FIRE AND ICE (18 page)

“I
am
superficial.” She protested even as she realized how ridiculous she sounded.

He laughed. “It’s your protection, isn’t it? The only people who know the real you are Regan and Cordie, and maybe Regan’s brothers.”

“I don’t hide who I am.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice softened as he added, “I’ve done a little checking, and I’ve got you all figured out, Sophie Rose.”

She shook her head.

He nodded. “You’re always saving for a new purse, aren’t you?”

“I like purses.” Jeez, she sounded defensive.

“You don’t actually buy the purses, though, do you? You pick out the one you want, save enough to buy it—and I’ve heard some of them are way up there in price—and then you give the money to a two-hundred-forty-pound muscle man named Muffin, who runs a soup kitchen. It’s become a game you and Muffin play. You send a photo of the purse in an envelope along with the cash.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to buy a Birkin.”

“That’s several thousand, isn’t it?”

“I
am
going to buy the Birkin,” she insisted. “Would I go to visit it every Wednesday at five p.m. if I weren’t? It’s a gorgeous buttery tan with gold markings.”

He looked exasperated. “No, you’re not going to buy it. What you’re going to do is save the money and then give the money away. You do a lot of nice things you don’t want anyone to know about, don’t you?”

She started to protest again, but he stopped her. “Give it up, Sophie. You’re not an artificial, money-hungry, label-loving dimwit. Sorry, sweetheart. It just doesn’t fly with me.”

Sophie was squirming in the hot seat, but Mr. Bitterman saved the day when he knocked on the door. She had never felt such relief. She hated that Jack knew so much about her. Why had he gone to the trouble to find out her secrets? Why was he interested? What was he up to?
Her father.
That was it. He wouldn’t be looking into her history and her behavior if he weren’t hunting for something about her father.

Bitterman handed her his coat. Tugging off his tie on his way into the living room, he sat down hard in an easy chair. While he and Jack discussed the attempted murder investigation—
her attempted murder investigation
—she hung his coat in the closet and went into the kitchen to get him a cold root beer.

Bitterman was rolling up his sleeves as he asked Jack, “So no progress on the case at all? No leads?”

“That’s what Detective Steinbeck is telling me,” Jack said.

Bitterman pointed a finger at Sophie. He took the root beer she offered but held on to his frown. “Then you’re sitting tight, young lady. I don’t want you running in the streets while there’s some trigger-happy nutcase on the loose.”

“Sir, I don’t run in the streets, and as far as sitting tight … I asked you to come over to talk about something important.” Without
thinking, Sophie crossed to the sofa and sat down next to Jack. Bitterman noticed.

“Before this conversation turns to business matters, I have to ask you how you were able to get so much root beer,” her boss asked. “I thought I’d nabbed the last case in Chicago.”

She glanced at Jack. He was trying not to laugh. “Yeah, Sophie, how’d you do it?”

Her thoughts flashed back to the meat cleaver.

“Actually, sir, I was desperate to get you to come over so I could talk to you, and I might have exaggerated the exact amount of root beer on hand.”

Bitterman leaned forward. “You might have exaggerated?” he asked warily.

She looked him in the eyes. “I did exaggerate. I don’t have a closet full of root beer. Just a couple of bottles. That’s all.”

“In other words, she lied,” Jack was happy to interject.

Sophie gave him a look that should have withered him but didn’t. She didn’t want Mr. Bitterman to dwell on his disappointment so she quickly tried to turn his attention to a more important matter.

“Sir, do you remember William Harrington and the 5K race?”

“Sure, I remember. He changed his mind at the last minute and didn’t run the race, right? You told me it was because he knew he couldn’t win.”

“That’s what I thought, but it turned out I was wrong. That wasn’t the reason he didn’t run.”

Bitterman looked around the room. “Seriously, there isn’t more root beer?”

“Sir, what I’m trying to tell you is important.”

He nodded. “All right. So what was the guy’s reason for not running?”

“He died.”

Bitterman took a few seconds to absorb the information, then said, “What a shame. He was a young man, wasn’t he? He had to be
young to run all those races. I suppose dying is just about the best reason there is not to run a race. Where’d it happen?”

“In Alaska,” she answered. “He died in Alaska.”

From her tone, Bitterman knew something more was coming. He set his root beer on the coffee table and sat back. “He did, did he?”

“A polar bear ate him.”

“What’s this?” he asked, confused. “What did you say?”

She repeated the terrible news, and Jack chimed in at the end. “Barry ate him.”

“My God, they named the polar bear that ate a man? That’s awful callous.”

“No, sir. He already had a name.”

Now to the tricky part. Sophie had to convince Mr. Bitterman to let her investigate the story, and if necessary, send her to Alaska without making him think she might be in danger. Her boss was overly cautious about her. She hadn’t quite rehearsed what she was going to say, but she thought she did a great job of piquing his interest and not hinting at anything other than a human interest story idea.

Then Jack started asking hard questions about living conditions, the wild animals, and the harsh climate—all questions she didn’t want to answer in front of her boss. Sophie poked him in his side with her elbow. “We can talk about this later, Jack. Remember, you weren’t going to interfere.”

“The danger of—”

She interrupted. “I know, it’s terribly cold up there, but I’ll wear the appropriate clothing.”

“That’s not what—”

She poked him again. “Instead of this story, I could write about your leave of absence and remind Chicago of the video.”

Jack leaned in close. “If you want to go to Alaska and freeze to death, I won’t stop you.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

It turned out that Bitterman liked the idea of Sophie getting out of Chicago for a while. He also thought his subscribers would enjoy reading some human interest stories about the rugged people who lived in Alaska. If she made the trip, he might as well get his money’s worth.

“I read somewhere that the high school in Barrow has started a football team. It was a clever way to keep the kids in school and off drugs and alcohol. It’s working, too. You might want to go there. You’ve sold me, Sophie. You can do the story. I’ll fund the trip.”

He started to stand, then changed his mind. “Just wondering … how did you find out about Harrington?”

“He had my business card with him. The police up there found it and called me to tell me he had died.”

Before he asked another question, she rushed on, “Jack and I are going to listen to the interview I did with Harrington. I’m hoping he said something I missed that would explain why he went there. It’s a bit of a puzzle I’d like to solve. Would you like to listen to the interview with us?”

Bitterman declined. “It’s been a long day. I want to get home and relax.”

The second the door closed behind him, Jack started toward her. She backed up.

“A bit of a puzzle?” he asked. “Care to explain what you’re really doing?”

She shrugged. “I’m giving William Harrington the last word.”

T
HE MORE JACK HEARD ABOUT SOPHIE’S PLANS, THE CAR
sire he thought she was, and he made the mistake of saying so.

Her response was sharp. “You don’t have the authority to stop me from going there or anywhere else, for that matter. I have to do this.”

“Why?”

“Because no one else will.” She brushed past him as she added, “I don’t think William Harrington’s death was an accident. He was excited about being asked to join some secret group or project because he was so physically fit.”

She suddenly remembered something else Harrington had told her and whirled around to face Jack. “Tests. Harrington told me that they did a CT scan and an MIR, and they took gallons of his blood to test. They were looking for flaws. Admit it, Jack. That’s weird.”

She stood with both hands on her hips. Her face was flushed with excitement. Jack had trouble concentrating on her words.

“Did he happen to mention who
they
were?”

“No, of course not. He wasn’t supposed to talk about any of it,
but wouldn’t it be easy to find out? The list of places where one can get an MIR can’t be all that long. I could start there.”

He followed her into the living room. She bumped into him when she abruptly turned around again.

He shook his head. “You can’t get medical records. You know that.”

“Hmm. You’re right,” she admitted. She folded her arms and stared into space, thinking. “There’s got to be some way for me to check.”

“Could we listen to the interview now? I want to get this over with.”

“Yes, I know,” she said, “so you can leave and go look at an ocean somewhere.” She couldn’t keep the censure out of her voice.

“What’s with the attitude?”

“You should care and you don’t.”

“When a crime is committed, I damned well do care. Harrington’s death was an accident.”

Hands were back on her hips. “I think it was murder.”

Jack didn’t laugh, but he wanted to. “A polar bear murdered him. Was it a premeditated act? Barry could end up on death row if …”

He sat down before she could push him.

“Do you think that’s funny?” she said with a scowl.

“Yeah, I do. Kind of.”

Sophie rolled her eyes, “You are such an idiot. No wonder you work for the FBI.”

He patted the cushion next to him. “Sit down and convince me Harrington’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Okay, then,” she said, pleased he had decided to be open-minded.

“William Harrington was all set to run what was for him a big race, and then
boom!”
She snapped her fingers for emphasis. “He dies alone in Alaska in the middle of nowhere with a tent nearby. In the meantime, his home phone and his cell phone were disconnected,
and his website was shut down. I went to his apartment building and was told he’d packed a bag and left for Europe, but he was actually in Alaska. Now I ask you, does that make any sense to you?”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Oh, I know what you’re going to say. Harrington had his phones disconnected because he didn’t know how long he would be in Europe—which is a stupid reason, but logical—and he simply changed his mind about Europe and chose instead to go camping miles from nowhere alone in the Arctic.

“Then you would say, all that talk about being so super-fit and being invited to join some kind of Superman project was a lie he made up to impress me. I don’t think it was a lie, though.”

He smiled. “Do I need to be here for my part in this conversation?”

Embarrassed, she said, “I’ll admit I can get a little eager.”

“Because you’re searching for a story?”

“No, because I’m searching for the truth. It’s the right thing to do.”

“I’m not waiting any longer. I’m listening to the interview.”

With that, he pushed the button on the recorder. Harrington’s voice filled the room.

Sophie ran into her bedroom to get her notebook and pen. Very professional now, she returned to sit on the edge of the sofa, pen in hand and notebook balanced on her knees, poised to take copious notes.

An hour later she was sprawled out next to Jack sound asleep. Her feet were in his lap; the notebook was on the floor, and her pen had disappeared between the cushions.

Jack lasted another half hour before giving in. At that point, he either had to take a break or throw the frickin’ recorder out the window. When he stopped the recording and moved her feet off his lap, she woke up.

Sophie opened her eyes and saw him. The hubba-hubba hunk,
she’d decided to call him. One of her socks was hanging off her foot, and he was pulling it up for her. When he caught her staring at him and smiled, her heart missed a beat. She was sure of it.

Bizarre, she thought. Absolutely bizarre. She’d never had such an instant love/hate reaction to a man before. Jack was different, and that made her worry. This man could hurt her. The big jerk.