by Irene Hannon
Christy didn’t fit any of those parameters. Except for the legs, of course. On that score, she—
“Lance!”
He jerked back to reality. “What?”
“I need to know your taste—in furniture.” Lisa’s eyes twinkled as she tacked on the last two words.
Had she read his mind?
Maybe.
A former Chicago homicide detective turned police chief was apt to have solid intuitive skills.
He forced himself to think about furniture preferences. “I like quiet stuff. Not a lot of patterns, no real bright colors. Homey but not froufrou. Clean lines, no knickknacks, no modern art. A few pictures are okay, and I wouldn’t mind a bookcase. Some polished wood would be nice too.”
Huh.
That pretty much described Christy’s living room.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Lisa gave a satisfied nod and consulted the clipboard she’d been toting around the massive furniture store as she dragged him from item to item.
Lance scanned the store and shook his head. The choices were stupefying. How in creation did anyone wade through the clutter and pick stuff to create a room like Christy’s?
He sneaked a peek at his watch. Only seven? It felt like they’d been here for a day and a half rather than an hour and a half.
“I think we should go with a fabric couch—one with a nubby texture, sort of like a Berber carpet—and pair it with a leather chair.” Lisa tapped her pen against the clipboard as she pondered her scribbled notes. “That will give the room a masculine feel. We saw a couple of pieces that would work. We can accent them with some jewel-tone throw pillows, and—”
His phone began to vibrate, and he grabbed for it. Maybe the person on the other end would be speaking English instead of whatever lingo Lisa was spouting.
When Christy’s name appeared in the window, he reined in his smile and gave his personal shopper a sober look. “I need to take this. Business.”
“Fine. I’ll scout out some end tables.”
Pressing the talk button, he shifted away from her. “Hi. What’s up?”
“I got another letter.”
The impulse to smile vanished. “Let’s follow the same drill. Set it on the counter and don’t open it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“How soon?” Christy sounded spooked.
“Twenty to thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting. Sorry to interrupt your evening again.”
“Believe me, I’m grateful to have an excuse to cut this one short. My brother’s fiancée took me furniture shopping for my apartment. I’d rather be getting a root canal.”
“That’s a very stereotypical male comment.”
“Some stereotypes are accurate. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Sliding the phone back on his belt, he went in search of Lisa.
He found her on her hands and knees inspecting the drawer in an end table.
“Look at that.” She pointed to the inside, her tone indignant. “For this price you should expect dovetailing. Your budget might be modest, but we can do better.” She rose before he could extend a hand to help her.
A twinge of guilt tugged at his conscience. “You know, I really appreciate you taking the time for this.”
She brushed off the knees of her jeans. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
Leave it to Mac to find himself a smart, insightful lady.
“But there’s been a new development on a case, and I need to follow up.”
She squinted at him. “Was that Christy?”
Just how much had his big brother told his fiancée about this case?
“Uh, yeah. She’s the sister of the victim.”
“Also the figure skater you have the hots for.”
Mac and his big mouth.
His older sibling was going to get an earful the next time they talked.
“I’ll admit she’s a nice, attractive woman. But for now, our relationship is 100 percent professional.”
“That’s smart. So what do you want to do about the furniture?”
He rubbed his neck as he surveyed the display floor. “I trust your judgment. You did a great job with your house. Could you just pick out some basic living room stuff? As long as the room’s not empty and looks like a guy’s place, I’ll be happy. And a small table for the breakfast area would be nice too. I’m tired of sitting at the counter.”
“What if you don’t like what I order?”
“I’ll like it.”
“You’re giving me carte blanche to spend your money?”
“Yeah. Have at it.”
“Fine. But you still owe me lunch.”
“I know. At the salad place.” He leaned over and gave her a quick hug. “You pick the day.”
“Thursday. Noon. Be there.”
“This week?” A hint of panic crept into his voice. He needed more time to psyche himself up for his ladies-who-lunch experience.
“Yep. And you know what? You might like it.”
Rabbit food? Not a chance.
But a deal was a deal.
He sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Try to contain your enthusiasm.”
“Hey, it’s not the company. I’m just more of a steak and baked potato kind of guy.”
“Not the healthiest diet.”
“Better than that tutto mare Mac was chowing down when I met him for dinner.”
“Usually he eats healthier meals.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Guilty as charged. Okay, go ahead while I shop for your cave. I’ll email you the grand total and delivery dates.”
“Just don’t break the bank.” He began to back away.
“I’ll keep your budget in mind.”
With a wave, he jogged toward the exit, already switching gears.
And hoping the kidnapper’s latest note held more helpful clues than the previous ones had.
Twenty-four minutes after she and Lance ended their call, Christy’s doorbell rang.
Reining in her pulse, she smoothed her hands down her leggings, adjusted the hem of her sweater, and crossed her foyer. Hand on the knob, she peered through the peephole.
So much for trying to make her heart behave.
Even the distortion from the fisheye lens couldn’t detract from Lance’s rugged good looks—and his off-duty attire added to his appeal. That make-my-day leather jacket and those worn, nice-fitting jeans should carry a blood-pressure warning.
She pulled back, fanning her face. Oh, for pity’s sake. You’d think she was some teenager on a first date.
But she was thirty-two years old, and this was no date. The man was here on serious business.
Life-and-death business.
With that sobering thought dampening any romantic notions, she pulled open the door and ushered him in.
After a quick greeting, he moved past her, leaving a woodsy, masculine scent in his wake. “Is the letter in the kitchen?”
“Yes. It’s stiffer than the last one. I think there’s something inside.” She followed him to the back of the condo. “The postmark’s from Columbia, Missouri.”
He fished some latex gloves out of his pocket and reached for the same knife he’d used on the last letter. Once again, he positioned the note over an evidence envelope. After carefully slitting the top, he bowed it and looked inside. Then, in silence, he slid the contents onto the evidence envelope.
A folded piece of paper lay on top of two sheets of cardboard held together with small pieces of tape.
Lance opened the note and angled it so she could read along with him.
Did you like the pixture I sent you, Christy? Here’s something even better. As for that new boyfrend—you can give him presents in fancy bags if you want to, but keep him out of this or you’ll never see your sister again.
Her eyes widened. “He saw us at Panera? How is that possible?”
“Good question—and I’ll get to it in a minute. Let’s see what’s
inside his package first.”
He set the note on the counter, picked up the cardboard, and felt the surface. Instead of cutting the tape, he used the edge of the knife to separate the two stiff sheets and tipped the opening toward the evidence envelope.
Ginny’s gold locket slid out.
The one she never took off.
Christy’s breath hitched.
“Is this your sister’s?” His gentle tone wasn’t enough to mitigate the shock.
“Yes. Mom and Dad gave her that on her s-sixteenth birthday. She always wore it. Even when she had to have her appendix out, she refused to take it off.”
“What’s inside?”
“Photos of our parents.”
Again using the tip of the knife, he opened it.
A black X was slashed across each of the photos.
The lump in her stomach hardened. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“He could be rubbing in the fact that you’re alone to emphasize the importance of playing along with him if you want to keep your remaining family member alive.”
“Or . . . ?” There was something he wasn’t saying; she could feel it.
“I don’t know. I want to think about this. Does that lead to your garage?” He motioned toward a door off to the side of the kitchen.
He was avoiding her question—and she doubted pushing would get her an answer. “Yes.”
“I’d like to take a look in there. Do you have a flashlight?”
“Yes. Why?” She crossed to the sink and pulled one out of the cabinet underneath.
“I have a theory I want to test.”
She followed him to the single-car structure, waiting on the threshold as he circled to the back of the Mazda, got down on one knee, and felt around under the wheel well. He repeated the drill on the other side. The next thing she knew, he was lying on his back and scooting under the car.
No wonder the leather jacket was scuffed.
A moment later he stood, a cigarette-sized device in his hand. “GPS, attached magnetically. Our guy’s been following your movements on a laptop or PC.”
Her stomach bottomed out.
The kidnapper was tracking her?
“Why would he do that?”
Lance bent back down, and when he stood, his hands were empty. “He could be trying to make sure you’re following his instructions to leave the cops out of this.”
Another could be.
Meaning Lance was mulling over other possibilities.
“Let’s go back inside where it’s warmer.” He rejoined her.
She gaped at him. “Are you going to leave that thing on my car?”
Taking her arm, he urged her into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. “If I remove it, he’ll know you found it.”
“But if he didn’t want me to know about it, why mention the incident at Panera?”
“He could be getting cocky. He might also be trying to freak you out by letting you know you’re being watched. Based on his note, it appears he bought the boyfriend ruse. I’m also thinking he didn’t hear anything about the visits our Rolla agent is paying to the people on your sister’s list—none of which have produced any leads yet, by the way. Would you have checked for a GPS device if you hadn’t contacted law enforcement?”
“No. I’d have assumed he knew about the bag because he was following me.”
“That’s why we need to leave the device on the car. We want him to keep thinking you’re in the dark about it—which will help keep him in the dark about our involvement. But GPS has its limits. It will tell him where you go, but it won’t tell him who you see or what you do once you get there. That means he had to be in the vicinity of Panera the day of the snowstorm.”
“There were only a few people in the café, and they were there when I arrived.”
“He must have been in the lot. No one followed you in—but with GPS, he could have shown up later and parked. A car did roll by while we were eating.”
Her brain began to shift into analytical mode. “Do you think he could be staying somewhere in town?”
“Yes. The letters have all been mailed from within easy-driving radius of St. Louis, on the weekend. Convenient for a guy who lives and works here.”
A surge of hope buoyed her spirits. “Do you think Ginny is here too?”
“Not necessarily.”
Her spirits deflated, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you think he’s outside now, watching the condo?”
“It’s possible.”
A shiver rippled through her. “This is getting creepier and creepier.”
He touched her arm. Even through the wool of her sweater, she could feel the steadying warmth of his fingers. “Keep hanging in. We’ll get this guy eventually. Every time he communicates, we learn new information. Patterns begin to emerge.”
“But any of these letters could be the last one.” A touch of hysteria raised her pitch. “We could run out of time.”
“If he follows his usual routine, we have a week to dig for clues before the next one arrives. I’ve been putting pressure on the lab at Quantico, and I think we’ll have the DNA results on the body tomorrow. If we get a database match, that will be a powerful lead. And our guy in Rolla could turn up a significant piece of information in one of his interviews.” He slid the envelope, note, and locket into evidence envelopes. “I’ll send these to the lab tomorrow—and I’ll have one of our Evidence Response Team techs swing by here tomorrow night and dust the GPS for prints on the off chance our guy was careless. They can also check the manufacturer and serial number. Sometimes those help us determine who bought the device.”
As he jotted some notations on the envelopes, she curled her fingers around the edge of the counter. He was getting ready to leave—and she didn’t want him to. Not yet. Not when the kidnapper might be sitting outside her house this very minute, watching her every move.
“Have you had dinner?” The words were out before she could stop them.
Based on his raised eyebrows, the out-of-the-blue question surprised him as much as it did her. “No. I was planning to grab a burger on the way home.” He stripped off the gloves.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, taking a quick mental inventory of her fridge. Somehow she doubted an omelet would satisfy the tall FBI agent.
“I, uh, was going to throw together a quick stir-fry. After all the times I’ve intruded on your evening plans, the least I can do is feed you dinner.”
He hesitated, his expression unreadable.
Maybe he thought she was carrying the boyfriend ruse too far, crossing a personal/professional line.
And maybe she was—because her invitation had been prompted by a far deeper emotion than simple guilt over interrupting his evenings. Perhaps he was picking up on that . . . and her feelings weren’t reciprocated.
If he was trying to figure out how to decline without hurting her feelings, she needed to give him an out. It was her fault he was in this awkward situation.
“On second thought . . . heartier fare might suit you better.” She kept her tone light and casual. “You strike me as a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”
“I must admit I never turn down a steak.”
“In that case, since I can’t offer you a steak . . .”
“But there’s more to life than steak, and . . .”
When their comments overlapped, she stopped speaking.
Grinning, he continued. “And I do like a little variety in my menu. Stir-fry sounds great. Much better than fast-food stuff.”
As if to reiterate that he was staying, he slid his jacket off.
Wow.
She tried not to stare at the snug, long-sleeved black tee that accentuated amazing abs and the kind of biceps only acquired by serious weight work.
How many hours a week did this guy spend at the gym?
“Where would you like this?” Lance held up his jacket.
She coaxed her lungs to reengage as she took it. “I’ll hang it i
n the coat closet.”
“If you’ll point the way, I’d like to wash up.”
“Down the hall. First door on the right.”
They went their separate ways, and as Christy dealt with the jacket, she glanced toward the front door.
Was the kidnapper out there watching—or was he at home, keeping tabs on her movements via computer?
Both possibilities were stomach-churning.
Worse, no matter where he was, the odds were high he was plotting his next move. Planning how he could create more chaos. He might even be thinking about putting her in his cross hairs.
Now that was a chilling thought.
But at least for the next hour or two, she didn’t have to worry about her safety.
Because she had a feeling that in a one-on-one battle with Lance McGregor, the kidnapper would find the handsome and very buff FBI agent an unbeatable adversary.
9
Staying for dinner was a mistake.
Lance rinsed his hands in the bathroom sink and tugged the towel off the rack, Mac’s and Lisa’s warnings echoing in his mind. Not that he needed them. Mixing business and pleasure was never smart. From day one in the military, he’d kept work and play separate. Personal feelings could compromise judgment—and during his years with The Unit, a lapse in judgment could have been deadly.
The same would be true in his FBI career.
So why had he accepted Christy’s invitation—especially after he’d looked into her eyes and known it was prompted by more than good manners and gratitude?
He folded the towel, hung it back on the rack, and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Was it too late to back out?
And if he did, what excuse could he give that would get him off the hook without hurting her feelings, tipping his own hand, or sabotaging his chances with her once this was over?
He leaned on the vanity. You’d think a Delta Force operator who’d had to strategize under the toughest battlefield conditions would be able to come up with an escape plan.
Then again, he’d failed on that score in the not-too-distant past—with tragic results.
A muscle spasmed in his jaw, and he gritted his teeth. After eighteen months, why couldn’t he let the memories and the soul-sapping guilt go?
You know why, McGregor.
Exhaling, he closed his eyes.
