a lethal undertone.”

The little color that had seeped into her complexion leached out. “So what should I do?”

“Take all the precautions we've already talked about. Be attentive and stay in public areas when you're out and about. This condo is my biggest concern.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I'm having a security system installed tomorrow.”

That was the best news he'd had all day.

“Smart move—with or without this situation. In today's world, it pays to be prudent and take precautions. From our standpoint, we'll continue to release information to the media. We've had a few calls, none of which have been helpful. But that could change at any moment.” He forced himself to reach for the doorknob instead of her. “I'll call you in the morning.”

“Use my cell. I'll be here while they install the security system.”

“Got it.” Not trusting his hands, he kept one on the knob and the other wrapped around his keys while he leaned close to brush his lips over her forehead. “Lock up behind me.”

Then he beat a hasty retreat before he caved and snuck a taste of the lush mouth that had been tempting him since the first day at Panera when she'd shared her story.

That fantasy stayed with him for several blocks . . . until a harsher reality intruded.

He had a tail.

Adrenaline spiking, he kept one eye on the distant headlights in the rearview mirror and one on the road. Had the car been with him since he pulled out of Christy's street?

Must have been. None of his other cases merited a tail.

This had to be their guy.

After pulling the Bureau radio microphone off its clip from under the seat, he signaled and turned left at the next corner.

Twenty seconds later, the car behind him made a left too.

Bingo.

He identified himself to the FBI dispatcher with a few clipped words. “Get the police dispatcher on the line. I've got a tail I need identified. Have the cop pull him over on some pretext and fill out a field interview report. I'll need a copy of that ASAP and—”

Lance stifled a curse as he caught sight of a police cruiser approaching in the rearview mirror behind the car trailing him, lights flashing and sirens screaming.

Too soon to be his cop.

The headlights he'd been watching took a sharp right and disappeared.

He hissed out a word that would make his mother cringe. Even if he executed a high-speed U turn, there was no way he could catch up with the guy before he blended into traffic.

Could the timing have been any worse?

“Agent McGregor? Are you there?”

“Yeah.” He wiped a hand down his face. “Scratch the request. Our guy got spooked and took off.”

Ending the call, he pulled aside to let the police car race past, adrenaline still pinging. Their guy had been almost close enough to spit on, yet Lance didn't even have a make on the car.

But he had picked up one important piece of intel: the killer wasn't lying as low as they'd expected after the news about Ginny broke. He was keeping tabs on Christy in person, not just via the GPS device on her car.

Hands clamped on the wheel, Lance pulled back into traffic. The security system she was having installed tomorrow was a plus. In fact, after tonight, he'd have pushed hard for that if she hadn't already made the decision herself.

No matter how effective it was, though, there were too many other places she was vulnerable. To keep her safe, they either needed to step up their game or get a rock-solid lead.

Preferably both.

N
athan took a sip of coffee and padded down the hall to his room. He could get used to sleeping until noon on weekdays. Too bad he didn't have any more ailing relatives; bereavement leave was a nice job perk.

He stopped beside the laptop on his desk, pulled up the GPS monitor on Christy's car—and frowned.

Why was she at home instead of work?

She never missed work.

And what about her Tuesday night skating student? Had she cancelled that commitment too?

Tapping one finger against his mug, he began to pace.

This was bad.

If she didn't go to work, all the plans he'd made for tonight would have to be rescheduled, all the prep he'd done yesterday dismantled. And what if the weather changed? Today was perfect—twenty-five degrees and no precipitation—exactly what his plan required. It might be a long while before he had such perfect conditions again.

Should he drive by her house, scout around a little?

The jarring strobe of flashing lights and the scream of the
siren from last night replayed in his brain, and his hand jerked, sloshing his coffee.

No. Bad idea. That incident had jacked up his adrenaline so high he hadn't been able to get to sleep for hours.

His own fault, though. Following Christy's boyfriend had been dumb. It didn't matter whether he was a cop or not; the plan was set. He should have driven straight home, as usual. And there was no reason to risk another visit. He was too close to finishing this to take any chances. If Christy didn't . . .

Wait.

He stopped. Peered at the monitor. Hurried over.

Yes!

Her car was moving.

Keeping his gaze on the screen, he lowered himself into his desk chair and followed her progress. It looked promising. She drove the same route to work every day, and other than a short detour—also predictable—to Panera on occasion, she never deviated from her routine.

He took a sip of coffee. Christy was such a creature of habit. And she was disciplined. Focused. Single-minded in pursuit of her goals. All excellent qualities for an Olympic athlete.

But not so great when they ruined lives in the process.

It was her quest for gold that had spelled his doom.

His fingers tightened on the mug. Maybe she didn't understand how her abandonment had ruined his life. But she would. Soon.

Her car continued to travel in the usual direction, and when it stopped in the parking lot at the rec center, he exhaled.

Things were back on track.

And in less than eight hours, the games would begin—only four days later than planned, despite the curve Mevlida had thrown him.

Nathan took another sip of coffee. He'd have to make a thermosful for tonight. Keeping the cold at bay would be a challenge—but the outcome would be well worth any discomfort.

He rose, stretched and wandered toward the hall, pausing outside the old woman's room.

The shredded blanket and sheets she'd cut into strips to fashion into a rope lay in a heap on the floor, and the chair she'd kicked out from under her was still on its side. Otherwise, the room looked the same as it had since they'd moved here eighteen months ago—tidy, clean, and sparse.

Her book of prayers caught his eye, and he smirked. A lot of good her faith had done her. In the end, when she'd been alone and desperate, her god had abandoned her.

He crossed to the book and thumbed through the pages. The detectives had done the same—searching for a farewell note, they'd claimed. But she'd written no note. He'd checked before he'd called the police.

His grandmother had departed life mute.

The pages fell open to the business card the cops had asked about. Jasna Baljić. The do-gooder nurse at the rehab center who'd tracked him down with the help of some Legal Aid attorney she knew, after the old woman fell. A call from a lawyer had spooked him enough to respond—and the allure of monthly government checks had been too tempting to pass up. But the pittance hadn't ended up being worth the aggravation. Lucky for her, the rush he got from controlling her life had compensated for the hassles or she'd have been back on the streets within weeks.

He tossed the book back onto the table. At least the tragedy, as the police and his boss called it, hadn't caused a major delay in his plans for Christy, as he'd feared.

From the threshold of the room, he took one more look around, shook his head, and shut the door.

Mevlida Terzic's death had been as meaningless as her life.

“Afternoon, Jasna. You've got quite a handful there.”

As the mailman grinned and hefted his sack, Jasna bounced a fussy Ben on her hip and kept a firm grip on Lana's hand while her daughter did an impromptu dance. You'd think three-year-olds who'd missed their nap would be out of energy by four o'clock.

Not this one.

She tightened her grip on the straining fingers. “You could say that.”

“You coming or going?”

“Going—unfortunately. I just swung by from work to pick up the kids. I think this one's got an ear infection”—she hefted Ben—“and I'm trying to get to the pediatrician's office before they close.”

“Tough schedule, after putting in a full shift at the hospital.”

“Yeah. Any other day, my mom would stay and keep an eye on Lana, but she's not feeling well—and my husband's going straight from work to his night class at the university.” She lifted one shoulder. “What can you do?”

“You have my sympathy. Would you like me to put your mail in the slot?” He dug some envelopes out of his bag and waved them toward the front door of the four-family flat.

“Thanks. That would be great. I don't need to go through it until—Lana!”

Jasna watched in dismay as the little girl jumped for the handful of mail, knocking it from the man's hand. It arced through the air and scattered across the frozen ground.

“I'm so sorry.” She released Lana's hand and leaned down to
her level. “Stay right here, young lady. Don't move a muscle.” After issuing the stern warning, she bent to help the man collect the letters, bills, and ads.

He grabbed for a shiny flyer that was fluttering in the wind. “No worries. I've dropped plenty of mail myself. Better than losing my bag while being chased by a dog, let me tell you. Been there, done that too.”

Jasna reached for the last letter, pausing as she read the return address.

Why would her former employer be contacting her?

“Want me to add that to the stack for the slot?” The mailman motioned toward the envelope in her hand.

“No, I'll take this one with me. Sorry again.”

“Like I said, all in a day's work.” When her chastened daughter peeked up at him, he leaned down and patted her head. “Can I see that pretty smile again?”

She gave him a tremulous one as a single tear quivered on her eyelash.

“Much better. Smiles make the sun shine even on cold days like this.” He straightened up and, with a wink, continued toward the mail slots on the doors of the flat.

Jasna weighed the envelope in her hand, then tucked it into her purse and took Lana's hand. Whatever was inside would have to keep until she got to the waiting room and had a minute to sit. Besides, she'd been gone from that facility for more than a year.

How urgent could the letter be?

“I've got a call from a woman who claims to have information that's relevant to the Ginny Reed case.”

Lance juggled the phone against his ear, one arm in the sleeve of his topcoat as the receptionist relayed the news.

So much for trying to get out of the office before six for once.

Then again, maybe he would. This would most likely turn out to be a bust, as had the other half dozen tips that had come in on the hotline today after they'd reissued the description of the suspect Brenda had given him.

“Did you get a name?”

“Yes. Jasna Baljić.”

Good. The caller had been willing to identify herself. That was a step up from a couple of the anonymous tips that had produced nothing but wild goose chases.

“You want the spelling on that?”

At Sharon's prompt, he shrugged out of his coat and sat back in his desk chair. “Yeah. Go ahead.” He copied it down as she spelled it out. “Does she have an accent?”

“Slight. Bosnian, I presume. You're too new to know, but St. Louis has a very large Bosnian community. The largest in the US, as a matter of fact. A lot of them live down around Bevo Mill . . . south city.”

An ethnic group with members who could have dark hair and eyes, depending on their ancestry, and who might speak with the hint of an accent.

This could be a real lead.

“Got it. Let me talk to her.”

The line clicked. “Ma'am, I'm putting you through to Agent McGregor.” Another click as Sharon cut her connection.

Lance leaned forward in his chair. “This is Agent McGregor. I understand you have some information that might be useful to us in the Ginny Reed case.”

“I'm not sure—it may be. I'm a nurse, and I got a letter today from a former patient. It's very . . . disturbing. Especially the last few lines.” The distress in her voice was palpable.

Mark passed by his cube, and Lance waved the other agent in.

“What did she say?”

“That she hoped I could convince the authorities to pay attention to her concerns so her death wouldn't be in vain.”

Mark dropped into the chair beside the desk.

“How is that relevant to the Ginny Reed case?”

“That line isn't—but it upset me. It sounds like she . . . like she was planning to take her life or thought someone was going to kill her. I tried to call her, but the number I had is out of service.”

Maybe this wasn't going anywhere after all.

Lance sat back in his chair, striving for patience. “Ms. Baljić, I understand why you'd be upset by a comment like that—but my first concern is the Ginny Reed case. Did she say something specific about that?”

“Not about Ginny Reed. Her sister, Christy. The one that's been on the news and in the papers the past week or so.”

Lance straightened up. “Go on.”

“She said her grandson has a photo of Christy Reed in his room—with a knife stuck through the heart. He was also very angry when the news came out about her sister's body being found.”

His adrenaline started pumping. “Are you in a position to fax me a copy of that letter?”

“It's in Bosnian.”

That figured.

“But I could type up a translation for you.”

Perfect.

“That would be very helpful. While you're doing that, I'll drive over to pick up the original and talk with you in person. What's your address?”

He jotted it down as she recited it. Sharon had pegged it. The woman lived in the Bevo Mill neighborhood.

“I can be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. I'll also need to get in touch with the woman who wrote the letter and her grandson. Do you have names and addresses for them?”

“Only names. There was no return address on the envelope. The last I heard, she was living with her grandson—but I think they must have moved, since the phone number isn't in service anymore. I helped find her grandson for her when she was in rehab because she had nowhere to go after she was released. They'd been estranged for years.”

“Go ahead and give me the names and we'll track down an address for him.”

Again, he jotted as she spoke, writing the unusual names in block letters so he wouldn't have to second-guess his scribbles later.

“The grandson had switched to an Americanized name, but I can't recall what it was. Mevlida always called him Neven. I'm sorry.”

“We can track that down too. Expect me shortly.”

“All right. But could you check on Mevlida? I have a bad feeling about the end of the letter. It sounds so . . . desperate. I think she could be in danger—or that something bad has already happened to her.”

“I'm going to put a call in to the police as soon as we hang up. I'll let you know what I find out. And thank you for contacting us with this.”