Thin Ice (15 page)

But did Lance deserve the full brunt of blame he'd carried all these months? Yes, he'd been the team leader. Yes, he'd made the call to carry out the mission despite his qualms. Yet he'd checked back with his command, expressed concern. Should he have pushed back? Maybe. Was his ego a factor in the tragedy, as he claimed? Possibly. Special forces command would want operators with strong, confident personalities—and that self-assurance and decisive temperament no doubt worked to their advantage in most situations.

That night had been the exception.

That night, it had sent them into a deathtrap.

“Would you like to hear the end of the story?” Lance's tone was as colorless as his face.

She nodded, afraid to trust her voice.

“We were able to hold them off and radio for help, and once the helos started coming in, the couple of insurgents who were still on their feet made an unsuccessful run for it. My buddy was the only American casualty. The other side didn't fare as well. Let's just say we didn't leave any witnesses behind.”

The hard, take-no-prisoners edge to his voice revealed a new side of Lance. It was the voice of a soldier who accepted tough assignments, who carried out deadly missions, who showed no pity for those who opposed him.

It was the voice of a man who did his duty, no matter the cost—and who took full responsibility for the outcome, good or bad.

With trembling fingers, Christy lifted her mug and took a sip.

The brew had turned tepid.

“I shocked you, didn't I?” His features were incised with grief . . . apprehension . . . and perhaps a touch of resignation?

“I don't know if
shock
is the right word.” She spoke slowly, struggling to digest everything he'd told her. “Blindsided might be more accurate.”

“I wish I could change the ending of that story, Christy. Go back and make a different decision. I would if I could.” His anguished words were laced with regret. “But all operators have a certain sense of invincibility, and despite the bad vibes, I was sure four guys from The Unit could best whoever was in that dilapidated compound. It was a bad call.”

He stopped. Pressed a finger against a stray crumb on the table. When he lifted it, pulverized powder clung to his skin. “The harsh truth is, a good man died in my place because I let my ego override my instincts. I had the authority to call off the raid, and I didn't. I'll carry that burden of blame for the rest of my life—and I can't fault you if hearing my story is a game changer.”

It was a statement, not a question, spoken in a stoic tone. As if he assumed she'd blame him for the death of his friend too.

Did she?

She took another sip of the cooling coffee. There was culpability, certainly, based on his explanation of the events. Yet his remorse was real—and shouldn't that mitigate guilt?

All at once the man beside her started to rise.

“Wait!” She touched his arm.

He paused and looked at her.

Now what?

She went with the first thought that came to mind. “Did your buddy's wife blame you?”

“I don't know.”

She frowned. “You've never talked to her?”

“I attended the funeral, but Debbie was too grief-stricken to hold a lucid conversation. I was planning to talk to her before I shipped back out, but on the way home from the burial, she went into premature labor and had to be rushed to the hospital. The emergency didn't get resolved until after I left. I did start a few letters, but they ended up in the trash. I couldn't find the words.”

“You found them with me.”

“You didn't lose the man you loved.”

“No—but you still took a risk sharing the story with me . . . and it paid off.”

Caution warred with hope in his eyes. “That incident isn't the best character reference, Christy.”

“I don't think the man sitting here is the same man who led his team into the compound that night. I have a feeling this is a new and improved version.”

“I'd like to think that's true.”

She leaned toward him. “Besides, I have a feeling the old version wasn't as bad as you made him out to be. You were sleep deprived that night, and while you might have thought you were impervious to the effects of fatigue, you probably weren't. I also know you wouldn't have been put in a leadership position with an elite special forces unit if you hadn't demonstrated sound judgment under pressure. I'm not saying your ego didn't get in the way—but how many times in your military career did that
same ego, that same confidence, save your life and the lives of others?”

His expression grew pensive. “I suppose that's a valid point.”

“Also, I can't begin to imagine the stress of operating in the kind of situations you described. And you did that every day, mission after mission. Who am I to judge the choices you made under such intense pressure? But I'm confident of one thing—you did the best you could under the circumstances that night . . . and that's all anyone can ask.”

“The Unit is held to higher standards than anyone else.”

“Including God's? Because all he asks is that we do our best.”

His half smile held little humor. “Some of the higher-ups have very inflated opinions of themselves—and expect perfection.”

“Are you saying you were reprimanded over the outcome?”

“On the contrary. We were commended for cleaning out a nasty den of insurrection in the face of overwhelming odds, despite being set up. But I suspect Debbie would feel differently if she knew the whole story.”

Ah. The missing piece. He needed his buddy's wife to absolve him from guilt—or at the very least, forgive him—in order to find closure.

“Maybe it's time you found out.”

He picked up his half-eaten cookie and broke off a dangling chocolate chip. “As a matter of fact, I'm considering a quick weekend trip east once this case wraps up. But the truth is, it would be easier to face another walled compound than have a heart-to-heart with Debbie.”

“Exposing yourself to physical danger requires a different kind of courage than putting your heart at risk. But if you can do it with me, you can do it with her.”

His smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes and produced an endearing dimple. “You're very good at pep talks.”

“I should be. I heard a lot of them from coaches during my
skating career, and I've given myself plenty over the past few months.” She peeked into his mug. “Would you like a warm-up?”

“You've already given me that.” He held her gaze for a sizzling, lung-locking moment, then ate the other half of the cookie in one large bite and brushed off his fingers. “I need to go. It's getting late, and I don't want to overstay my welcome.”

Not going to happen—but she kept that to herself. There'd been enough soul-baring for one night.

He rose and picked up his plate. “I'll help with the cleanup first, though.”

She stood, too, and took the plate from his hand. “There isn't much. Besides, you've had a long day and you still have to drive home. Why don't I take a rain check on that offer?”

“Thanks. And I won't forget. I pay my debts.”

A man of honor, through and through—even about the little things.

Nice.

She retrieved his jacket and met him in the hall, holding it up for him to slip his arms through.

“Now that we know our kidnapper is monitoring your movements, I want you to take extra precautions.” He tucked the evidence envelopes inside his jacket. “No deserted parking lots at night. If you work late, have someone escort you to your car. No malls after dark. No solitary walks. Okay?”

The present reality crashed back over her, and she wrapped her arms around herself, suppressing a shudder as fear once again began lapping at the edges of her composure.

“Don't worry, I'll be very careful. I'm totally creeped out by this.”

“If you see or hear or feel anything that makes you nervous, call me—day or night. Trust your instincts.”

“I will.”

“Is your phone GPS equipped?”

“Yes, but it's turned off. The guy at the store told me it sucks battery life.”

“Turn it on for now. You never know when it might come in handy.” He pulled the door open, but instead of leaving, he swiveled back to her. “In case we're being watched, let's make sure our guy continues to believe the boyfriend ruse.”

Before she had a chance to react, he wrapped her in his strong arms and pressed her cheek against the scuffed leather of his jacket.

And he didn't let go any too fast.

When at last he pulled back, she couldn't tell if the shivers racing through her were the result of the cold wind whipping in from outside or the adrenaline rush of knowing that this time, there was more to his hug than mere playacting.

“As soon as I have any information from the lab about the DNA from the body, I'll call. Hopefully tomorrow.” He turned up the collar of his jacket.

“I'll be waiting to hear.”

He hesitated, as if he was as reluctant to leave as she was to see him go. “Thanks for dinner—and for being so understanding.”

“Thank
you
for being so honest about us . . . and for trusting me with your story.”

“You're easy to trust.” With a lift of his hand, he retreated down the sidewalk. Only after he slid into his car did she shut and lock the door. Then she wandered back to the dining room and surveyed the table.

Just two cookies had been taken from the serving plate. Hers lay mostly untouched. Lance's was gone. Both mugs were half full of coffee.

Not much of a dessert party.

Then again, it was hard to get in the mood for sweets while tragedy unfolded.

Yet strangely enough, life felt sweeter than it had in a long while. Despite all her losses, despite the renewed trauma with Ginny, despite the sometimes oppressive quiet of her solitary home, she felt less alone.

Of course, this thing with Lance could peter out. Hormone-charged infatuations didn't always last—and enchanted evenings, falling in love with strangers across crowded rooms, didn't happen in real life. Not in
her
real life, anyway.

But perhaps tonight was the beginning of a new season—for both of them.

She picked up his mug and plate, pausing to reread the plaque the minister had given her while she'd been struggling to decide whether to leave competitive skating behind. How often during the intervening years had she turned to that beautiful passage in Ecclesiastes for hope and comfort and encouragement? And always, she came away renewed and receptive to the promise of brighter days ahead.

Lance had made his intentions clear tonight, and she appreciated his candor. They were too old for the game-playing of adolescent dating. He'd set the stage to see where the potent electricity between them might lead once this case was over and Ginny was safely back—
please, God
,
let that
happen!

In the meantime, she planned to do exactly what her dinner companion had suggested—be extra careful and watch her back.

Because with a man like Lance waiting in the wings, she didn't want some understudy stepping into her role.

Y
ou're in luck, Agent McGregor. I've got a CODIS match for you.”

As the crime lab tech in Quantico bypassed a greeting and got straight to business, Lance leaned forward in his desk chair.

They had a hit in the National Missing Person DNA database.

What a great start to a Wednesday.

“Who is it?” He shifted the phone to his other ear and grabbed a pen.

“A woman by the name of Tammy Lee. Do you want the contact information and report number from NamUs?”

Nice of the tech to save him that step. “Sure. Thanks.”

He jotted down the information from the National Missing and Unidentified Persons System as the man dictated it. The report had been filed with the St. Louis city cops. Excellent. That would simplify follow-up.

Thirty minutes later, after a quick conversation with the detective who'd handled the case, a fax of the report was printing out.

Mark joined him in the copy room, a sheaf of papers in hand as he headed toward one of the machines. “Anything new on the kidnapping case?”

“Your timing's impeccable. We just got a match on the DNA.” Lance retrieved the last page as the report finished printing and filled him in on the ME's call.

“And what does that have to say about Tammy Lee?” Mark waved a hand toward the document as he set his stack of papers in the feeder.

Lance scanned the report. “Age twenty-one, five-six, one-fifteen, long blonde hair, blue eyes. Disappeared the night before the Ginny Reed house fire. Profession is listed as escort.”

“A hooker.” Mark arched an eyebrow. “Interesting.”

“But logical. A lot of those women lose contact with their families, so who would know if they disappeared? Not much chance any of their pimps would file a missing person report and risk prosecution.”

“Then who put out the alert?”

“A Brenda Rose. She listed herself as a roommate—and friend.”

“Friend for sure. She took a chance by coming forward.”

“Yeah. The two of them must have been close.”

“She offer any theories about the disappearance?” Mark pulled out a stack of copies and rapped them into alignment.

Lance sped-read the write-up. “She says the night Tammy disappeared, she had an appointment with a guy she'd seen the prior week. They were supposed to connect at a place called the Wild Duck.” He shot his colleague a questioning look.

“A hot spot on the East Side. Known as a meeting place for rendezvous of the less genteel kind.” Mark removed the rest of his copies from the machine. “Did Brenda leave any contact information?”

“A phone number.”

“Good luck with that. Assuming it's legit, odds are the phone's a throwaway and is long gone.”

“It's only been two months since the fire. It could still be in service.”

“If it's not, some of the vice guys in the city might know her whereabouts.”

“A working number would be easier—and faster.”

“Who knows? You might get lucky. Keep me in the loop.” He stopped in the doorway as he exited. “I know you're still settling in and dealing with a hot case, but don't let the SWAT team drop off your radar.”

“I won't.” No need to tell him the SWAT team wasn't even
on
his radar.

With a mock salute, Mark disappeared out the door.

Report in hand, Lance returned to his office, pulled out his cell, and weighed it in his hand. Caller ID spoofing program or *67? Both would hide the source of the call if Brenda's pimp happened to be monitoring her phone—but chances were the guy was little league and not all that sophisticated. The *67 strategy should suffice.

Taking his seat, he keyed in the masking code, followed by Brenda's number.

Three rings in, he expected the call to roll to voice mail. Instead, it kept ringing.

Four rings later, a groggy female voice greeted him. “'Lo.”

Lance twisted his wrist. Maybe calling someone in Brenda's profession at eight-thirty in the morning hadn't been the smartest move.

“Brenda Rose?”

“Yeah.” A yawn came over the line. “Who's this?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yeah. And I was sound asleep.” Irritation sharpened her words. “Who is this?”

“Special Agent Lance McGregor with the FBI. I'm calling in reference to the missing person report you filed two months ago for Tammy Lee.”

A gasp came over the line. “Did you find her?”

“I'd prefer to discuss this in person—ASAP. Pick a time and place and I'll meet you.”

“Look, I don't want any trouble, okay?” An anxious note crept into her voice. “From you or . . . or anyone else.”

Like her pimp.

He changed his tone from crisp to cordial. “Making trouble for you isn't on my agenda. We appreciate that you filed this report. It could help us with more than one case. I just need to ask a few questions.”

“Can't you do that by phone?”

Yeah, he could—but it wasn't as informative as looking someone in the eye and watching body language.

“In person is better.” Especially since she was the sole connection they had to Ginny's stand-in. Clues weren't exactly pinging off the walls; he needed to milk this for all it was worth.

“Okay. Fine. Four o'clock. Edy's Ice Cream in Union Station.”

Walking distance from his office.

Perfect.

“Watch for the guy in the leather jacket.”

“I thought FBI agents always wore suits?” Wariness crept into her voice.

“Not if we want to avoid attracting attention. But I'll be happy to wear my suit if you prefer.”

“No, no. That's okay. Low-key is better.”

No surprise she'd backpedaled. “See you at four.”

“I'll be there.” The line went dead.

Slowly Lance replaced the receiver. Hard to say whether she'd show—but if she'd cared enough to put her neck on the line
with her pimp by making the report in the first place, she'd probably follow through.

If she didn't?

He had other ways to track her down—and if necessary, he'd use every one.

Nathan opened his eyes. Sniffed.

Something was burning.

He swung his feet to the floor and stood, the mattress creaking as he snatched his jeans from the chair beside the bed.

The old woman must be cooking.

He thrust his legs into the denim, unlocked the door, and raced down the hall to the kitchen.

From the doorway, he took in the scene in one quick sweep.

A faint haze hovered inches below the ceiling. His grandmother was waving her hands to disperse it, like she'd done in Baščaršija Square during their family trip to Sarajevo years ago. That spot had definitely lived up to its Pigeon Square nickname—and she was having no more success getting rid of the smoke than she'd had shooing away the pesky birds.

The apartment would stink all day.

He glared at her. “What did you burn this time?”

At his terse question, she twisted toward him. Gasped. Winced. “Bread.” Her reply came out more quaver than word as she gripped her ribs.

He moved beside her, grabbed the charred piece of toast that lay on the counter, and crushed it in his hand, letting the burnt crumbs tumble into the sink. “I do the cooking. You know that. Why didn't you eat some cereal?”

“Gone.” She pointed to a box on the counter.

He frowned. Picked it up. Shook it. Hadn't he bought cereal last week?

No, maybe not. His mind had been on more important priorities than grocery shopping lately. They'd run out of milk yesterday too.

Not that he intended to acknowledge his lapse.

Turning, he scowled at her. “Have you been eating more than usual?”

“No, no!” She shrank back, fear darting through her eyes.

“Why didn't you wait for me to make breakfast?”

“I hungar.”

So what else was new? She was always hungry.

Still . . . it was after ten. Past breakfast—unless you'd worked the night shift.

His scowl deepened. All these late fill-in hours thanks to Dennis's broken leg were playing havoc with his efforts to monitor Christy's activities. And watching her squirm had been one of the pleasures he'd most looked forward to while making his plans. It wasn't fair that he was missing out on half the fun.

He yanked open a cabinet, reached in, and grabbed a pot. “Sit down. I'll fix you some oatmeal.”

The old woman remained motionless.

He took a step toward her. “If you want to eat, sit. Otherwise, you can wait until lunch.”

She shuffled to the table and sat.

Better.

She needed to remember who was in charge. He chose what she ate—and who cared if she disliked oatmeal? After stinking up the kitchen, she didn't deserve to be coddled.

“I'll be gone the rest of the day and won't be home till late.” He dropped the pot with a loud clatter onto the chipped counter. “Your food will be in the refrigerator. Don't touch anything else. You understand me?”

“Da.”

He glowered at her, and she cringed.

“Yes. Yes.”

“After all these years, your English is pathetic.” He shook some oatmeal into the pot with more force than necessary, added water. “Why do you hang on to the language of a country that treated you like dirt? That killed your husband and daughter-in-law and grandson? That forced you to flee to a foreign land that also treated you like dirt?”

She remained silent.

Banging the pot onto the stove, he watched her flinch. “And how did you and Tata cope with this new country? The respected businessman became a janitor who spent his free time in a drunken stupor and walked in front of a bus on his way home from a bar one night without a thought for the son he left behind. You were no better. Did you ever care that your drinking—and neglect—were the reasons I got carted off to that foster home and was forced to live with strangers who cared more about the government check that came every month than about me?”

He twisted on the burner, watching the fire shoot up around the bottom of the pot. Like he'd watched those flames in November, through his binoculars, listening to the dried-out wood crackle as Ginny Reed's house was consumed.

But the best moment of all had been the screams.

Christy's screams.

And there were more to come.

The old woman coughed, a harsh, grating hack she tried to stifle.

He turned to her. “You didn't understand half of what I said, did you?”

“Yes.”

“No, you didn't. But it doesn't matter. I survived, no thanks to you.”

Or Christy.

Who knew where he might be if she hadn't abandoned him, like everyone else had?

But she was paying for her betrayal now—just like the old woman.

The oatmeal behind him started to sputter, and he reached for a spoon to stir it. Silence fell in the apartment, which suited him fine. What could Mevlida say in response to his rant, even if she'd understood it? Everything he'd said was true. Thanks to her and Christy, he'd ended up no better than his old man, working a crummy job and living in a mouse-infested apartment. Who wouldn't want to escape a fate like this?

But unlike Tata and Baka, he'd found something better than alcohol to soften the harsh edges of his life, despite the occasional beer he allowed himself.

Nathan picked up the pot, dumped the lumpy oatmeal in a bowl, and set it in front of his grandmother.

She bent over the bowl and began scooping up the thick, unappetizing paste. Milk and sugar would make it more palatable, but she could eat it plain today. He owed her nothing. No kindness, no consideration, no compassion. She should be grateful he'd rescued her from the rehab place after she broke her hip instead of letting her go back to the series of homeless shelters she'd lived in for who knew how long.

Reminding her of that—and tossing out the occasional threat to throw her back out on the street if she started complaining—was all it took to keep her in line.

He dropped the sticky pot in the sink and crossed the room. “Don't forget to clean up after you're finished.”

She lifted her head and met his gaze. The abject sorrow in her eyes, the desolation and grief, were profound enough to touch the hardest of hearts.

But they didn't reach his.

Not even close.

On the contrary.

Her misery was like a tonic. It meant he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do when he'd taken her in.

He was in control of her life—and that kind of power made up for a lot of his other disappointments.

Now he was exerting the same power over Christy. Calling the shots. Throwing her world into turmoil. He didn't have total control yet . . . but he was close.

And once he got it, he intended to enjoy every minute.