Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

  “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?”

  The lights in the café flickered. Steadied.

  She picked up her fork. “We better hurry and finish before they shut this place down and throw us out.” But she didn’t dive back into her salad.

  “Is that a no?”

  She exhaled. “Are my reasons for quitting pertinent to my sister’s disappearance?”

  Not likely—but he wanted to know anyway.

  “You never can tell. Anything that might help us get a handle on what’s going on is worth exploring.”

  She gave up all pretense of eating and folded her hands. “Okay. Here’s the short version. Mom and Dad got a little financial help as my standings rose, but most of the day-to-day expenses fell to them. My dad worked full time, plus he and Mom both took on part-time jobs. They put a second mortgage on the house and took out loans. Coaching, costumes, choreography—the costs kept rising exponentially as I moved up in the rankings.”

  “Are we talking serious debt?”

  “Yes. And it got worse when I was fifteen. There isn’t a world-class training facility in St. Louis, so I had to move to Colorado Springs with my mom. That was both expensive and disruptive to the family. Ginny needed Mom as much as I did at that stage in her life, and the separation was hard for both of them.” She picked up her fork and detached the yolk from a piece of egg in her salad. “It started to eat at me that my skating dominated everyone’s life.”

  So guilt had played a major role in her decision.

  He could relate.

  Guilt was a powerful motivator.

  Beyond that, though, was it also possible she’d simply reached a mental snapping point? Years of fierce competitive pressure, coupled with high financial stakes—after all, victors claimed lucrative endorsements while losers went away empty-handed—could make a person cave, couldn’t they?

  No.

  Not this woman.

  Christy was strong. She had to be to survive the loss of her entire family in less than nine months. To find the courage to ignore the kidnapper’s threat and contact the FBI.

  There was more behind her decision to stop competing.

  He wiped some mayo off his fingers as he composed his question, but she spoke before he could voice it.

  “You’re thinking there was another reason I left competitive skating.”

  He looked over at her. His training had taught him to read faces, but he was coming up blank with hers—though she’d clearly read his.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right. But you won’t find it on Google. It’s in here.” She touched the region of her heart. “While I was recovering from surgery, my dad had a heart attack. Worse than mild but not debilitating. Still, he had a long recovery ahead, including rehab. He needed my mom, and as soon as I was physically able to be on my own, she went home.”

  Christy took a sip of her soda, watching the snowflakes cling to the plate glass window for one brief moment of intricate beauty before dissolving. “For the first time in years, I wasn’t getting up at four thirty to go to my first training session of the day. I wasn’t running nonstop between the rink and school. I wasn’t falling into bed at eight o’clock so exhausted I needed two alarm clocks to rouse me the next morning. I had a chance to think. Evaluate. Pray. In the end, I decided everyone had sacrificed enough. Sure, there was a chance I could win a medal at the next Olympics, but there were no guarantees. I could work for four more years, make the team, skate an Olympic program—but one bad fall, it was all over.”

  “How did your parents react?”

  “They were stunned. Everyone was.”

  “Did you tell them why you’d made the decision?”

  “Some of it. Mostly I told them I had an offer from an ice show that was too good to ignore and that a slower pace appealed to me—both of which were true.”

  But not the whole story.

  Bottom line, she’d given up her dream to make life easier for the people she loved.

  “I’m impressed.” To put it mildly.

  “Don’t be.” She pinned him with a fierce look. “And don’t you dare feel sorry for me. I had very rational reasons for my choice. Dad’s heart attack was a wake-up call. I realized I was ready to be a daughter and sister instead of an Olympic-medal seeker. I was ready to give instead of take. To repay some of the debt. To reduce their stress. To go for a gold medal in life instead of on the ice. And for the record, I never had a single regret. Not one.”

  Her resolute tone conveyed her absolute conviction.

  Must be nice to make a tough choice that left no regrets in its wake.

  Fighting back a wave of melancholy, he lifted his soda and took a long swallow.

  “Back to the money issue and Ginny’s inheritance. Are you certain she didn’t have some significant savings? Maybe your parents left her more than you realized.”

  “No. I went over the numbers with her financial advisor. My ice show earnings allowed me to pay off my parents’ debt and gave me the funds for college, but medical expenses after my parents’ accident ate up their limited savings. My dad . . .” She stopped. Cleared her throat. “He lingered in a coma for two months, and their insurance wasn’t great. Ginny only bought her property two years ago, and there’s a big mortgage on it. So no, there’s no significant money to pay a ransom demand.”

  Cash wasn’t the motive. Someone who’d planned such a meticulous crime would also have researched the potential payoff.

  “Is there anyone at all from your skating days who disliked you? Who didn’t seem stable? Who made you nervous or uncomfortable?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone you keep in touch with?”

  “I exchange Christmas cards with my last coach, who’s retired. But my only direct contact with the world of skating these days is some coaching I do on the side. Most of my students are recreational figure skaters, but I have a couple who are showing promise and are in the early competitive stage.”

  If there was a connection between Ginny’s kidnapping and Christy’s skating, he wasn’t seeing it. Besides, if someone in the skating world did have a grudge, why wait more than a decade to exact revenge?

  “Based on everything you’ve told me, I think we should concentrate on more current relationships. But that discussion can wait until we get the autopsy report. We won’t dig in until we have that in hand. In the meantime, I’d like to put taps on your home and cell phones in case the next contact comes that way.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll get them ordered. Also, assuming there’s no DNA match, I want to be ready to move quickly. It would be helpful over the next few days if you could compile a list of people your sister knew—friends, neighbors, boss, co-workers—with a notation of the connection.”

  “I can do that . . . but how are you going to position the questioning?”

  She was still worried about tipping their hand to the kidnapper—and he couldn’t blame her.

  “First, before we show up at anyone’s door, we do our homework. If there’s suspicious activity in someone’s background, we’ll know about it. In terms of positioning, we’ll come up with an excuse that makes it appear the investigation was initiated by us ra
ther than you.”

  She frowned. “How will you do that?”

  “My boss and I already talked about this. We could say the family requested a DNA sample prior to burial, since there was no autopsy. With all the work being done now with genetic markers for inherited health risks, a request like that wouldn’t be out in left field or raise red flags. Testing in a private lab can take a couple of months, which works with our timing. Our story would be that when the sample being tested wasn’t from the assumed victim, the lab notified us. We’re making some inquiries on a nonpriority basis, very low-key.”

  “But even if it appears I followed instructions, the person who sent the note could panic—which would put Ginny at risk.”

  That was true. To some degree, every kidnapping investigation was a gamble.

  “It’s possible the kidnapper will give us a clue the next time he contacts you and we won’t have to do a lot of questioning.”

  She pushed aside her half-eaten lunch. “Why do I think that won’t happen? This person is careful and thorough.”

  “He’s also human. That means he could make a mistake.”

  “You think it’s a man?”

  “In all likelihood. This doesn’t have the MO of a typical crime committed by women.” He wadded up his napkin. “You ready to head out?”

  “Yes.” She downed the last of her soda and slid from the booth.

  Once they’d put their coats on and discarded their trash, Lance followed her to the exit, reaching around her to open the door. “Ready to take the plunge?”

  “No. But why delay the inevitable?”

  In other words, accept the hard realities and get on with it.

  Not a bad philosophy for snowstorms—or life.

  He pushed the door open, and she dived into the blizzard.

  “Looks like everyone is hunkering down at home.” He took her arm as the wind buffeted them, juggling the gift bag as he surveyed the half dozen cars on the lot.

  “I can see why.” The wind snatched her words, sabotaging any attempt at conversation.

  They covered the remaining distance in silence. She unlocked her car as they approached, and the instant he pulled her door open, she slid inside.

  No good-bye hug today.

  He stifled his disappointment and leaned down. “Where’s your windshield scraper?”

  She reached behind the front seat, grabbed it, and started to climb back out of the car.

  “Stay put. I’ll take care of it.”

  Without giving her a chance to protest, he went to work on the windows. No sleet, just a thick layer of snow, making the job quick and easy.

  When he returned to the driver’s side, he passed the scraper back. “Will you be okay driving home?”

  “Yes. I don’t have far to go.” But a touch of uncertainty crept into her voice as she surveyed the few cars creeping along the obliterated street, their headlights barely piercing the swirling cascade of snow.

  “Why don’t I follow you?”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “You must have better things to do on a Saturday afternoon.”

  “Not this one.” He turned up the collar of his coat. Even the thick sheepskin lining didn’t provide sufficient warmth in this wind. “I’m headed home too, where I plan to hibernate until the plows make a dent in this. I don’t mind a short detour.”

  She hesitated . . . but in the end shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the offer, though—and for cleaning off the windows.”

  Should he push?

  No.

  Christy was an independent woman who might not take kindly to any suggestion that she was less than able to take care of herself. And he didn’t want to fall from her good graces—for reasons that had nothing to do with professional decorum.

  “No problem. Be careful, and call me if you have any problem. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  He waited until she began inching toward the exit, then slogged through the snow toward his car. By the time he’d cranked up his heater and was cleaning off his own windows, her taillights had been swallowed up in the gray shroud.

  Too bad she hadn’t let him follow her home. That considerate deed might have earned him an invitation for a cup of coffee . . . a far more appealing prospect than going home to his empty apartment.

  Perhaps this was for the best, though. If she had issued such an invitation, he’d have been tempted to cross the line he’d always drawn between his professional and personal life.

  Strange.

  Staying on the appropriate side of that line had never been a problem before Christy Reed.

  He tossed the scraper onto the floor of the backseat, slid behind the wheel, and turned the defroster on full blast. He’d need a clear line of sight to navigate in this treacherous weather.

  He also needed to maintain a clear line of sight with this case. Be careful not to let an alluring figure skater fog his professional vision.

  So for now he’d go home to his bare apartment. Rev up the laptop for more research.

  And try to think up some legit excuse to call Christy tomorrow.

  This stupid snow was messing up his plans.

  Nathan slammed the heel of his hand against the window frame. Yanked the shade down. Muttered an oath.

  If this kept up, he’d be stuck here. The second letter wouldn’t go out until next weekend.

  And he didn’t want to wait.

  He’d been waiting long enough.

  At a sudden scuffling noise behind him, he turned and scowled at the woman gripping the walker in the doorway. “What are you doing up this late?”

  Instead of speaking, she rubbed her stomach and pointed to a box of crackers on the counter.

  “You had enough at dinner. Go back to bed.”

  Her lower lip quivered, and Nathan swallowed past his disgust. If she thought that teary ploy was going to get her any sympathy, she could think again. How could he feel sorry for someone who’d created her own mess?

  Besides, she was pathetic. Her body was scrawny. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her raspy voice grated on his nerves. Plus, with all her health issues, she was high maintenance.

  But she did serve a purpose.

  If he didn’t have much control over the rest of his life, at least he had control over her.

  And he knew just how to make her suffer.

  “You don’t need anything else to eat. Go back to bed.”

  When she didn’t retreat, he took a step toward her.

  Fear flared in her eyes, and she shrank away. Repositioned the walker. Shuffled back the way she’d come, all the while casting anxious glances over her shoulder. Wondering if he was going to hurt her.

  He watched her until she disappeared, savoring the heady rush of power. Fear was a glorious thing—as long as you were on the giving rather than the receiving end.

  But she didn’t have to worry tonight.

  Tonight, his plans to make someone else suffer were top of mind.

  Nathan waited until he heard her door close, then grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. As he took a swig, a faint rumble sounded from outside.

  He crossed back to the window and lifted the shade. In the distance, strobing lights pierced the gloom and the scraping noise grew louder.

  The snowplows were on the job.

  Yes!

  He took another swallow of beer. Maybe he wouldn’t have to delay tomorrow’s trip after all.

  After gulping down the rest of the brew, he lowered the shade and tossed the bottle in the trash. Soft sniffling came from behind the door opposite his bedroom as he moved down the hall, and he paused a moment to relish it.

  He had her exactly where he wanted her.

  Lips curving up, he continued to his bedroom. Removed the chain from around his neck, fingering the key. Inserted it into the lock.

  Once inside, he reset the lock and crossed to the desk. The letter lay on top, ready to be mailed. He picked up the keychain beside it, palming the attached pewter Arch. Her welcom
e-to-St.-Louis gift. The one he’d carried everywhere for a whole year.

  Until she, too, had abandoned him.

  He flung it back on the desk and lifted the faded photo. A half dozen nameless faces of long-forgotten people mugged for the camera—but he’d never forgotten the name of the one person in the picture who’d mattered to him.

  Moving to the bed, he studied the image. Her hair was different now, and she seemed more sophisticated, but he’d had no difficulty recognizing her that day in the parking lot last year as she’d walked past him. None at all.

  He shifted his gaze to the face tucked in one corner of the shot, slightly separated from the rest of the group, then examined his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him. He wouldn’t recognize himself based on that photo. He looked like a different person.

  He was a different person.

  But even if a resemblance had remained, she wouldn’t have known him. She might have been his angel . . . his lifeline . . . but he’d meant nothing to her—even though she’d let him think he did.

  His stomach clenched into a hard, painful knot. Who knew how different his life might have turned out if she hadn’t abandoned him? If she hadn’t ignored his pleas for help? Instead of being stuck in the same dead-end job as his old man, he might have been somebody.

  Flexing his fingers, he took a deep breath. Let it out. Getting angry only led to trouble. Out-of-control emotions were bad. In fact, real emotions were bad, period. But fake emotions . . . they came in handy. As did traits like charm. That one had proven to be very useful on the job—and off.

  Calmer now, he rose and walked over to the TV. Shuffled through his collection of classic DVDs. Psycho sounded good. Or Silence of the Lambs.

  Psycho. It was hard to beat Hitchcock.

  He put the disk in, grabbed the remote, and got comfortable on his bed.

  And as the snowplow once again rumbled past on the other side of the street, he smiled.

  Tomorrow was going to work out just the way he’d planned.

  4

  I see you made it in despite that second dump of snow yesterday. Any problems?”