On Thin Ice by Susan Andersen

pieces. He felt for false linings.
    It was just plain old standard issue baggage.
    He riffled through the clothing on the hangers, checking pockets, running his hands swiftly over the fabric, feeling for concealed hiding places. Nothing.
    Same with her shoes; there was nothing stuffed in the toes, and the glittery little evening bag tossed in the corner of the closet held only a forgotten lipstick and some change. He swiveled the lipstick open and sniffed it.
    Then promptly swiveled it closed again and replaced the cap. Why was he wasting time? She was only down to lunch with some of the other skaters; he didn’t have a hell of a lot of time here. He crossed over to the dresser.
    His hands wanted to linger in the lingerie drawer but he sternly refused to allow them. Swiftly, he moved from drawer to drawer, perusing the contents without disturbing their order.
    When the dresser failed to yield any secrets, he checked under the bed, felt between the mattress and the box springs, patted around the television set in the enclosed armoire. He examined the backs of the hotel artwork and inspected the carpet for loose spots that may have been pried up.
    Clean as a freakin’ whistle.
    He was in the bathroom, poking with his pen in a jar of some kind of cream, when he heard a key in the door.
    Son of a bitch! Wiping off the pen, Mick stuffed both it and the Kleenex in his jean’s pocket and looked around. Jesus, he was never going to live this case down—if it wasn’t one fucking thing it was another.
    He climbed into the bathtub behind the white curtain and pressed up against the enclosure under the showerhead. It was just the frosting on his cupcake that the damn thing had a leak. Throughout the next several tense moments, maddening drops of water plopped with the regularity of a metronome onto his forehead and then slowly rolled down to drip off the tip of his nose.
    Sasha and another woman entered her hotel room. Mick could hear their feminine voices as they walked straight past the bathroom.
    â€œIt’s here somewhere,” he heard Sasha say as drawers rattled open. “I know it is. The last time I wore it was . . . ah! Here it is.” There was a muffled thump. “What do you think . . . will it work?”
    â€œOh, Sasha,” the other voice breathed. “It looks perfect.”
    â€œI want to see it with your dress. What do you say we take it down to your room so you can show me?”
    Yes, yes, yes, Mick silently urged. Do that. Go to her room. Go.
    â€œI’ve gotta pee first,” the other voice said. “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
    â€œHelp yourself.”
    Mick flattened himself against the wall. He heard the rustle of clothing and the sounds of her doing her business, and he didn’t breathe again until the toilet flushed. The water ran in the basin and then stopped, and he figured she was finally about through. Get out of here, he silently urged. Get. The hell. Out of here.
    And he thought she had, but suddenly her voice was just on the other side of the shower curtain. “Oh, you’ve got a bathtub,” she exclaimed and he watched in dismay as female fingers wrapped around the edge of the curtain and started to move it back. “My room only has a shower.”
    Then Sasha was in the room, too. “You prefer baths?” The other woman must have nodded, because Sasha continued, “You oughtta speak to Mick Vinicor about it. I bet he could make sure you get a tub in your future rooms.”
    â€œOhh, Mick,” the other woman murmured. “God, is he a babe, or what?” she demanded and her hand dropped away from the curtain. Mick heard her footsteps on the tile floor as she walked away. “How’d you like to climb into that guy’s pants?”
    And just when he would have liked them to stay in the room, so he could hear Sasha’s reply, they walked out in a burst of laughter, slamming the hallway door closed behind