Free Thin Ice by Irene Hannon

strove for a conversational tone, maintaining his nonchalant expression. “I told him I want to get acclimated before I think about taking on anything else.”
    â€œNo problem. Just wanted to make sure you know you’d be welcome if that kind of duty appeals to you. Now go home before the phone rings.”
    Great advice—but too late. As Steve disappeared around the edge of the cubicle, Lance’s cell began to vibrate.
    If fate was kind, it would be Mac calling to give him a hard time about something.
    He scanned caller ID. Smiled.
    Even better.
    He put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Christy. I was going to call you later with an update.” From home. Here, anyone in the open-office environment could tune in to their conversation . . . no matter if said conversation was business related.
    â€œI got another letter.”
    His good humor evaporated as he snatched his overcoat off the other hook in his office. “In the mail?”
    â€œY-yes. I just found it.” Her voice was shaking.
    He picked up his pace, stopping only long enough on his way out to grab some evidence bags and gloves. “Are you home now?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m on my way.”
    â€œAre you wearing a suit?”
    â€œYes. But my leather jacket is in the car.” He hoped. Near as he could recall, he’d tossed it on the backseat yesterday in case his duty vehicle got stuck in the snow and he had to dig it out. “You didn’t open the envelope, did you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood. Sit tight, and expect me in less than half an hour.”
    He strode toward the back door, swiped his badge, and jogged to his black Chevy Cruze, shoes crunching on the salt. A quick glance confirmed that the jacket was in the backseat, and he made the switch in the parking lot before sliding behind the wheel.
    The Chevy might not have as much power as he’d like, and the snarl of rush-hour traffic hadn’t yet abated, but with a heavy foot on the pedal and some creative twists of the wheel he made it to Christy’s condo in twenty-two minutes.
    She opened the door as he reached for the bell. “I was watching for you. Come in.”
    A gust of wind at his back seconded the invitation, and he moved into the small foyer, wiping his feet on the mat by the door.
    â€œSorry to drag you out on such a miserable night.” She shut the door and rubbed her upper arms.
    â€œNot a problem. I’ve dealt with far colder weather than this. Where’s the letter?”
    She led him to a small but spotless kitchen and motioned toward the counter, where the envelope rested near a bag emblazoned with the Golden Arches. Based on the aroma emanating from the sack, her takeout dinner hadn’t yet been consumed.
    He shrugged out of his jacket and pulled on a pair of latex gloves, leaning close to read the postmark.
    Springfield, Illinois.
    Their guy was moving around.
    â€œMay I?” He crossed toward a knife block on the counter. At her nod, he chose a small paring knife, carefully slit the top of the envelope, and bowed it open. A single, folded sheet of paper was inside.
    Positioning one of the evidence envelopes underneath to catch anything that might fall out, he withdrew the paper and opened it.
    The message was again typed and brief.
    In case you’re wondring if I really have her, here’s proof. Poor thing—she looks scared, doesnt she? If you want to see her agin, don’t call the cops. Wait for further orders.
    Below the note was a laser-printed photo of a thirtyish woman, her blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. One eye was black, and there was a fresh cut on her chin. She was sitting on what appeared to be a dirt floor, hands bound in front of her with crude rope, back against a concrete wall. The image wasn’t the best quality, but it was clear enough to make a definite ID.
    Christy leaned in to see. Gasped. Groped for the edge of the counter.
    Setting