Thin Ice (4 page)

He shoved his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. I'm short on sleep.”

“Late night?”

“Late enough.”

That earned him an eyebrow arch. “Don't tell me you're already giving the locals competition on the social scene.”

“I wish. I was working.”

“I thought you told me on Wednesday morning that things were slow. As in catatonic.”

“They heated up.”

“Yeah? What's cooking?”

“A bank robbery on Thursday. I clocked four hours of sleep in the next thirty-six. Plus, I've got my own case now.”

“Sounds like your first week turned out to be immersion by fire.”

“You have no idea how accurate that is.”

“You can tell me all about it at breakfast. Go get ready.”

He held up his bagel. “I'm already eating.”

Mac gave the lump of dough a disparaging once-over. “You call that breakfast? Buddy, I'm taking you to the best pancake place in town.”

That did sound better than a bagel—or one of the fast-food drive-throughs that had become part of his morning routine since arriving in St. Louis.

“They have great eggs and bacon too.” Mac propped a shoulder against the wall and grinned. “Not to mention huge cinnamon rolls.”

His weakness—as his older brother very well knew.

“Sold. Give me five.”

“Take your time. I'll get a cup of that coffee I smell and amuse myself.” Mac pushed off from the wall and strolled through the bare living room. “Nice décor.”

“Hey! Cut me some slack. I just got here.”

“So had I when you critiqued my place on your first visit—but at least I had a couch and a lamp.”

“None of my stuff was worth moving except for the bed, and I haven't gotten around to shopping for furniture yet. You think Lisa might help me out with that?”

“My fiancée is busy planning our wedding, being a police chief, and keeping me company.”

“Fine. I'll handle it.”

“But she might work in a quick shopping trip if I mention the situation is desperate.” Mac stopped and gave the room another perusal. “Which it is.”

“Tell her I'll buy her lunch.”

“Make it the Woman's Exchange, and you'll have a deal.”

“That sounds like one of those froufrou place for ladies who lunch.”

“What can I say? She loves their chopped salad.”

Chopped salad.

Sheesh.

Still . . . He surveyed the empty room. Lisa had done a great job with her own house. It was comfortable and homey without being fussy.

“Fine. I'll take her there.” He'd just have to stop somewhere for a burger afterward.

“I'll tell her to expect your call.” Mac continued toward the kitchen. Paused again. “Is that ‘Clair de Lune'?”

Lance frowned. “Who?”

“Not who. What. A piece of music by Debussy.”

He tried to place the name.

“The famous classical composer?” Mac offered the prompt in a wry tone.

Oh yeah. He'd heard of that guy. And it made sense. Classical stuff was popular in figure skating . . .

Figure skating!

He lunged toward the kitchen, trying to overtake Mac.

Too late.

“You've got to be kidding me.” His brother came to a dead stop in front of the computer as Christy executed some whirling dervish kind of spin. “You're watching figure skating?” Mac sent him an incredulous look.

He leaned over to close the window. “It's research for the case I mentioned on Wednesday that deep-sixed our dinner.”

Mac studied him. “Seriously?”

“You don't think I watch figure skating for fun, do you?”

The oldest McGregor sibling strolled over to a cabinet and pulled out the single clean mug. “Why not? Lisa enjoys it, and I've watched a few competitions with her. What's not to like? Skaters are great athletes—and the women's costumes are very . . . captivating.”

No kidding.

“So does this case you're working on have any similarities to that Nancy Kerrigan situation back in the nineties?” Mac poured himself some coffee.

He ran the name through his mental index. It sounded sort of familiar, but he couldn't place it.

“Who's Nancy Kerrigan?”

“A top US skater who was assaulted by one of her rivals'
cohorts a few weeks before the Olympics. The guy took a swing at her knee with a police baton.”

Oh yeah. That rang a few distant bells. “I don't remember the details. It happened two decades ago.”

“I didn't either, but Lisa filled me in. Despite classy videos like that one you had running”—he swung his mug toward the blank screen—“things are not all sweetness and light in the skating world. It's as competitive and cutthroat as any other professional sport.” He sipped his coffee. Grimaced. “This is worse than SEAL sludge. Get dressed so we can go rustle up some decent java.”

“I'll be ready in five.”

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“This time I mean it.”

“You never answered my question about your case. Any similarities?”

“Not that I know of.”

How could there be? Christy's skating career had been over for years. She was no longer a competitive threat to anyone—and nothing short of an Olympic medal would be worth maiming or killing or kidnapping for.

Yet as Lance headed down the hall to his bedroom and dug through the packing boxes of casual shirts and sweaters, the question he'd asked Christy about enemies resurfaced. She'd claimed neither she nor Ginny had any.

But every instinct he'd honed during his Delta Force stint told him she was wrong.

One of them did, indeed, have an enemy.

A very formidable one who had gone to a great deal of trouble to wreak havoc in the lives of both sisters with a meticulously planned and executed crime.

Lance buttoned his shirt. Pulled a sweater over his head. Savored the familiar adrenaline rush that kicked in whenever he was on the hunt.

What a change from a few days ago, when he'd been a desk jockey drowning in the minutia of old files, wondering if he'd ever get to put any of his Quantico training to use, itching for a case to crack.

Well, he had one now.

And he had a feeling solving it was going to take every bit of his Academy training—along with a few of the tricks and techniques he'd picked up during his high-octane Delta Force days.

L
et's try the axel once more before we call it a day, Lauren.” Christy glided over to the twelve-year-old as the girl bent to adjust one of her laces.

The petite blonde straightened up and huffed out a breath. “I don't know why I can't nail that one.”

“You're getting there. The harder jumps take longer to master. Try putting a little more speed into the approach, and snap your hip around as fast as you can on takeoff to start the rotation immediately. Stay pulled in longer and tighter too. Your muscle memory is kicking in from other jumps and telling you to release sooner, but remember, you have an extra half rotation with this one.”

As Lauren moved off for the setup, Christy watched for strays who might wander into the center area reserved for figure skaters. Teaching during public sessions wasn't ideal, but it was affordable for students who otherwise wouldn't have the opportunity to learn some of the finer points of the sport. Like her, back in the early days when she'd skated for the sheer joy of it.

No problem with wobbly interlopers or speedy games of tag today, though. Attendance at the Saturday morning session was sparse. The snow that had begun falling as she left the house—
not to mention the forecast of significant accumulation—must be keeping most people home.

Christy watched as Lauren began her approach . . . leaped into the air . . . and double-footed the landing.

The youngster skated over, shoulders drooping, and Christy gave her arm a squeeze. “Don't be discouraged. We'll keep plugging away, and one of these days everything will click. Have you been practicing between lessons?”

“Yes. Mom brings me during the week.”

“Excellent. The more ice time you clock, the quicker you'll improve.” She swiveled toward the viewing area, spotted the girl's mother, and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. “I'll watch till you join your mom. See you next week.”

As the girl skated to the side and stepped off the ice, Christy began circling the rink, keeping an eye on the viewing window. Sixty seconds later, Lauren appeared beside her mother. She gave them a final wave, checked her cell for any messages, then reset it to audible.

With the public session winding down, only a handful of people remained on the ice. Given the forecast, she ought to go home too—but the comfort of these predictable, familiar surroundings calmed her. Why not stay for a few more minutes?

Decision made, she picked up speed. Switched to back crossovers. Did a layback spin. Began to set up for a double salchow jump.

At a sudden chirp, though, she came to an abrupt stop in a spray of frosty crystals, pulled off one glove, and dug out her phone.

Lance.

“Good morning.” She glided over to the edge of the rink and stepped off onto the rubber mat. “I hope you got some sleep last night.”

“Yes. But first I discussed your case with my boss. I think it would be helpful if we got together again. Will today work?”

She moved toward the locker area. “Yes. Where and when?”

“Let's do the Panera in Kirkwood, near your condo, in forty-five minutes. That way, you won't have far to drive in the snow. And bring the brushes we need for DNA comparison, plus the contact information for your sister's dentist.”

“It's all ready to go.”

“Great. See you soon.”

Pocketing her phone, she sat to remove her skates. Strange how just listening to Lance McGregor's steady, confident voice quieted the butterflies in her stomach—and reassured her that calling the FBI had been smart.

But if the kidnapper found out she'd ignored his instructions?

The butterflies took off again.

Doing her best to corral them, she tugged off her skates. Wiggled her toes. Rotated her ankles. The thick leather might protect and support, but it was also confining and restrictive.

Kind of like fear.

Except there were two types of fear—the kind that immobilized and victimized and the kind that empowered and spurred into action.

She'd chosen the latter.

Soft cloth in hand, she wiped the moisture off her blades and slid the skates into their carrying case.

Maybe following instructions, leaving the kidnapper in control, would keep her sister safe.

Maybe.

But from everything she'd ever heard about crimes like this, kidnapping victims were often killed whether the family followed instructions or not.

She zipped the case closed and stood. Far better to put her trust in Lance McGregor and the FBI than in a person who torched houses and substituted dead bodies for living ones.

Besides, they had a lot more experience dealing with criminal minds—especially sick ones.

And this person was sick.

Christy was ten minutes early.

But he'd beaten her by fifteen.

As she pulled into the almost deserted lot, Lance watched from his corner seat beside the plate glass window. The heavy snow was obviously keeping most St. Louisans at home, and that suited him fine. If anyone was following her, they'd be easy to spot.

She parked near the door and slid from the car, her snug leggings flattering her lithe form. Resisting the temptation to watch her as she walked toward the entrance, he surveyed the lot instead.

No cars followed her in.

In his peripheral vision, he saw her enter . . . pause . . . scan the back corners. Once she spotted him near the front, he rose, keeping an eye on the lot.

Only after she joined him, leaned close to whisper “In case anyone is watching,” and gave him a hug did he shift his attention to her—and return the embrace.

“Did you have any problems with the snow?” He tipped his head toward the window as she slid into a chair.

“No. Not much stops me on the weather front.”

Or on any other, unless he was reading her all wrong. The lady had spunk.

“Have you had lunch?” The effects of the mega breakfast Mac had fed him five hours ago were beginning to wane.

“Not yet.”

“Why don't we eat? If we keep meeting at Panera and never order anything, it's going to look suspicious.”

“Are we being watched?” A spark of fear darted through her eyes.

“No. But I'm hungry, and I hate to eat alone.” Not entirely true. He was used to eating solo meals, ingesting the food as fast as possible, a weapon at the ready. It was better not to be distracted when an RPG or sniper bullet could appear out of nowhere.

But those days were over.

And a distraction like the woman across from him was welcome. She was a far better meal companion than an MP5.

“In that case, I'll join you.”

He rose. “What would you like?”

She stood too. “I'll go with you. I need to look at the menu.”

By the time they placed their orders, collected their food and drinks, and returned to their table, the place had emptied.

“I brought the items we discussed.” From her tote, Christy retrieved a small gift bag with fancy tissue paper stuck in the top and set it on the table. “The dentist's contact information is in there too. I guess I didn't need to go to all this trouble, since no one's watching us, but I didn't want to take any chances.”

He slid the bag to the side, glancing out as a lone, snow-covered car rolled by, its windshield wipers struggling to fight off the onslaught.

Driving home was going to be a bear.

“It never hurts to go the extra mile in a situation like this. And consistency is important. Now that we've started the friends pretense, let's keep it up. It may come in handy as we move into the investigation.”

She stopped dousing her salad with pepper from the packets she'd collected at the condiments counter. “Your boss gave the green light to proceed?”

“Not officially. He wants to have the results of the autopsy in hand first. But based on what we know, that's where this is headed. If the dental records or the DNA samples in here”—he indicated the gift bag—“match the body, someone is faking a kidnapping. That's a crime. If they don't, we can assume the
kidnapping is real—and we'll run the DNA sample from the body through the national missing person database.”

“What if you don't get a match there?”

“We might never know who it is.”

Christy crushed the empty pepper packets in her fist. “This whole thing is crazy. Why would someone go to such effort—and take such a risk—to disguise a kidnapping with a fire and a fake victim, only to undo all that effort two months later?”

Lance wiped a glob of mustard off his fingers. “That's the $64,000 question. It all comes down to motive. What would someone have to gain from this?”

She rested an elbow on the table and watched the snow accumulate outside the window. “Not anything valuable enough to make all this worthwhile. Like I told you yesterday, I have some money, but not a lot. My parents left their estate to Ginny, but it didn't amount to much.”

“You didn't inherit anything?”

“Some sentimental items. Nothing of great dollar value.”

He could guess the reason for that—and it led directly to the subject he wanted to discuss.

“Since romantic or financial motives don't seem to be panning out, let's talk about other reasons someone might go to such extremes. Jealousy. Anger. Vindictiveness. Personal vendetta. Revenge.”

She was shaking her head even before he finished ticking off the list. “None of those fit—for either of us.”

“That might be true today, but what about in your past? I doubt Nancy Kerrigan is the only world-class figure skater who made enemies.”

Her fork froze in midair, but she remained silent.

“I did some googling this morning on you and your sister. I didn't find much on her, but I discovered a bunch of stuff on Christine Reed. Any reason you didn't tell me about your skating career?”

She appeared to be puzzled by the question as she lowered the fork back to her tray. “I didn't see how it could possibly be relevant to this situation. That was years ago. A different life I left behind when I was eighteen.”

“Some people carry grudges for a very long time.”

“But there were no Tonya Hardings in my competitive circle, and I wasn't an imminent threat to any of the top skaters when I left the circuit.”

“Because of an accident.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

She picked at the crust on her whole grain roll. “If you googled me, I'm sure you already know the highlights—or lowlights. It happened during a training session eighteen days before the Olympics. I'd had a bad case of the flu and shouldn't have been pushing so hard, but with the Games that close, every minute of practice counted. Long story short, I got dizzy, fell while trying to land a triple jump, fractured the tibia in my right leg, and ended up in surgery. End of story—at least as far as the Olympics were concerned.”

“From what I read, it didn't have to be. It sounded like everyone encouraged you to keep competing.”

Christy picked up her fork and rearranged her salad. “Leaving the circuit was the right decision.”

“Why? You'd invested years of training and appeared to be on a roll.”

She forked some lettuce. “Depends how you define
roll
. I did well in some important competitions, but I was never the top finisher. Could I have been if I'd stuck with it? Maybe. Might I have made the team again four years later? Maybe. But the training was grueling, and I would have been twenty-two before I got my next shot at an Olympic medal. Since I retired from competition, only three women over twenty-two have medaled at the Olympics.”

The odds were against her and the work was hard, so she'd given up?

Not ringing true.

He might not yet know a lot about the woman sharing lunch with him on this snowy day, but his instincts told him she wasn't a quitter. Athletes good enough to make the Olympic team didn't shy away from hard work or let long odds deter them.

There was more to this story.

“What aren't you telling me?”

She finished chewing. “I did have other reasons for my choice, but they were personal.”

“Why don't I toss out a theory?”

She watched him in silence as she stabbed another forkful of salad.

“Since your parents left their estate—such as it was—to your sister, and you seem okay with that, I'm assuming the costs associated with your skating were significant. You felt you'd already gotten your share of their material assets.”

“More than my share.” She set her fork down and lifted her soda in salute. “You have excellent deductive skills. Not that I'd expect anything less from an FBI agent.”

“I'm also assuming the costs were a burden for your parents, and that the financial strain played a role in your decision.”

She set the cup down, fitting it into the circle of condensation. “That was part of the reason.”

“You want to tell me the rest?”