“Right. Very important difference.”

“Please, Deb, you'll hurt your face like that. It is important, because he's going to comment on the ACT, and not on the ACTORS.”

“Uh-huh. That's really good, Dex. So we should probably head for the nearest dinner theater and look around for an actor with blood up to his elbows, right?”

I shook my head. “No blood, Deb. None at all. That's one of the most important things.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there's been no blood at any of the scenes. That's deliberate, and it's vital to what he's doing. And this time, he'll repeat the important parts, but comment on what he's already done, because we've missed it, don't you see?”

“Sure, I see. Makes perfect sense. So why don't we go check Office Depot Center? He's probably got the bodies stacked up in the net again.”

I opened my mouth to make some wonderfully clever reply. The hockey rink was all wrong, completely and obviously wrong. It had been an experiment, something different, but I knew he wouldn't repeat it. I started to explain this to Deb, that the only reason he would ever repeat the rink would be- I stopped dead, my mouth hanging open. Of course, I thought. Naturally.

“Now who's making a fish face, huh? What is it, Dex?”

For a moment I didn't say anything. I was far too busy trying to catch my whirling thoughts. The only reason he would repeat the hockey rink was to show us we had the wrong guy locked up.

“Oh, Deb,” I said at last. “Of course. You're right, the arena. You are right for all the wrong reasons, but still-”

“Beats the hell out of being wrong,” she said, and headed for her car.

CHAPTER 21

“YOU DO UNDERSTAND IT'S A LONG SHOT?” I SAID. “Probably we won't find anything at all.”

“I know that,” Deb said.

“And we don't actually have any jurisdiction here. We're in Broward. And the Broward guys don't like us, so-”

“For Christ's sake, Dexter,” she snapped. “You're chattering like a schoolgirl.”

Perhaps that was true, although it was very unkind of her to say so. And Deborah, on the other hand, appeared to be a bundle of steely, tightly wrapped nerves. As we turned off the Sawgrass Expressway and drove into the parking lot of the Office Depot Center she bit down harder. I could almost hear her jaw creak. “Dirty Harriet,” I said to myself, but apparently Deb was eavesdropping.

“Fuck off,” she said.

I looked from Deborah's granite profile to the arena. For one brief moment, with the early-morning sunlight hitting it just right, it looked like the building was surrounded by a fleet of flying saucers. Of course it was only the outdoor lighting fixtures that sprouted around the arena like oversized steel toadstools. Someone must have told the architect they were distinctive. “Youthful and vigorous,” too, most likely. And I'm sure they were, in the right light. I did hope they would find the right light sometime soon.

We drove one time around the arena, looking for signs of life. On the second circuit, a battered Toyota pulled up beside one of the doors. The passenger door was held closed with a loop of rope that ran out the window and around the doorpost. Opening the driver's door as she parked, Deborah was already stepping out of the car while it was still rolling.

“Excuse me, sir?” she said to the man getting out of the Toyota. He was fifty, a squat guy in ratty green pants and a blue nylon jacket. He glanced at Deb in her uniform and was instantly nervous.

“Wha'?” he said. “I din't do nothin'.”

“Do you work here, sir?”

“Shoor. 'Course, why you think I'm here, eight o'clock in the morning?”

“What's your name, please sir?”

He fumbled for his wallet. “Steban Rodriguez. I got a ID.”

Deborah waved that off. “That's not necessary,” she said. “What are you doing here at this hour, sir?”

He shrugged and pushed his wallet back into the pocket. “I s'posed to be here earlier most days, but the team is on the road-Vancouver, Ottawa, and L.A. So I get here a little later.”

“Is anyone else here right now, Steban?”

“Naw, jus' me. They all sleep late.”

“What about at night? Is there a guard?”

He waved an arm around. “The security goes around the parking lot at night, but not too much. I the first one here mos' days.”

“The first one to go inside, you mean?”

“Yeah, tha's right, what I say?”

I climbed out of the car and leaned across the roof. “Are you the guy who drives the Zamboni for the morning skate?” I asked him. Deb glanced at me, annoyed. Steban peered at me, taking in my natty Hawaiian shirt and gabardine slacks. “Wha' kinda cop you are, ha?”

“I'm a nerd cop,” I said. “I just work in the lab.”

“Ooohhh, shoor,” he said, nodding his head as if that made sense.

“Do you run the Zamboni, Steban?” I repeated.

“Yeah, you know. They don' lemme drive her in the games, you know. Tha's for the guys with suits. They like to put a kid, you know. Some celebrity maybe. Ride around and wave, that shit. But I get to do it for the morning skate, you know. When the team is in town. I run the Zamboni just the morning, real early. But they on the road now so I come later.”

“We'd like to take a look inside the arena,” Deb said, clearly impatient with me for speaking out of turn. Steban turned back to her, a crafty gleam lighting up half of one eye.

“Shoor,” he said. “You got a warrant?”

Deborah blushed. It made a wonderful contrast to the blue of her uniform, but it was possibly not the most effective choice for reinforcing her authority. And because I knew her well, I knew she would realize she had blushed and get mad. Since we did not have a warrant and did not, in fact, have any business here whatsoever that could remotely be considered officially sanctioned, I did not think that getting mad was our best tactical maneuver.

“Steban,” I said before Deb could say anything regrettable.

“Hah?”

“How long have you worked here?”

He shrugged. “Since the place open. I work at the old arena two year before that.”

“So you were working here last week when they found the dead body on the ice?”

Steban looked away. Under his tan, his face turned green. He swallowed hard. “I never want to see something like that again, man,” he said. “Never.”

I nodded with genuine synthetic sympathy. “I really don't blame you,” I said. “And that's why we're here, Steban.”

He frowned. “Wha' you mean?”

I glanced at Deb to make sure she wasn't drawing a weapon or anything. She glared at me with tight-lipped disapproval and tapped her foot, but she didn't say anything.

“Steban,” I said, moving a little closer to the man and making my voice as confidential and manly as I could, “we think there's a chance that when you open those doors this morning, you might find the same kind of thing waiting for you.”

“Shit!” he exploded. “I don' want nothin' to do with that.”

“Of course you don't.”

“Me cago en diez with that shit,” he said.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “So why not let us take a peek first? Just to be sure.”

He gaped at me for a moment, then at Deborah, who was still scowling-a very striking look for her, nicely set off by her uniform.

“I could get in trouble,” he said. “Lose my job.”

I smiled with authentic-looking sympathy. “Or you could go inside and find a stack of chopped-up arms and legs all by yourself. A lot more of them this time.”

“Shit,” he said again. “I get in trouble, lose my job, huh? Why I should do that, huh?”

“How about civic duty?”

“Come on, man,” he said. “Don't fuck with me. What do you care about if I lose my job?”

He did not actually hold out his hand, which I thought was very genteel, but it was clear that he hoped for a small present to insulate him against the possible loss of his job. Very reasonable, considering that this was Miami. But all I had was $5, and I really needed to get a cruller and a cup of coffee. So I just nodded with manly understanding.