On Thin Ice (31 page)

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Authors: Susan Andersen

BOOK: On Thin Ice
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And it wasn't as if anyone was holding his breath waiting for her to get home. Stopping at the door to the locker room she shrugged and said, “Okay then. Sure.”
“Thanks, Sasha.” Karen gave her a smile of surprising warmth. “I'll see you in the rink after the bus leaves.”
Sasha stood with her hand on the door handle and watched her walk away. Then, with a little smile and a shake of her head, she turned the handle and pushed the door inward.
“Saush! Wait up.”
Hesitating, she looked down the corridor. Connie was jogging down the hallway toward her, her hands on the skate boots slung around her neck keeping the laces pulled taut to prevent the boots from banging against her chest with the motion. Sasha let the door close once again.
Breathless, Connie skidded to a halt in front of her. “Why was Karen Corselli getting so chummy—she wanna be your new best friend?”
“No, she just wants me to—”
“Never mind; forget about her,” Connie interrupted. “She's not the reason I tracked you down.” She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Saush, I'm sorry about this afternoon. I've had something on my mind that I'm having a hard time getting a handle on, but I didn't mean to go all Joanie Junior High School on you.”
Sasha's mood elevated instantly. “Yeah, you really oughtta learn to be more mature.” She nudged her friend's shoulder with her own. “Like me.”
Connie grinned. “I'll take that under advisement,” she said. “So, how's your head?”
Sasha touched it gingerly. “It's going to stay on, I think.”
“And has your love life improved since we last talked?”
“I wish. Oh, Connie, it just keeps on getting messier.”
“Well, mine has taken a twist.”
“Yes?” Sasha perked up. It had been about eight months since Connie had had a boyfriend. “Tell me.”
“I'll tell ya on the bus, but you have got to give me your word you won't go ballistic on me.”
Sasha waited for her to elaborate and when she didn't, said indignantly, “You can't just say something like that and then leave me hanging. Come on! Tell me now.”
“I can't Saush. You hotshot headliners may be all finished for the evening, but the rest of us peons still have another number to do, remember? I've got to be back on the ice in—what?—seven minutes? I'm going to need longer than that to talk to you about this, 'cause it's complicated. I'll tell you on the bus.”
“Then at least give me a little hint to hold me until—ah, no,
damn
! ”Sasha thumped the door frame with her fist. “I'm not going to be on the bus, Connie.” She flapped her hand in the general direction that Karen Corselli had exited. “That was what Karen wanted. She asked me to go over the ice with her so she doesn't land on her butt tomorrow night like she did tonight. Ah, dammit anyway, I didn't particularly want to do this in the first place.”
Connie nodded in understanding. “Because she's one of the ‘possibles' on Mick's list?”
“Uh, well, no,” Sasha replied and grimaced. “I sorta forgot about that, to tell you the truth.” Then she made a disparaging noise and waved it away. “Nah, c'mon, can you honestly picture Karen Corselli mixed up in a drug ring?”
“Our Lady of the Perpetual Snow? Hey, really, why not? Drug dealers must come in all shapes and sizes. It's true I can't quite see Miss Squeaky Clean in the role, but what do you suppose a typical dealer
looks
like, anyhow?”
“I don't know. Some skinny Columbian with a pockmarked face and patent-leather hair?” Then she sobered. “I shouldn't joke about this, because when it comes right down to it what the hell do I know? I mean, let's face it, Connie, I never would have picked Lon as a pusher either.”
Connie didn't have the time to pursue that particular avenue right then. “If it wasn't the list thing, then why weren't you hot to help her out tonight? I mean, I know she's not exactly a bosom buddy, but you're usually such a sport about that sort of thing.”
“Well, it's just . . . I feel sorta awkward knowing she's been sleeping with Lon . . .”
“
What?
” Connie's voice came out in a strained whisper.
An expression of guilt flashed across Sasha's face. “Oh, great, so much for my word that I wouldn't tell anyone, huh? I guess I've got brass calling Mick a liar at every turn—at least he knows how to keep a secret.”
Connie grabbed her arm. “Beat yourself up some other time,” she said through gritted teeth. “I wanna know how you know about Lon and Karen.”
“I caught him coming out of her room last night.” Sasha took in the paleness of her friend's face and nodded. “I know, it's kind of a shocker, isn't it? No matter how many rumors have been circulated about her, it still about knocked me off my feet.”
“A shocker,” Connie said with some bitterness as she loosened her grip on Sasha's arm. “Yeah. That's one way of putting it.”
Sasha looked at her closely. “Am I missing something here?” It was beginning to occur to her that Connie's distress went deeper than the situation seemed to merit.
“No. Look, I've gotta go, Saush.” Connie couldn't seem to draw a complete, to-the-bottom-of-the-lungs breath, and she had to remove herself before she did something really stupid . . . like started to scream. “I'm gonna be late.”
Sasha was disconcerted by the abruptness in her friend's voice but said gamely, “Okay. Listen, I'll see you as soon as we finish up here, okay? What room are you in? I'm dying to hear your news.”
“Oh, God,” Connie said with a strangled laugh. Then without answering the question she turned on her heel and fled, leaving Sasha to stare after her in bewilderment.
 
 
Mick glared at the charts he'd compiled. Dammit, the answer had to be in here somewhere. He'd eliminated a few names on the basis of who had been in the crowd immediately following Amy Nitkey's hit-and-run. Dave DiGornio, for example, had been easy. He'd been talking to his father and Cathy on the patio when Amy was struck; ergo it wasn't possible that he was the driver. One name off the list. Two others weren't quite as cut and dried but they were close enough. Mick recalled seeing them within a time frame in which he thought unlikely that the driver could have ditched his car and blended back into the crowd.
Presuming he'd bothered to blend back in at all.
He tapped his pencil on the next name on the list. Karen Corselli. Huh. Doubtful. All the same, he didn't write anybody off without compelling evidence, so give it some consideration. What did he know about her?
She preached at the drop of a hat. She set his teeth on edge. She was uptight, easily offended, and tight assed.
But not so tight assed that she'd hesitated to grab him by the balls.
He threw down his pencil and sat up straighter. What with one thing and another he'd forgotten about that. Jesus. It was an anomaly that should have jumped out at him right off the bat, but he'd been preoccupied with Sasha. It was for reasons such as this that surgeons didn't operate on their own family members and cops should never get personally involved with women on their cases. He rolled his shoulders. Well, he couldn't do a damn thing about it now, so concentrate on what he knew. Karen Corselli. Dainty, mealymouthed, and devout. Okay so far, but . . . Militant about stamping out offensive language, but not an iota of shyness when it came to glomming onto the crotch of some guy she hardly even knows and obviously doesn't like? Fondling him, inviting him up to her room, while simultaneously chastising him for taking the Lord's name in vain?
This was not the profile of an entirely reasonable personality.
Mick shoved back from the table and went to the closet. Pulling out his suitcase, he opened the false bottom, pulled out his ID and gun, then kicked the suitcase aside. He checked the clip, snapped it into place, and shoved the gun into his waistband, pulling his sweater down to cover it. Sliding his identification into his hip pocket, he picked up his keys and left the room.
It was time to stop playing games.
Two minutes later, he was down on the next floor, pounding on Morrison's door. He waited a moment, pounded again, then turned away. Damn. Okay, think. Where else might he be?
Corselli's room? Alerting a possible suspect by pounding on her door wasn't exactly recommended procedure, so he went down to the lobby and used the house phone to dial her room.
No answer.
Swearing viciously under his breath, Mick banged the receiver into its cradle and crossed the lobby to the lounge. He stuck his head in the door and looked around, not expecting much by this time.
Morrison was sitting by himself, nursing a beer at a table in the corner.
Mick walked over, pulled out a chair and sat down. He dug his ID out of his hip pocket, but a waitress materialized before he had a chance to show it to the other man. “Club soda,” he said without taking his eyes off Morrison.
“I'm set,” Lon told her. He crossed his arms over his chest and lounged back, eyeing Mick sourly as she walked away. “To what do I owe the honor, Vinicor?”
Mick flipped open the ID and slid it across the small tabletop. Lon sat up and leaned forward to read it, squinting to make out the words in the dim lighting. Suddenly, he swore and snapped upright. “DEA?” he said hoarsely. “You're fucking DEA?”
“That's right.” Mick snapped the wallet closed and slid it back into his pocket.
“Does Sasha know about this? Ah, hell yeah, of course she does . . . and I know to the
day
when she found out. You son of
bitch!
Coming out of his chair, Lon lunged across the table at him. Grabbing a handful of sweater in both fists, he started to haul Mick to his feet, but Mick brought his hands up under Lon's wrists and snapped them wide, breaking the hold. Gripping Lon's shoulders, he surged to his own feet, using the momentum to shove Morrison back into his seat. Leaning across the minute cocktail table, he thrust his face into the other man's and said between gritted teeth, “Sit the hell down and shut up!”
“You
used
her, you—”
“And you
didn't?
” Mick's fists twisted in the material of Lon's shirt and yanked, hauling him halfway to his feet. They stood nose to nose hunched over the table. “Don't get sanctimonious on me, you sorry son of a bitch. You got a job here by using her. She vouched for you and you were willing to destroy everything she's put together since the
last time
you fucked her over by going back to doing the same old shit that got you tossed in the pen in the first place. You think that won't affect the way the people she works with regard her?” Breathing heavily, he loosened his grip and flicked the backs of his fingers disdainfully against the material. “Between the two of us we're chipping away at her life piece by freakin' piece, but you aren't any more fit to lick her goddam shoes clean than I am, so don't talk to
me
about using her.”
Lon sank back into his seat. He picked up his beer, drained it, then set the glass carefully back within the same condensation ring on the tabletop. He looked up at Mick, saw the fury and the anguish. “She's gonna dump you, isn't she?”
“Yeah, the minute I get this case solved.” The look Mick gave him was bitter. “That should make you happy.”
“I guess that depends on whether you love her or if this was all just a game or a job or whatever to you.”
“I love her all right, but it doesn't matter to her. She's tired to death of being lied to.”
“Oh, I imagine it matters a whole lot more than you think. And if it makes you feel any better, you're right about me. I'm a loser and Sasha's better off without me. But you got one thing wrong. I haven't sold since I was sprung. I'll admit I considered it when I got out and discovered that everything had changed, that Saush had you and Nakamura and didn't need me—that she'd grown up and got on with her life. But I couldn't quite bring myself to do it, Vinicor.”
“But you do have a partner who's pressuring you?”
He gave an unamused snort of laughter. “Oh, yeah.”
“Who is it?”
Lonnie plowed his fingers through his hair. “Ah, man, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.”
“I will if you say it's Karen Corselli.”
Lon's head jerked up. “You
know?
” A short, sharp bark of incredulous laughter exploded out of his throat and he leaned forward on his forearms, pinning Mick with a look of such intensity it made Mick blink.
“Jesus,” Lon said hoarsely, “I didn't think there was a person in the world who would give a lick of credence to the word of an ex-con over that of a Bible-thumping, upstanding citizen like Miss Corselli. How did you figure it out?” He waved the question away. “Never mind; it doesn't matter.” He got right down to business. “She's got a gun, Vinicor. I found it this morning before we left Cheyenne. I bought some blanks as soon as we hit town, but I only had time to replace about three-quarters of 'em.”

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