Page 8 of Thin Ice

He studied me. "You looked a little green back there during the safety demo."

"I've flown before."

"Not like this." He tipped his head at the cabin and the churchy hush of it. "First playoff charter. You've got the look. Like you walked into the wrong church and everybody's already kneeling."

"That obvious?"

"You tried to take Misha's seat."

"Nobody told me it was Misha's seat."

"Nobody's going to tell you." He smiled. "You just have to know. He's been in 14C since March. He's an eleven-for-eleven goalie sitting there. The plane could be on fire. You're not getting that seat." He leaned toward me and whispered. "It's stupid. Don't tell anybody I said it's stupid."

"Your secret's safe."

"That's the job, right? Keeping my secrets." He stood and returned to his seat.

I called Kate Halloran in the dead pocket before the bus loaded, off to the side on the tarmac, far enough from the team that no one could hear my half of it.

"Mr. Ward." Her voice was tired and guarded. "You're from the security firm."

"Yes, the firm that the league retained. I'm sorry about your father."

"Everyone's sorry about my father. The home was sorry, and the man who signed the certificate was very sorry and very fast." Bitterness leaked through the phone. "He was dying, Mr. Ward. I'd made my peace with the cancer. I have not made my peace with being told his heart simply stopped two days after he figured out he had something he wanted to live long enough to do."

"What did he want to live long enough to do?"

"Talk to someone." A pause. "He fixated on something from back when he worked. There was a young player years ago. Dad never brought work home for thirty years, and then he's up in the middle of the night with this kid's name in his head, like it happened yesterday."

The buses idled. The team filed past me. Nolan glanced over and then boarded.

"Does the kid have a name?"

"I'm not doing this on the phone." Her voice turned firm. "I don't know you. You've got a pleasant voice, and you say the right things, but I had a man say the right things to me three weeks ago. So, no."

"That's fair."

"I've got his things all packed in boxes. He tried to contact this particular player. I found more when I packed his room, so I know I remembered it right, regardless of what the county thinks. Come down after your hockey's done, or when you can get away. I'll show you, and you can tell me whether I'm a grieving idiot."

"I'll come down. Thank you, Kate."

"Don't thank me yet." She exhaled. "He called and called, and nobody called him back. It was a dying man. You'd think one person would pick up."

She hung up before I could ask who he was calling.

I boarded the bus with thirty seconds to spare and took the seat behind Nolan. He pulled one headphone off.

"Get your work done?"

"Getting there," I said.

***

The Vegas Arena was full of people who paid to see the Steamers lose.

I'd walked the building pre-game—exits, the route to the bus, and the stray corridors that ran where I didn't expect them to. Now I stood with my back to a pillar, a sightline to the visitors' bench, and scanned the crowd.

Under it all, I watched Nolan.