Thin Ice (3 page)

“Apology accepted.” No need to admit she'd come close to pegging him. “Considering the stress you're under, I think you're remarkably composed.”

“Not on the inside.” She touched the back of his hand, her fingers cold and not quite steady. “So can you help me with this? Since Ginny was a federal employee and that note crossed state lines, I assumed it fell under FBI jurisdiction.”

He tried to focus on her question rather than her touch. “Yes, it does. And yes, I can help. My first priority is to have our handwriting experts in Quantico compare this envelope to a verified sample from your sister.”

Once again she reached into the computer case. “I assumed that would be a first step, so I pulled notes and cards she sent me over the past few years. I also included a poem she handwrote for my thirtieth birthday. I don't have much else. She was more into email and texting.”

He gave the documents a fast perusal. He was no expert, but he agreed with Christy. The handwriting appeared to match.

“May I?” He lifted the plastic-bagged documents.

“Yes.” She watched him slide them into the file. “The instant I realized what they were, I put them in the bags. On my end, no one but me has touched them.”

“We should be able to pull some prints from your sister's cards too. All federal employees are in the automated fingerprint database. Any others we find can be run to see if they belong to someone with a criminal record.”

“How long will that take?”

“I'll courier the material to Quantico tomorrow and ask for priority analysis. We should have a response by Friday if I press.”

“What if I hear back in the meantime from the person who wrote the note?”

“Call me.” He extracted a business card and set it on the table. “However, I'm not expecting that to happen. The fire was two months ago. Unlike most kidnappers, this person doesn't appear to be on a fast track.”

“What's next if your experts decide that's Ginny's handwriting?”

“We'll need to exhume the body buried in her grave and do an autopsy—including a DNA analysis—to verify it's not your sister.”

“This whole thing is surreal.” She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Have you ever run across a case like this before?”

“No—but every situation is unique.” No need to tell her he was so new to the FBI that he had no personal basis for comparison. “We'll figure this out. And you made the right choice in coming to us.”

“I hope so.” She didn't sound convinced.

“Ms. Reed, the FBI is committed to confidentiality. You don't need to worry about leaks on our end.”

“But if you start investigating and asking questions, word could spread to the wrong people—especially if you get too close.”

He couldn't dispute that.

“We'll do everything we can to keep that from happening.”

Based on the apprehension in her eyes, his less-than-absolute reassurance wasn't what she'd hoped to hear. But it was the best he could offer.

Because sometimes, no matter how hard you tried, things went south.

Swallowing past the sudden constriction in his windpipe, he opened his notebook. “Why don't you give me your contact information, including address and cell phone?” After she complied, he pushed the card on the table toward her. “If you need to talk to me—day or night—use the cell number. Don't hesitate. That will always be the fastest way to reach me. Now let me walk you to your car.”

He held her coat, then followed her out to a dark blue Mazda, scrutinizing the parking lot as they walked. Nothing seemed amiss.

At the car, she turned to him. “Just in case anyone is watching, can I give you a hug? So this looks like a social meeting?”

“No problem.” At all.

She stepped toward him, and he pulled her close.

Nice—but over too fast.

“Thanks again for meeting me tonight.” Without waiting for a response, she slid behind the wheel.

He moved aside while she backed out, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket as her taillights receded into the night.

Only after they disappeared did he return to his own car, a thrum of excitement pulsing in his veins.

His days of reading boring 302s were over. He had his own case now.

And it was a hot one—in more ways than one.

W
atching the phone wasn't going to make it ring.

Christy blew out a breath, plucked the cell off her desk, and shoved it in the gym bag on the floor beside her. Lance McGregor had promised to call when he had any news, and unless her instincts were way off, he would. The tall, clean-cut agent with piercing blue eyes and a professional, buttoned-up demeanor struck her as a man who kept his word. Exactly the kind of integrity she'd expect from an FBI agent, based on the image the Bureau projected.

Yet she had a feeling the well-broken-in black leather bomber jacket Lance had worn Wednesday night at Panera, which sent a subtle don't-mess-with-me message, suited his personality better than the suit-and-tie image the FBI cultivated. It was the kind of jacket favored by a man who knew how to exert pressure and get results. Who didn't quit until he finished a job.

The very kind of man she wanted on Ginny's case.

Unfortunately, whatever pressure tactics he'd applied must not have worked at FBI headquarters. At five forty-five on a Friday, there wasn't much chance the handwriting analysis would arrive today. Or tomorrow. Or Sunday.

It was going to be a long weekend.

She rose from her desk, grabbed her gym bag, and headed to the ladies' room. Back-to-back coaching sessions should loosen the tension between her shoulder blades—and tonight's students would require her full concentration.

But she'd keep her phone handy, just in case.

Ten minutes later, as she emerged still tugging the hem of her lightweight wool sweater down over her leggings, a muffled chirp sounded deep within her bag.

Jolting to a stop in the hall, she fumbled with the zipper. The bag slipped from her shoulder, and she dropped to one knee to root through the contents.

Naturally the phone had sunk to the bottom and wedged itself in a corner.

By the time she had it in hand, the call had rolled to voice mail—but according to caller ID, it was Agent McGregor.

Yes!

“Ma'am? Are you okay?”

She looked up. One of the evening maintenance guys had stopped mopping and was watching her with concern.

“Yes. Thanks.” She scrambled to her feet and hoisted the bag back onto her shoulder. “I, uh, dropped my stuff when the phone rang. It startled me.”

“Well, if you're coming this way, be careful of the wet floor. I don't want anybody falling on my watch.” He went back to work.

Drumming her thumb against the phone, Christy eyed the ladies' room. Not sufficient privacy for a return call. Anyone lingering after hours could barge in. And since the city had adopted the cube mentality permeating corporate America, her so-called office wasn't an option, either. Nor the conference room pod.

That left her car.

After a quick detour to grab her coat, she hurried down the corridor toward the front door, trying not to break into a jog under the wary scrutiny of the maintenance guy.

Once in the parking lot, though, she picked up her pace, dodging around a mother holding tight to the hand of a tiny girl toting a dance bag. The tot had to be a student in the popular introduction to ballet class she'd added to the program roster last fall.

Too bad she couldn't pop in and watch for a few minutes. The youngsters' innocence and enthusiasm was always a balm for the soul—and she could use some balm tonight.

An icy gust sliced through her, and she popped the locks, shivering as she slid behind the wheel. After once more digging out her phone, she tapped in Lance's number.

He answered on the first ring.

“Agent McGregor? It's Christy Reed. Sorry I missed your call.” Her words came out in a rush, her breath forming a frosty cloud in front of her face. “I couldn't get to my phone fast enough.”

“No problem. I meant to touch base with you earlier, but my whole squad was pulled into a bank robbery and everything else came to a standstill. I did hear from Quantico a couple of hours ago, though. Our handwriting experts are certain the envelope was addressed by your sister.”

She closed her eyes.

Ginny was alive.

“Are they sure?” Despite the penetrating cold, her palms began to sweat.

“Yes. They also found her prints on the envelope—along with a number of others. One of those was on the greeting cards too, which suggests it belongs to you. They ran all the prints through the database, but nothing came back.”

“Translation?”

“They don't belong to any current or past federal employees, military personnel, government contractors with clearances—or anyone with a criminal history.”

She fixed her gaze on the pool of illumination from an overhead light, one of the few bright spots in the parking lot. “So what happens next?”

“I've already been in touch with . . .” A siren sounded, and garbled voices spoke in the background. “Hold a minute.”

She shivered again, trying to tune out the all-too-familiar emergency sounds.

“Sorry about that.” A thread of weariness wove through his words.

“You sound like you're still in the thick of th-things.” Great. Now her teeth were beginning to chatter. She should have started the car and cranked up the heat before returning his call.

“I am. But I wanted to bring you up to speed. I've spoken to the County ME's office. The body will be exhumed Monday and an autopsy done Tuesday. We should be able to determine if it's your sister through DNA or dental records. Do you have any personal items she might have used?”

“The fire destroyed everything at her place, but she kept a toothbrush at my house and I have the items from her car—including a hairbrush. Will either of those give you what you need?”

“Toothbrushes only work about 50 percent of the time. Let's hope there are some hairs in the brush with the roots attached. Do you know the name of her dentist?”

“Yes.”

“I'll call you back after this winds down to get that information and arrange to pick up the brushes. Sometime tomorrow, probably.”

“What if the autopsy confirms the body isn't . . .” She swallowed. “That it's not Ginny?”

“Then we assume the note is real and treat this as a kidnapping.”

She flexed her numb fingers. “I still can't get a handle on the motive. It's not like I'm rich or have anything valuable enough to be ransom-worthy.”

“If that's the case, this could be personal. A vendetta of some kind.”

“That gets back to the enemies question.”

“True.” More background noise, followed by a muffled exchange. “I need to go. But I plan to track down my boss and discuss this with him before I crash for a few hours. I'll call you tomorrow, and we'll talk next steps.”

Her fingers tightened on the phone as she fought back a wave of panic. “If the results from the autopsy verify it's not Ginny, you'll launch a full investigation, right?”

“Yes. And I'm very cognizant of the kidnapper's warning. That's one of the reasons I want to discuss strategy with my boss. We need to come up with a game plan that puts your sister at the least possible risk. Will you trust me on this?”

A man she'd met two days ago was asking her to put her sister's life in his hands.

For some strange reason, she was willing to do that.

“Yes.” A police radio blared in the background. “I'll let you get back to your bank r-robbery.” Her teeth were chattering worse than ever.

“Are you okay?”

This man didn't miss much.

“Yes. I came out to my car to return the c-call. I thought it would be more secure than my office. But it's f-freezing.”

“You're still at work?”

“For a while yet.”

“Long day.”

“Not as long as yours.”

“No argument there. Go back inside where it's warm and I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

The line clicked, ending the call.

Taking a deep breath, she tucked the phone back in her gym bag and shouldered open the car door. A blast of frigid air whipped past, and she turned up the collar of her coat as she hurried back toward the building. She had a few minutes before she had to meet her first student. Time enough to chase away the chill.

But she could think of a much more appealing way to warm up.

His initials were LM.

Christy pushed through the door, shaking her head. How inappropriate was that? Yes, Lance McGregor was handsome. More than. Even the small, jagged scar on his left temple didn't detract one iota from his appeal. Any red-blooded woman would find him attractive. And unless she was mistaken, she'd caught a glimmer of interest in his eyes too.

Too bad she hadn't met him under different circumstances.

Given the situation, however, she had no intention of fanning the spark of mutual attraction.

Right now, she wanted him focused on one thing and one thing only.

Finding Ginny.

Christy Reed was a world-class figure skater.

Or she had been, fourteen years ago.

Quite a discovery at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning.

Bagel in hand, Lance felt around on the kitchen counter for his mug of coffee as he stared at the screen of his laptop.

His quick Google search for her sister had produced a meager handful of hits, most related to quotes from Ginny in a few
newspaper articles about bats and some disease called white- nose syndrome.

But Christy Reed was a whole different story—though she'd gone by her more formal name in her skating days.

He took a fortifying gulp of the dense brew and scrolled through the hits for Christine Reed. There appeared to be hundreds, all more than a decade old. By contrast, Christy Reed merited less than a dozen callouts, all from within the past few years and all related to her position at the rec center.

Dropping onto a stool, he scanned her skating bio. Bronze and silver medals in the US championships, bronze in two world competitions, one of the top finishers in a grand prix event. She'd even made the Olympic team.

But she hadn't competed.

A broken tibia that required surgery had sidelined her two weeks before the big event.

Could the timing have been any worse?

He took another swig of coffee and continued to read.

The fall had not only kept her out of the Olympics, it had ended her competitive career. Despite pressure from her coach and others in the skating community to continue on the circuit after her recovery, she'd elected to retire. After performing for several seasons with an ice show, she left the skating world behind to attend college.

It was an impressive resume—but also one filled with broken dreams.

To train for years in the hopes of earning a coveted spot on the US Olympic team, to reach that goal, then to have it snatched away days before the big event . . .

Wow.

What a crushing blow.

He scrolled down, studying the accompanying photos. He might have a lot of questions for Christy based on this new
information, but those skimpy skating outfits answered the one he'd been pondering since they met.

Her legs were seriously great.

Taking another bite of the doughy bagel that would have tasted a thousand percent better if he'd bothered to toast it, he clicked on the embedded video montage of her medal performances.

In the first one, a younger version of Christy was wearing a toga-like outfit, her upswept hair decorated with flowers as she glided effortlessly over the ice.

She looked like Aphrodite.

He leaned closer to the screen. Man, those legs were . . .

Pound! Pound! Pound!

He jerked upright at the sudden banging, sloshing the coffee in his mug.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

As the assault continued, he shot an annoyed glance toward the front door and stood. Ignoring the rude summons didn't appear to be an option.

Half-eaten bagel in hand, he padded barefoot across his empty living room and peered through the peephole. Frowned.

Why was Mac here?

Clamping the bagel in his teeth, he used both hands to flip the lock and pull the door open.

Mac gave him a head-to-toe scan. “Pardon the cliché, but what cat dragged you in?”

He pulled the bagel out of his mouth. “Good morning to you too. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have dressed for the occasion.”

A blast of wind sent flurries scuttling into the room, and Mac motioned toward the door. “Could we continue this inside?”

In silence, Lance swung the door wide and stepped back.

Mac edged past, brushing a tenacious flake off his eyelash.
“I came over to take you to breakfast even though you bailed on dinner Wednesday and haven't bothered to call since.”

He banged the door shut. “What? Am I supposed to check in with you every day? Isn't that carrying the big-brother routine a little too far?”

Mac folded his arms. “You get up on the wrong side of the bed or what?”

Hmm.

Maybe he
was
being a tad less than gracious.