Page 2 of Thin Ice

"A benefit," I said.

"Look. I don't want to waste your time. You seem like a serious guy, and I'm sure you're good at this. But I've done a lot of runs, and the worst anyone's ever tried on me is a stranger passing a questionable drink. I'll be the easiest client you've ever had."

"No, you won't," I said.

That stopped him for a second. "No?"

"I don't get easy clients. They go to the guy who costs less than me."

He watched me as I spoke. His eyes focused first on my shoulders, then on my long arms. It was an athlete sizing up another athlete, followed by an unmistakable glance lower down. Then I knew.

"What's your sport? That body isn't purely genetics."

"Swimming. A long time ago, and I came up short. Then I taught the science of how bodies move for a while, and now this." It had taken me years to lay it out there calmly and succinctly.

"Good elevator speech," he said. "It's your whole life in a few sentences." He crossed his arms over his chest. "What was swimming to you?"

I never got asked that. When they found out I was a swimmer, people asked what stroke and what distance. They didn't assume there was more.

"It was everything," I started. Then I heard myself and stopped. He wasn't there to interrogate me.

"How about you?" I asked. "You're a long way in. What keeps you hitting the ice day after day?"

"Honestly? The room. You spend twenty years in locker rooms and the hockey's almost beside the point. It's the guys. Showing up for the guys." He offered a small smile. "Sounds like a line, I know, but it's the truth."

"I get it," I said.

"There's a rookie this year. Twenty-two, looks nineteen, still can't believe he's here." He almost laughed. "I keep showing up partly so he's got somebody to copy who isn't an idiot." He paused. "That's off the record."

"Of course." I smiled. "And the body? How's it holding up?"

"I feel great," he said. "Best I've felt in years."

He didn't blink, but then he turned his face to the side, and some of the warmth faded. He turned back and gave me a smile with a grimace underneath.

The light had turned gold in the windows while we talked. Down the block, the cathedral bells tolled the hour.

On the plane, I'd thought the attention a man in Nolan's position drew would help keep him safe. You don't move on one of the most-watched players in the game in the middle of a Cup run. It was a reassuring thought.

Then I saw the dad with his kid across the street, and how he'd picked Nolan's window out of the entire building, and I wasn't reassured at all.

"I'll want a walk-through," I said. "Show me the exits and tell me your morning routine, where you go and who holds the keys. It's boring, but I'll be quick. Also, I need a real number for contact, not the team one."

"Sure," he said, and gave me the number. "Want to do it tonight? I've got tape to get through. You can do your boring stuff around me."

"Tonight's fine."

"Good." He moved to the leather recliner by the window and picked up the tablet. In seconds, I heard the scrape of blades on ice, and my peripheral vision picked up players in motion.

I interrupted him. "Show me the back way out first? Then settle in."

He started to point, then he set the tablet down and stood, with a half-hop, likely the hip again. The hip wasn't in the file. He'd hidden it well. There was more here than I anticipated.

"Come on, I'll show you the back stairs." He led the way down the hall.

The corridor was long and narrow with an ancient runner over the hardwood. Nolan moved easily enough, folding the hip favoring into his stride. It was so smooth you'd have to know to look. I knew, but I let it go.

"Place was built in 1906," he said. "It was one of the first modern apartment buildings. Half of old St. Louis lived here at one point or another." He ran a hand along the wainscoting as he passed.