On Thin Ice

by Susan Andersen

  Jack struck him as a stand-up sort of guy. But this wouldn’t be the first case he’d come across where behind closed doors an apparently stand-up guy turned out be the nastiest son of a bitch a person would ever care to encounter, and in Mick’s estimation the bus driver warranted a closer examination. His occupation alone was enough to arouse Mick’s inbred suspicions. Driving a bus from town to town presented a world of opportunity to anyone with a larcenous bent.

  Who the hell knew if it would lead anywhere; it was a working supposition at best. At least it gave him a place to start. Mick filed the list of names with the rest of his private paraphernalia and gathered his wallet and room key. He let himself out of the room.

  When he returned to it several hours later, he was whistling softly between his teeth. His afternoon had been productive. He didn’t have a clue yet where the information he’d gathered today would lead him or what it was going to yield in the form of tangible evidence. But it had felt good simply having a concrete goal to pursue. From the word go this damn case had been so far from the standard it was ridiculous. And face it, the fact that his mood was this elevated simply because he’d reestablished a little normal procedure back into his routine was nothing short of pitiful, but there it was. He’d done his job this afternoon as it should be done and he felt great.

  Opening the hotel room door, the first thing he saw was Sasha sitting on the floor of the closet. A spontaneous smile lit his face and he reapplied his efforts to jiggling the key free of the lock. In the next instant he became aware of the exact nature of the mess surrounding her and nausea swelled up his throat.

  His DEA identification was flipped open and resting on the rug. His gun was next to her thigh. She was holding her satin leopard-skin panties in one hand and the headset to the recording device dangled around her neck.

  He didn’t need to see the look of shattered fury in her eyes or the stamp of betrayal on her face to know that his entire future had just gone down the tubes.

  FIFTEEN

  Sasha didn’t purposely set out to invade Mick’s privacy. All she’d wanted was to find her “Skate the Dream” sweatshirt.

  Like so much of the performing arts, AIDS had hit the skating community hard. There was a significant number of gay males in their midst, and too many had succumbed to the disease in the past several years. Skate the Dream was an exhibition that had been put on in Toronto some time back to benefit Canadian skater Rob McCall. It was one of the very first performances Sasha had participated in as a professional skater, and she treasured the sweatshirt that had been presented to her in commemoration of her contribution to the effort.

  When it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen it since Spokane, well, she didn’t panic, exactly . . . but its disappearance did make her anxious. Left on her own with time to kill, her anxiety grew worse and finally she decided to mount a full-scale search. By the time she got around to Mick’s suitcase it had become her last avenue of attack and her very last hope.

  She dragged it off the top shelf of the closet and dropped it onto the carpeted closet floor, really hoping, as she knelt in front of it and popped the latches, that he had picked the sweatshirt up from one of their previous hotel rooms and stuffed it into his case, because she’d hate to lose it. She flipped open the lid of the case.

  Oh, thank goodness. Relief flooded her when she found the sweatshirt neatly folded in the bottom of his suitcase. Pulling it on over her head, she dragged the heavy weight of her hair out from the neck opening and turned back to the case, fully prepared to close it up again and put it back where she’d found it. But a small black leather case, which the removal of her sweatshirt had uncovered, snagged her attention and she stared down at it, her curiosity aroused.

  Her well-developed respect for other people’s privacy knew exactly what the proper thing to do was, of course. No question about it, she should leave it undisturbed. It belonged to Mick. He’d never offered to share whatever was inside it with her, and it was really none of her business.

  But . . .

  He’d never offered to share whatever was inside it with her. Why not? Her slender index finger rubbed back and forth along the box’s leather-encased top edge; then dipped down to stroke the small golden lock that was mounted on its front.

  No, really, she shouldn’t. Her hand dropped away.

  On the other hand . . .

  If it wasn’t actually locked then it probably wasn’t really private private. Her fingers returned to the clasp to fiddle and poke. She pressed down with her fingertip.

  It was locked.

  Damn. Now she was really curious. Why did Mick keep a locked box in his suitcase, and why had he never mentioned anything about it to her? She felt along the pockets that lined the inside of the big suitcase and then searched the lining itself, looking for a key.

  Then abruptly she caught herself and went very still, with one hand braced on the closet floor next to the large suitcase, the fingers of her other hand flat against the padded sateen material that lined the bottom of the luggage. Shame on you. Good Lord, the case probably held a few of Mick’s valuables, which he simply hadn’t had a chance to deposit in the hotel safe.

  Oh God, Sasha, what on earth are you thinking of, digging through his personal stuff like some cut-rate secret agent while his back is turned? She was ashamed of the answer. Somewhere in the back of her mind had lingered a persistent little suspicion that Mick was involved in something he shouldn’t be. The idea of it scared her because if something happened to him she didn’t know how she’d survive.

  But to do this! She was all alone and no one would ever be aware of her momentary transgression, but she was nevertheless deeply embarrassed. Because she was aware. She was well aware that she’d been this far from attempting to pick the lock with her trusty nail file. Her mother had certainly raised her better than this, and if Mick should ever find out she would die.

  It was in the middle of this melodramatic bit of self-flagellation that she noticed the discrepancy in height between the hand she had braced on the closet floor and the hand that was still flat against the bottom of the suitcase’s interior. They were on two distinctly different levels.

  A false bottom? All her doubts rushed back. Oh, God, Mick, what are you involved in? Her heart dropped and her stomach lurched up to meet it, for she was very much afraid she knew. She simply could not think of one good reason why a man would need a suitcase with a false bottom—certainly not a reason that was in any way legitimate. She began to feel carefully along both the interior and exterior of the luggage in search of a latch that would access the concealed compartment.

  She found it during a span of time that could have lasted five minutes or could have lasted forty.

  Feeling betrayed, feeling duped, she fully expected to uncover evidence that Mick was involved in drugs after all—all those heated protestations of innocence that had so easily persuaded her to the contrary notwithstanding. The first item she laid eyes on seemed to confirm her worst fears. Gingerly, she picked up the black-gripped, blue-steel-nosed handgun. Its heavy weight made her wrist droop and she hastily set it down on the carpet, careful to point the barrel away from herself.

  Oh God, she didn’t feel so hot all of a sudden. She doubted, in fact, that it was possible to feel any worse. Or so she thought until she picked up the scuffed leather wallet, and before she even had a chance to flip it open, noticed the leopard-skin-patterned satin panties that were folded into a tiny little triangle beneath it.

  Her panties.

  She wasn’t even aware of the sick moan that crawled its way out of her throat. Oh sweet Jesus, when was it she had first noticed they were missing? She’d assumed she must have left them behind at one of the hotels in . . . was it California? Oregon?

  Long before she’d become involved with Mick Vinicor, at any rate.

  He’d been in her room. Gone through her stuff. Sasha’s eyes burned dryly and goose bumps stood up on her arms and legs. He said he loved her, but long befo
re he’d even kissed her for the first time he’d been pawing through her underwear drawer.

  She was going to be sick.

  Rinsing out her mouth a few moments later she braced her hands flat on the bathroom counter and slowly raised her head. She looked at her pale reflection in the mirror, distantly aware that water dripped from her nose and chin and noting in an indifferent corner of her mind that her skin looked almost jaundiced.

  She didn’t want to go back in there. But she had to. Her gray eyes, so large and vulnerable, narrowed and grew hard, and she slowly straightened, taking a deep, calming breath. She slicked the remaining moisture from her cheeks with both hands.

  She should be accustomed to this kind of betrayal, to these never-ending lies by now. Hell, it wasn’t as if this were a first or anything . . . not by a long shot. She attracted this sort of treatment as effortlessly as a pretty coed gathers Sigma Phi pins. Either she gave off some sort of scent or there really was a fundamental flaw in her.

  The pity feast, however, would simply have to wait. She needed to finish what she had begun.

  She picked up the wallet she had dropped in her mad dash for the toilet bowl and sank back down on the closet floor. For a moment, she merely sat and stared at the worn leather in her hand. Finally, she flipped it open.

  And simply stared numbly at the contents.

  It was a picture ID and a badge of some sort. She read the words, but they seemed to float in front of her eyes and scramble before they reached her brain. She wasn’t making any sense out of them, so she read it again. And again.

  A . . . policeman? Mick was some kind of cop? She gave the picture a closer examination. No, she must be mistaken. It looked more like a mug shot than a . . .

  But the words insisted he was a special agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Administration. Whatever. He was a cop.

  But why would a cop go through her underwear drawer?

  To look for some sort of evidence apparently, she realized a moment later when she held in her shaking hands a report that detailed every sordid rumor ever to dodge her footsteps in Kells Crossing. She read and reread the bouncing words; then, letting it fall to her lap, stared blindly into the distance.

  It appeared they’d covered just about everything, damn them to hell and gone, except for maybe her bra size. There was no way to verbalize the sense of violation she felt reading about herself, no way to measure how exposed and raw it left her feeling. She . . .

  No. She couldn’t think about this now. Reaching for a folded sheet of paper in the hidden compartment, she shook it out. It said the following was a list of the names Mick had requested. Scanning it, she recognized Follies’ people who had been around clear back when she and Lonnie were following the amateur circuit. She checked the date, saw it was today’s, and remembered the express delivery man. Well, you gotta give the devil his due, she thought bitterly. Mick didn’t precisely lie about the guy.

  For just a second, looking at the list, she felt a ray of hope. Maybe there was an explanation, after all. Maybe Mick was investigating one of the names on the list. Maybe . . .

  Oh, get real, girl. Marvin Braverman? He hates drugs even worse than you do. Karen Corselli? Sasha shoveled her hair away from her face so ruthlessly the outer corners of her eyes stretched. Yeah, right. How bloody likely is he to investigate one of those paragons when he’s got the Slut of Kells Crossing right at his fingertips?

  Letting the list fall to the floor, she reached for the next item, a small black and silver box. It was next to pieces of gadgetry she could only assume were some kind of electronic equipment, none of which she recognized. The device she picked up at least held a little cassette, so she figured labeling it a tape recorder was probably a safe bet. She rewound the tape partway, put the headset on, and pressed the play button.

  “I know you do Sashala,” she heard Ivan’s voice say. “She was a good woman . . .

  “NOOOO!!” She ripped the headset from her ears and let it dangle around her neck. Tinny voices squawked out of the earpieces and she punched blindly at the stop button. Dry sobs heaved in her chest and her eyes felt seared. “No,” she repeated in a whisper.

  No.

  She had believed she’d found something so rare and wonderful at long last—a relationship based on honesty. Someone in this world for her to love, who would love her in return. She picked her panties up off the floor and stared down at them. Now . . .

  All her dreams were dust.

  A key rattled in the lock and Sasha went very still. She stared through scorched eyes at the door, watched while Mick got it open, watched him jiggle the key to loosen the lock’s grip on it. Was still watching when he spotted her. She saw the white, white smile that spread oh so spontaneously across his weathered face.

  You liar. You lowlife, goddam liar.

  She saw the realization hit him and watched as the smile dropped away and the color left his face.

  “I can explain,” Mick said hoarsely. But then he just stood there because he didn’t know if he could, really, not to her satisfaction anyway. Closing the door behind him, he leaned—with arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked into his armpits—back against its sturdy surface and stared at her, afraid to take so much as a step in her direction. She looked about one nudge away from detonation.

  “You wanna hear something funny, Special Agent Vinicor?” Sasha asked in a husky voice as she climbed to her feet. “I used to think Lonnie was paranoid beyond words because he insisted on playing the most moronic spy games you’ve ever heard of. He had all these asinine rules. I was supposed to burn his letters as soon as I read them. I was never to call him from my room, always from a pay phone. This was when he was still in prison, you understand. But, hey, why am I telling you? I’m sure you already know all this stuff. It must have driven you crazy, when you were listening in on all my telephone conversations, that not a single one of them was from ol’ Lon. Is that when you decided to fuck the truth out of me instead?”

  “Sasha—”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Special Agent Vinicor. You never should have fucked the suspect—”

  “You’re not a suspect.”

  “—But then again, why not, right? After all, the report said I’m a slut, so that makes it okay, I guess. Hey, the government probably said it’s all right to fuck the whore of Kells Crossing, because whores don’t deserve to be treated with respect. It’s not like they have feelings or anything. The only thing a whore really understands is a good, hard fuc—”

  “SHUT UP!” he roared and she flinched. He was still afraid to touch her, but he pushed away from the door and moved as close as he dared, staring down at her. Jesus, she was in so much pain. “We make love, you and me,” he said softly. “We don’t fuck.”

  “Sure we do.” She gave him a bright, superficial smile. “You don’t have to lie anymore, Vinicor. I mean, really, how many times have I heard you say it yourself?” She mimicked him in the throes of a sexual encounter. “I want to fuck you, Sasha . . . Oh, God, I wanna fuck you so deep and so hard, it’s killin’ me!”

  He couldn’t stand to hear her turn his words into something obscene when that was the furthest thing from what they had been. “You liked it when I used sex words!” he snapped in frustration, then saw from her expression that that was what shamed her now. Sex talk was okay, was kind of exciting, when she’d thought he loved her. But now she believed he’d merely been using her.

  Her expression smoothed out and she shrugged with a show of indifference. “Yeah, well, what more can you expect from the Slut of Kells Crossing? You know what they say—Once a whore always a whore.”

  Mick loomed over her. “You call yourself that one more time and I’m gonna . . .” His voice trailed away. Oh good, Vinicor. You’re gonna what? Slap her? Tap her phone maybe?

  And naturally Sasha picked up on his hesitation. Her chin jutted ceilingward. “You’ll what?” she demanded coolly. “Is there something you haven’t done already? Something you�
��ve actually overlooked?”

  “I know you’re not a whore,” he said softly. “Okay? Maybe better than anyone else in the world, I know that.”

  “That’s not what your report says.”

  “It’s not my report, Sasha; it was sent to me. And, Jesus, am I the only one who clearly read what’s in the damn thing? It says that a lot of guys professed to have slept with you but that not a single one of them could offer a shred of evidence to support his claim.” He shook his head, staring at her. “I can’t believe I’m arguing this with you, too. The goddam report doesn’t say you’re a whore. Jesus, how many times do I have to say it? Fighting with my supervisor over this very issue probably put an end to my career.”

  Sasha’s eyes iced over. “Oh, hey now, that’s tragic news. I’d sure hate to think I might be the cause of your potential unemployment.” She bristled clear out to the curly ends of her abundant black hair. “My God, you’ve invaded my privacy, you’ve probably trampled my civil rights. Am I supposed to apologize because your boss doesn’t think you’ve done a thorough enough job of it?”

  Mick rammed his hand through his hair. “No, of course not. I’m just trying to tell you that when they wanted me to continue investigating you even after I’d told them you were clean, I refused, which led to some harsh words between . . .” His voice trailed away, since she obviously wasn’t listening. Instead she was pulling her own suitcase off the shelf and before he could say a word she’d elbowed past him and was in the main body of their hotel room where she’d tossed the case on the bed and flipped it open. Going to the drawers she started pulling out her clothing, twisting from the waist to throw it haphazardly into the luggage.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” It was obvious, of course, but the words were wrenched from him anyway.

  “Packing.” Sasha strived for searing contempt when she looked up to meet his eyes, but she didn’t have any idea how successful her attempt was. It felt so pitifully feeble. For no matter how many recriminations were backed up on her tongue, no matter how hot the rage churning in her stomach, there was a little voice inside of her crying for Mick to be able to explain, just like he said he could.