On Thin Ice Read online

  This postcoital interval was generally when she started bossing him around, but she’d been strangely reticent ever since Seattle. He would much prefer that she think he was giving in to her demands, but her continued silence had the effect of making him restless. Now that he’d finally made up his mind he wondered what the holdup was. If she didn’t bring the matter up soon, he’d have to throw it onto the table for discussion himself.

  He was gearing himself up for the best approach when the little night-light that shed the room’s only illumination blew with a sharp pop. They both jumped, then Lon laughed. He squeezed Karen, reaching out with one hand to grope through the soft darkness for the lamp on the nightstand. “Sounded like a gunshot for a minute there, didn’t it?”

  She didn’t respond and it wasn’t until her failure to do so became noticeable that he also noticed how rigid she had become against his side. She began to gasp as if she wasn’t drawing in enough air, a high-pitched hee growing louder at the apex of each successive inhalation. Abandoning his search for the lamp, he turned back to her. “Hey, baby, what’s the matter? Karen? You all right?” Her struggle for breath grew louder. “Jesus. Take it easy, now. You’re all right; you’re just hyperventilating. Christ, I wish we had a paper bag. Shh, now. Shhhhh.”

  For once she failed to hear the blasphemy. “Turn-on-the-light-turn-on-the-light-turn-on-the-light,” she wheezed. “Oh please, I’ll be good; turn on the light.”

  Once again he fumbled for the lamp and finding it, snapped it on. Immediately, most of the tension that held her in its grip left her rigid muscles. Lon spied a sack on the table and slid his arm out from under her, rolling to his feet. Snatching it up, he dumped its contents on the tabletop and brought it over to Karen. “Here. Breathe into this.”

  She did as he said, using both hands to clasp it to her nose and mouth. Within a few moments her breathing had resumed its normal cadence. She lowered the bag and lay staring up at the ceiling.

  Lon studied her pale face. “You wanna tell me what that was all about?”

  “No,” she said through lips so stiff they barely moved.

  “Okeydoke.” He pulled the bedspread up, tucking her in, and then sat beside her quietly for several moments. Briefly, strictly in the interests of making conversation, he considered bringing up his newfound willingness to go back to his larcenous ways. But in the end he held his tongue, for he knew Karen too well. She was going to be royally pissed that he had witnessed her in a weak moment and would most likely feel compelled to pull a power play on him just to show him who was still the boss. If he said he was willing to do now what he’d refused to do before when she had demanded it of him, her most probable response would be to say: too bad, the timing’s not right for me now.

  Oh well, no big loss. This was Idaho. There were probably more neo-Nazi skinheads in this state than the type of customer she catered to, anyway.

  Sasha spotted Lon sitting by himself in the far corner of the hotel coffee shop when she and Connie went in for lunch. He glanced up at her but then immediately returned his attention to the magazine that was spread out on the tabletop next to his plate. Sasha stopped so abruptly Connie bounced off her back.

  Why, that lousy faker. She knew perfectly well he’d seen her but for some reason he was pretending he hadn’t. Feeling perverse, she dragged Connie over to his corner table. “Hi! ” She pushed Connie into a chair, tossed her wallet on the tabletop, and took a chair herself. “Mind if we join you?” Without awaiting reply, she snatched up a menu and shoved it in her friend’s dainty hands. Connie grinned at her and flipped it open.

  Sasha turned her attention back to Lon. “So, whataya reading?” She craned her head sideways. “Playboy, huh. You always did have intellectual tastes.” She started thumbing through the magazine in search of the centerfold.

  Lonnie jerked it out of her reach. “Saush, do you mind?” Scowling, he smoothed the pages she’d rifled, and in that moment she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he really was pulling away from their friendship. She’d suspected as much, given his recent attitude toward her, but had hoped she was wrong.

  Dammit, though, she wasn’t. Her old Lonnie could have been counted on to make a facetious comment about reading the magazine strictly for its articles, and then with his usual sarcastic humor would have plunged right in to help her trash the centerfold’s good name, intellectual prowess, and flawless, perky, airbrushed figure.

  This Lonnie looked at her as if she were a pushy tavern moll encroaching on his sermon preparation time.

  Still she kept trying. “I’m going out to check on the ice at the arena after lunch,” she said, hoping the good cheer in her voice didn’t sound half as forced and phony to him as it did to her. “You wanna come with?”

  Come with. It was an expression he hadn’t heard in years—not, in fact, since they’d finally left Kells Crossing behind them for good—and Lon’s heart constricted. His facial muscles wanted to give her a big old lopsided smile, but he sternly put the constraints to them. “No, Mother, I do not,” he said flatly. And fisted his hands under the table at the hurt that flashed across her face.

  “Excuse me, won’t you?” she murmured breezily and pushed her chair back from the table. “I just remembered I . . . uh, forgot something.” She turned and strode swiftly from the room, her head held high.

  Not, however, before her companions caught the sheen of moisture that reflected the overhead light in her large, gray eyes.

  There was a heartbeat of silence in the wake of her departure. Then another. Jon looked up to find Connie still sitting there, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed under her diminutive breasts, watching him with a set expression. “What the hell are you gawkin’ at?” he snarled.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said in disgust. Then her eyes narrowed, her arms dropped to her sides, and she leaned forward. “No. That’s probably doing your Mama a disservice. You prick.”

  Lon ran his eyes up and down her insultingly. “You think about my prick a lot, Nakamura?”

  She turned pink and made a sound of distaste. Nose in the air, looking him dead in the eye, she suggested, “Why don’t you kiss my pretty gold butt, Morrison.”

  “I’d like that, dollface. Like to kiss all your delectable pink parts.” Which was nothing short of the truth but he stated it as offensively as possible. He’d known from the first little pulse of sexual awareness that she wasn’t for him. Connie Nakamura was another nice girl, like Sasha, and nice girls sure as hell weren’t for a loser like him. He reached across the table and ran an insolent fingertip down the subtle slope of her right breast, scratching his nail back and forth over her nipple. “Whataya say we go up to my room, get naked, and get down to it?”

  Slapping his hand away, she shoved back from the table and rose to her feet. She stared down, blistering him with the contempt that blazed out of her exotic dark eyes. “You make me sick. For reasons I will never comprehend, Sasha loves you. But instead of thanking your lucky stars for a friend like her you’re so damn jealous of the fact that she’s finally found someone who’ll take care of her the way she deserves to be taken care of that you don’t know whether to pee or go blind. Well, let me tell you, bud; you don’t deserve her. She’s worth a dozen of you.” Then she, too, turned and walked out on him.

  “You got that right, my little Far Eastern beauty,” Lon muttered. “You are fuckin’-A, one hundred percent correct. St. Sasha is too good for the likes of this sinner.” Then he shrugged, picked up his sandwich, and forced his attention back to his Playboy.

  Sasha was nearly blinded by her tears, but she saw Mick through the blur talking to a man outside their room. She was blearily aware of the stranger shoving a clipboard at Mick and of Mick scribbling on it. Then a small manila envelope exchanged hands and the man smiled, spoke softly, and sketched a finger salute off his forehead before he walked jauntily down the hallway in the opposite direction from her approach. The tune he whistled floated back in his wake.

/>   Mick was still standing in the hallway waiting for her when she reached the room. “Hiya, sweetheart; I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” He broke off when he got his first good look at her and his smile of greeting faded to a frown of concern. “Sasha? What’s the matter, baby? Are you all right?” He reached an arm out to wrap around her shoulders and she walked straight past it into his chest, burying her face in the crisp, laundered smell of his shirt and inhaling deeply the scent of soap, water, and man beneath. Clutching his spare waist, she held on as if her life depended on it, and the tears she’d been holding back by sheer determination overflowed.

  Mick’s arms tightened. “What is it darlin’? What happened?”

  She started mumbling rapidly into his shirtfront but only one word in five was even remotely coherent.

  “What?” Mick maneuvered them into the room and closed the door behind them. Rubbing his hands up and down her back, he leaned back from the waist and ducked his head in an attempt to see into her face, but she refused to relinquish her position against his chest, apparently entrenched for the duration. Once again she mumbled.

  “Darlin’, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” He backed her over to the chairs, sat her down in one and squatted on his heels in front of her. Reaching up, he used his thumbs to wipe the puddles from beneath her eyes and then swiped them like windshield wipers across her tear-streaked cheeks. When it appeared as if the flow may have been staunched, he picked up her hands, which rested so limply in her lap, and rubbed them between his own. “Start over again, Saush. And this time speak more slowly.”

  She told him everything she could recall concerning her past several encounters with Lon. When she’d finished, Mick remained on his haunches in front of her for a few silent moments, intently studying her eyes, trying to gauge exactly how she must have been affected. Finally, he merely said, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it must hurt like hell.”

  His eyes dropped to where their entwined hands lay in a tangle on her knees while he considered for an instant what he could do that would be of practical assistance. Watching his thumbs rub back and forth across the backs of her hands, he finally looked back up and gave her the barest suggestion of a smile. “I could always beat him up for you. You want?”

  An involuntary snort of laughter escaped her. “Yes! I think that would be most satisfying.” Then her lips wobbled for a second before she got them back under control. Eyes locked with his, she confessed, “I’m scared to death he’s getting back into the drug thing, Micky.”

  His professional instincts went on red alert, and even as he petted her and murmured reassurances his mind was analyzing ways to utilize this newest data. He was dying to pump her for further information. The portion of him that was her lover, however, was more empathetic.

  It was no secret he thought Morrison was a worthless son of a bitch. He also knew, however, how Sasha felt about the guy. He’d learned a lot about her life since they’d been living together and a guiding force in it was that Morrison had been damn near the only friend she’d had growing up. And he’d protected her; Mick had to give him that. Morrison and Saush had been as close as two people can get, and now she was faced with the prospect of being forced to witness him toss his life away again, and all for the sake of the promise of the easy life that had ruined him once before.

  Mick figured that what she was feeling had to be an equivalent to the frustration, rage, and bone-deep sorrow he used to feel back in the days when he’d known his brother was about to go out on the prowl in search of a new score. When he had known there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to prevent it.

  He pulled her up out of the chair and led her over to the bed. Tumbling them onto the mattress, he pulled her into his arms. And he talked to her.

  He tried to prepare her for the eventuality that maybe she couldn’t save Morrison. That maybe nobody could.

  “But he promised me he was through with this shit for good!” she insisted.

  “Baby, he could hardly tell you otherwise, could he? We all know your feelings on the subject. You would’ve wrung his scrawny neck for him.”

  “Damn it, Mick, don’t patronize me. He promised me and I’m telling you I know when Lonnie’s slingin’ the bull and when he isn’t.”

  Mick shrugged. “Okay. Then chances are there’s someone else out there who’s encouraging him to backslide.” He hesitated, but finally decided there was no real reason why he couldn’t comfort her and do his job—the two weren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. “You have any idea who that could be, Saush?” he inquired. And held his breath.

  “Not a clue,” she promptly replied. “I can’t imagine anyone even attempting such a thing. Well, maybe John Beggart or Marty Roth. But Lon would never go along with a suggestion from either of those idiots.” She shoved up on an elbow in order to see Mick better. “Lonnie is mule stubborn, Mick. Suppose someone did offer him an opportunity to make some really big money. Financially it would appeal to him and he’d be tempted; I’m not denying that. But I also know Lon, and he would say no, flat out—at least at first.”

  “What makes you so damn certain?”

  She looked him dead in the eye and repeated what she had told him already. “Because he promised me.”

  Mick felt a prickling at the back of his neck. For the first time he was beginning to get an inkling . . . and he didn’t like what it was suggesting. Incidents, which up to this point had seemed senseless, were beginning to suggest a pattern that made a convoluted kind of sense. “Would he be likely to tell the person that he was refusing because of a promise he made to you?” he queried her without apparent emphasis.

  Sasha shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Okay. Let me approach this from another angle. If he made you a vow—and clearly you believe that he was sincere when he did so—then why the hell change his mind now?” Sasha merely widened her eyes at him, her expression suggesting “think about it,” and Mick nodded. “Ah. Sure. You and me.”

  “It’s gotta be.”

  She laid her head back down on his chest and they were both quiet for a moment. It wasn’t until then that she remembered the man with the clipboard. “Mick, who was that man out in the hall?”

  “Who?” He raised his head up to look at her, but then settled back down again when he realized to whom she was referring. “Oh, the overnight express courier. I’m working on a project for someone and he brought me some information that I need. Or, at least I hope he did.”

  “Oh, Mick, I’m sorry.” Immediately Sasha tried to push away. “I ought to let you get back to work,” she insisted guiltily, but Mick tightened his arms around her, preventing her from leaving.

  “Hey, it’s not a problem,” he said. “Trust me, babe, another five minutes one way or another isn’t going to make all that much difference to anything I’ve currently got going. You know how it is.” He gave her a self-deprecatory grin. “Nine-tenths of the stuff I do around here is straightening out the crew’s or cast’s personal messes.”

  He did a lot more than that, but she understood what he was saying. Mick had an undeniable air of authority about him and he got things done. The combination was irresistible to those who didn’t boast similar capabilities and it hadn’t taken long before people with problems began bringing them to him. Most were minor; a few were not. Regardless of the severity, he invariably solved whatever predicament was brought to him and he did it confidentially and without fuss. Not even with her did he discuss other people’s troubles unless the person requesting help launched into the details of his dilemma in front of her. It was a trait she found admirable.

  Luckily for Mick, it was also a trait that provided a convenient explanation for the sporadic missives from his true employer.

  Sasha was a great respecter of privacy, but he hadn’t stayed alive in a dangerous profession for as long as he had by taking unnecessary chances. Don’t Tempt Fate were words to live by. He waited until she had tracked down Connie and they’d once a
gain left to take a second shot at their aborted lunch before he sat down and ripped open the manila envelope the DEA courier had delivered.

  And about damn time it had shown up, too. McMahon had taken his own sweet time delivering the information, and Mick knew a power play when he saw one. This was a little chest thumping on McMahon’s part, his way of saying Mick’s threats neither intimidated nor impressed him. Game playing of this ilk was just the sort of bullshit the suits loved best.

  Looking on the bright side, though, at least the courier had been a total professional.

  He studied the list of names of people connected to the Follies who had been on the amateur circuit at the time of Morrison’s arrest. Sara Parsons. Karen Corselli. Jeffrey O’Brien. And seven names from the technical support portion of the Follies personnel. That sort of took him by surprise until he remembered what a closed little society the skating world was and then he felt foolish for jumping to an assumption that wasn’t scrupulously thought through. He ought to know better. Of course it wasn’t only the performers who moved around in this business.

  Given a bit of consideration, as a matter of fact, skating was actually a rich kid’s sport. Sasha and Morrison were the exception, not the norm. He’d learned enough since he’d been with the Follies to realize that on the whole it took a great deal of money to support years of training and cover expenses needed to compete on the amateur circuit. Hell, skate boots alone ran eight hundred to a thousand bucks a pair and they didn’t even last that long given the moisture they were continuously exposed to. He sure as hell didn’t rule out any of the skaters on the list, but they were less likely to need the money. And most of them had an athlete’s respect for their bodies, which made it more difficult to imagine them pushing a substance guaranteed to destroy it.

  On the other hand, Morrison hadn’t hesitated to do it, and for all Mick knew the motive had nothing to do with money. He had to start somewhere, however, and he chose—his finger ran down the list and came to a halt a short ways down the page—Jack Berensen. The bus driver.