Page 28 of Thin Ice

"I know."

He was quiet for a second. I heard him start to type. "Logging it. I'll pull what the city's traffic cameras give me for that block, which is probably nothing. Anything else?"

"No," I said. "Nothing else."

I stayed on the curb after he hung up. Then I slowly walked the length of the block, reading parked cars, their plates, angles, and which had dew on the windshield.

Nothing looked wrong. Local residents' cars slept in their usual spots. Michael was right. The street agreed with him, but I still didn't like it.

I re-entered the building through the service entrance and rode the elevator back up to the condo.

Nolan was in the kitchen buttering toast. He had his tablet propped against a fruit bowl holding bananas. Hockey ran on the screen with the sound off. He didn't look up.

He was deep inside his own head, probably thinking about what would happen in twelve hours. It would happen inside a building I'd helped seal tight. Whatever the car outside was or wasn't, for the game he'd be untouchable.

The security plan was a good one. Doyle had sixty security professionals stationed at the arena. The local police force was cooperating, and the league had its own layer over that. For one night, Nolan Mercer would be playing hockey in the safest building in Missouri.

I stood at the window with the last of my coffee and looked down at the empty curb.

"Eat something," Nolan said without turning around. "It's a long day. You need fuel."

"There's a guy down there with a dog the size of a Zamboni. He walks past every morning at the same time. It's a little tiny man with an enormous shaggy animal, looking like the dog's walking him."

"Baxter," Nolan said.

"The dog's name or the man?"

"The dog. It's how the neighborhood works." He turned the tablet facedown. "It's a Newfoundland, one hundred and fifty pounds. The guy salts the sidewalk himself in winter so the dog doesn't tear a pad. I watched him do it in February in a bathrobe."

"And you never went down and introduced yourself."

"Why would I do that? He'd probably want an autograph."

***

They brought the house lights down at seven-forty-five.

I stood at the tunnel mouth with a sightline to the Steamers bench and most of the lower bowl. Doyle's people murmured through my earbuds.

"Post four, I've got a hard-count issue, upper bowl, sending it to box office."

"Copy four."

"Post three, double-scan at 118, two guys, same seats. Sorting it."

"Copy. Comp 'em into the standing room if the tickets are both clean. Walk 'em out if they're not."

The jumbotron showed the clip they ran before every home game. It was Vern Danaher in 1986, breaking toward the net in overtime with the puck on his stick. They'd shown it ten thousand times. Tonight, a hush fell over the crowd.

The goal went in. The crowd rose to its feet, roaring. After thirty seconds, the PA asked for silence, and Nolan came out of the tunnel with Eileen Danaher on his arm.

He walked her down the rubber matting to the glass, matching her pace. She rested her hand in the crook of his elbow. Every Steamers jersey wore Vern's number on the sleeve.

The jumbotron displayed Vern's face and the two dates.

The PA announcer spoke. "Thank you." That was all. Around the bowl the players rapped their sticks on the ice, a hockey version of applause, while Nolan walked Eileen back toward the tunnel.

The game itself was a war of attrition dressed as hockey.