the cumbersome stiffness of age in the locker room as they laced on the magic skates. They skated and passed and checked and laughed and swore. But when the game was over, the skates came off and the realities of age settled in with a vengeance. They inched their way down the steps, faces contorted in grimaces of varying degrees.
Noogie watched them with a grin as he stood leaning against his patrol car parked in the fire lane in front of the building. He gave them a thumbs-up, then laughed when Al Jackson told him to go to hell.
“Why do you keep playing when it does this to you, Al?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Jackson shot back. “Oh, yeah, I forget—you used to play football; too many knocks in the head.”
“At least we had sense enough to wear helmets,” Noogie goaded.
“You mean there's no excuse for that face?”
Noga growled and waved them past.
“What's going on, Noogie?” Bill Lennox asked, hiking up the strap on his duffel bag. “Caught Olie speeding on the Zamboni machine?”
They all laughed, but their gazes slid past Noogie to Mitch and Megan as they came up the sidewalk.
“Evening, Mitch,” Jackson called, raising the end of his hockey stick in salute. “Crime wave at the ice rink?”
“Yeah. We've had another complaint that your slap shot is criminal.”
The group roared. Mitch kept an eye on them until they were well out of earshot, then turned to his officer.
“Officer Noga, this is Agent O'Malley—”
“We've met,” Megan said impatiently, tapping a foot against the snowpack on the sidewalk for the dual purpose of releasing energy and trying to keep the feeling in her toes.
Her gaze scanned the area. The ice rink was at the end of a street, set well back from the residences. Located at the southeast edge of Deer Lake, it was half a mile off the interstate highway. Beyond the island of artificial light that was the parking lot, the night was black, vaguely ominous, certainly unwelcoming. On the other side of a wall of overgrown leafless shrubbery, the Park County fairgrounds stretched out across a field, an array of old vacant buildings and a looming grandstand. It looked abandoned and somehow sinister, as if the shadows were inhabited by dark spirits that could be chased away only by carnival lights and crowds of people. Even looking in the other direction, toward the town, Megan felt a sense of isolation.
“Is this about the missing kid?” Noga asked.
Mitch nodded. “Hannah Garrison's boy. Josh. She was supposed to pick him up here. I figured we'd take a look around, talk to Olie—”
“We should have uniforms canvassing the residential area,” Megan interrupted, drawing a narrow look from Mitch and owl eyes from Noga. “Find out if the neighbors might have seen the boy or anything out of the ordinary. The fairgrounds will be the likely place to start the search once we've secured this area.”
Mitch had tried to stick her with baby-sitting detail, suggesting she stay with Hannah and offer moral support while they waited for word of Josh. She had informed him that moral support was not part of her job description, then suggested they call a friend to come stay with Hannah and help make another round of phone calls looking for Josh among his friends. In the end Mitch called Natalie, who lived in Hannah's neighborhood.
His gaze hard and steady on her, he took a deep breath and spoke to his officer in a tone too even to be believed. “Go on inside and round up Olie. I'll be there in a minute.”
“Gotcha.” Noga hustled off, clearly relieved to be out of the line of fire.
Megan braced herself for a skirmish. Mitch stared at her, his jaw set, his eyes dark and deep beneath his brows. She could feel the tension coming off him in waves.
“Agent O'Malley,” he said, his voice as cold as the air and deceptively, dangerously soft, “whose investigation is this?”
“Yours,” she answered without hesitation. “And you're screwing it
Noogie watched them with a grin as he stood leaning against his patrol car parked in the fire lane in front of the building. He gave them a thumbs-up, then laughed when Al Jackson told him to go to hell.
“Why do you keep playing when it does this to you, Al?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Jackson shot back. “Oh, yeah, I forget—you used to play football; too many knocks in the head.”
“At least we had sense enough to wear helmets,” Noogie goaded.
“You mean there's no excuse for that face?”
Noga growled and waved them past.
“What's going on, Noogie?” Bill Lennox asked, hiking up the strap on his duffel bag. “Caught Olie speeding on the Zamboni machine?”
They all laughed, but their gazes slid past Noogie to Mitch and Megan as they came up the sidewalk.
“Evening, Mitch,” Jackson called, raising the end of his hockey stick in salute. “Crime wave at the ice rink?”
“Yeah. We've had another complaint that your slap shot is criminal.”
The group roared. Mitch kept an eye on them until they were well out of earshot, then turned to his officer.
“Officer Noga, this is Agent O'Malley—”
“We've met,” Megan said impatiently, tapping a foot against the snowpack on the sidewalk for the dual purpose of releasing energy and trying to keep the feeling in her toes.
Her gaze scanned the area. The ice rink was at the end of a street, set well back from the residences. Located at the southeast edge of Deer Lake, it was half a mile off the interstate highway. Beyond the island of artificial light that was the parking lot, the night was black, vaguely ominous, certainly unwelcoming. On the other side of a wall of overgrown leafless shrubbery, the Park County fairgrounds stretched out across a field, an array of old vacant buildings and a looming grandstand. It looked abandoned and somehow sinister, as if the shadows were inhabited by dark spirits that could be chased away only by carnival lights and crowds of people. Even looking in the other direction, toward the town, Megan felt a sense of isolation.
“Is this about the missing kid?” Noga asked.
Mitch nodded. “Hannah Garrison's boy. Josh. She was supposed to pick him up here. I figured we'd take a look around, talk to Olie—”
“We should have uniforms canvassing the residential area,” Megan interrupted, drawing a narrow look from Mitch and owl eyes from Noga. “Find out if the neighbors might have seen the boy or anything out of the ordinary. The fairgrounds will be the likely place to start the search once we've secured this area.”
Mitch had tried to stick her with baby-sitting detail, suggesting she stay with Hannah and offer moral support while they waited for word of Josh. She had informed him that moral support was not part of her job description, then suggested they call a friend to come stay with Hannah and help make another round of phone calls looking for Josh among his friends. In the end Mitch called Natalie, who lived in Hannah's neighborhood.
His gaze hard and steady on her, he took a deep breath and spoke to his officer in a tone too even to be believed. “Go on inside and round up Olie. I'll be there in a minute.”
“Gotcha.” Noga hustled off, clearly relieved to be out of the line of fire.
Megan braced herself for a skirmish. Mitch stared at her, his jaw set, his eyes dark and deep beneath his brows. She could feel the tension coming off him in waves.
“Agent O'Malley,” he said, his voice as cold as the air and deceptively, dangerously soft, “whose investigation is this?”
“Yours,” she answered without hesitation. “And you're screwing it
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