Читать книгу Thin Ice - Nick Wilkshire - Страница 6

“Let’s get him covered up,” Marshall said, as they all stood around, staring in disbelief at the NHL’s poster boy, a bone-handled knife sticking out of his chest.

“We need the crime scene guys out here, right away.” Smith gestured to the uniform, adding, as the young man started toward the bridge: “And make sure no civilians get down here.” He turned to Marshall, who was still staring at Ritchie’s body, as one of the divers covered his head and torso with a plastic tarp.

“Wait a sec.” Marshall knelt by the body and took a closer look at the protruding knife. The sodden cotton of the T-shirt was pulled back and the entry point was clearly visible, at least four inches below the blade. “That’s a hell of a gash, if that blade’s as long as I think it is.” He straightened up and motioned to the diver to replace the tarp. “I think we can rule out an accident.”

“Eighteen years old, and the world by the balls.” Smith was shaking his head. “What a fucking waste.”

“Amen to that,” Marshall said, as his phone went off. As he took the call, Smith looked down the path to the south. For half a kilometre, it ran in a straightaway, parallel to the Rideau Canal until it curved to the right near Waverly Street. Even in full morning sunlight, the thick foliage from the overhanging trees cast the path in shade, obscuring it completely from the road and the residential areas beyond, and from the other trail twenty feet above at the top of the bank. He had to admit, this was a pretty good location to take someone out discreetly. They would have to wait for the time of death, but Smith was assuming it had happened early this morning. He glanced back down the trail, imagining it in the morning mist as a shiver ran down his spine.

Looking across the canal, and beyond the rolling slope up to Colonel By Drive, Smith’s gaze settled on a trendy-looking condo building and noticed some of the units had balconies. He turned to look for one of the uniforms just as Marshall ended his call.

“We should get someone over to canvass those condos.”

Marshall nodded. “That was Beaudoin.” He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

“I know, Marshy.”

“You can go to Toronto and get shit-faced anytime, right?”

“Right,” he said, gesturing toward the bridge, where the crime scene crew had reached the path, headed their way.

Smith stood on the balcony of the condo, looking across the canal toward the still-cordoned crime scene. He could see the technicians working away, and noticed that the crowd on the upper trail near the Somerset bridge had grown considerably.

“This is quite a view you have here, Ms. Emond,” Marshall said, as an attractive woman set down a tray with a coffee carafe, a pewter creamer and sugar bowl set and three matching, oversized mugs.

“Help yourselves, please.”

“That’s very kind of you. Thanks.” Marshall picked up a mug and they all sat around the wicker table.

“I still feel awful that I didn’t do something right away,” she said. Though she had described seeing a man leaning over the iron railing, above rippling water, Jane Emond hadn’t witnessed the actual attack, nor seen Curtis Ritchie’s fall into the canal. She hadn’t thought what she had seen was worth reporting at all, until she noticed the police cordon a couple of hours later.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could have done to save him,” Smith said, as Emond ran her manicured fingers over the top of her mug. He put her in her mid-thirties and he couldn’t help notice the absence of a wedding band. From the condo and its contents though — all notably high-end — she seemed to be doing just fine on her own. What the hell would she want with marriage?

“Do you have any idea what happened?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts. “I guess I shouldn’t ask. I know you can’t …”

“I’m afraid we don’t know much yet, but we’ll find out,” Marshall said. “Can we go back to the man you saw by the rail? You said he was big. Can you be any more specific about his appearance?”

“He looked … imposing, even from over here. He was wearing what looked like a hoodie, and maybe sunglasses.”

“Did you get a sense of his height?”

“Hard to say, and he was leaning on the rail when I saw him, maybe bent over a bit. He certainly wasn’t short.”

Smith watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you sure about the sunglasses, Ms. Emond?”

“Jane, please. And yes, he was definitely wearing dark sunglasses. It seemed odd, since it wasn’t sunny at all, at that time.”

“And do you know exactly what time it was that you saw him?”

“Between six thirty-five and six-forty. I’m fairly certain because I had just listened to the local news, and it’s usually about five minutes long. I poured myself a coffee and went straight over to the railing. That’s when I saw the ripples in the water, and then I noticed the man.”

“Are you usually out here at that hour of the morning?” Marshall asked, as he sipped his coffee.

Emond smiled, revealing pearly-white teeth. “No, not on a Saturday. I was actually thinking of going for a run myself. I try to get out a few times a week, never on the lower path though, it creeps me out a bit. But I never thought …” She shook her head. “Anyway, I decided I was content to drink coffee and enjoy the warm morning air instead.”

“Can’t blame you,” Marshall smiled back. “So you see the rippled water, then this big guy leaning over the rail. What then ?”

“I watched him as he looked around for a few seconds. I wasn’t sure if he was thinking of going in himself, like maybe he dropped something in there by mistake. But he didn’t. He just moved away from the rail and started jogging off toward the bridge.”

“Did you see whether he left the path at the bridge?”

“Yes, he definitely went up toward Queen Elizabeth Drive. I lost sight of him in the trees.”

“Was he running fast, or just jogging?”

“Just jogging. That’s kind of why I didn’t think much of what I saw down by the water. He didn’t look like someone who had done anything wrong. For all I know, he tossed a downed tree branch into the water, you know?”

Smith sensed her guilt at not calling it in right away and gave her an exculpatory nod, which she acknowledged with a brief smile, before lowering her mouth to the rim of her mug.

“And just to be clear,” Marshall continued. “The man you saw was wearing a hoodie and sunglasses and had a large build. Would you say he was fat?”

“No, he didn’t seem fat, though with the hoodie, and the distance, it’s hard to say. He didn’t carry himself like he was overweight.”

“He had an athletic stride, then?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Do you recall if he was wearing shorts, or pants?”

“Pants; I think they were dark.”

“And the shoes?”

She shook her head. “I really can’t recall. They may have been obscured by the railing.”

“Fair enough.” Smith scribbled some final notes, then flipped his notebook shut. “We’ll need you to come down to the Elgin Street station and give a formal statement, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s not a problem,” Emond said, as Smith glanced at Marshall, who seemed to be enjoying a last sip of the gourmet coffee.

Marshall reluctantly set the coffee cup down. “Yes, thank you. And if there’s anything else that you think might be useful, please give us a call,” he added, handing her his card, as Smith did the same.

“I will.” She escorted them inside and across the immaculate living room to the entrance area, stopping to retrieve something from a desk drawer on the way.

“I should give you my card. You’re more likely to reach me at the office if you have any follow-up questions. “But I’ve only got one.” She hesitated, looking at them each in turn before handing the card to Smith. He wasn’t surprised to see the multiple names embossed on the card.

“What kind of law do you practice?”

“Not criminal, unfortunately,” she said, stopping in front of the door. “I might have been more useful to you if I did, but I practice mostly family law.”

Smith extended his hand.

“You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Emond.”

“Jane.” She gave a playful sigh as she opened the door for him.

“And thanks for the coffee,” Marshall added, stepping out into the hall. They stood in silence as they waited for the elevator.

“What are you smilin’ at?” Marshall asked as Smith fingered the card and tucked it in his pocket.

Ellen Ritchie sat on the sofa, with Smith and Marshall arranged in the two facing club chairs. James Cormier, the Ottawa Raftsmen’s owner, had personally arranged to send a car for her as soon as he learned the news, and booked her a spacious suite at a downtown hotel. Smith glanced toward the large windows, partially obscured by drapes and wondered if the Raftsmen’s management realized that Mrs. Ritchie’s view included her son’s murder scene. She blew her nose and moved along the sofa as her boyfriend handed her a glass of water and sat down. Ritchie’s eyes were red-rimmed and her features drawn, and something about the oversized sweatshirt she was wearing, bearing her dead son’s team logo, made her seem even more forlorn.

“You sure you’re up for this, Ellen?” the man at her side asked, eliciting a determined nod. “‘Cause you don’t have to do it right now.”

“No, I want to do it now, before it sinks in,” she said, looking down at her feet. “Besides, I told these detectives here that I’d see them, so that’s that.”

“We appreciate that, Mrs. Ritchie,” Marshall said. “Timing is important in these matters,” he added, with a glance at the other man. Smith could tell his partner didn’t care for Tom Saunders, and he had to admit he felt the same. There was something off-putting about him, but they would get to that.

“First of all, let me say how sorry we both are for your loss,” Marshall began. “I didn’t know Curtis, but I get the sense that the whole city lost something today. Can I ask you when you last saw him?”

“A couple of weeks ago,” she said, taking a sip of the water. “Just before training camp started. He was so happy. His dreams were finally coming true.” She smiled as a tear ran down her face and splashed onto the coffee table. “It was such a whirlwind summer for him, what with the draft, and the contract, then finding a place to live here in Ottawa. He was so excited about coming to camp and playing for the Raftsmen. I just can’t believe this is happening. It’s so cruel.”

“And you, Mr. Saunders?”

“I saw him last week. Wednesday, I think. I’ve been in town the past few days, visiting with my sister.”

“How did he seem on Wednesday?”

Saunders shrugged. “Top of the world. We had a couple of steaks and shot the breeze. He was telling me about training camp, and the way the team was shaping up. Excited, you know?”

“How long have you known Curtis, Mr. Saunders?”

“Ellen and I have been seein’ each other for, what’s it, five years now?”

Ritchie nodded, as Marshall returned his focus to Ellen Ritchie.

“Did Curtis buy a house here in Ottawa?”

She plucked a tissue from the box and blew her nose. “No. He wanted to build, and he wanted to take his time picking out the perfect location. He was renting a condo over by the big hotel.”

“The Château Laurier?”

Ritchie nodded, dabbing at her eyes. The adjacent condo building was the most exclusive in town, with the smallest units going for a million or more. “One of the reasons he liked it so much was running along the canal. He just loved it.”

“He ran a lot, I guess?”

“Oh yes, and more than ever this summer. He wanted to be in top shape for camp. I think he was running every day.”

“Do you know if he always ran the same route?”

“I don’t really know, but he always liked to go early, at first light, usually.”

“Did he run alone?” Smith asked.

“He always did back in Peterborough, but I don’t know about here.”

Marshall asked some routine questions about Curtis Ritchie’s habits and his whereabouts in the past few weeks, before looking to Smith.

“Did your son have a girlfriend?” Smith asked, as Ritchie and Saunders turned to him.

“Not that I know of.” Ellen Ritchie shook her head. “I mean, there were girls — I’m sure there were lots of ’em — but nothing steady. Curtis always said he didn’t want to get tied down. He didn’t want to risk anything getting in the way of his goal.”

“I’m sure he was pretty popular,” Smith prompted. He had read about a woman in Peterborough who had claimed Ritchie had fathered her child, but as far as he knew it had never gone anywhere. He wondered whether Ritchie’s prospects for a multi-million contract in the near future had spawned more, similar claims. “I mean, a good-looking kid like that, hockey star and the future he had …” He trailed off and sensed the unspoken dialogue going on between Ritchie and Saunders. It was Saunders who broke the silence.

“There was no shortage of gold diggers trying to get their hooks into him, if that’s what you mean,” he sneered.

“Wasn’t there a woman in Peterbor —” Smith began, before Ritchie interrupted.

“That little slut tried her best, but everyone knew Curtis had nothin’ to do with her.”

“Who was this, and what did she try, Mrs. Ritchie?”

“Nancy Ridgeway, a waitress at a greasy spoon in Peterborough. She tried to get Curtis to pay her to shut her up, but he refused.” She shook her head. “He knew what she was up to, and he wasn’t afraid to stand up to her. That was back in the spring. She hired a lawyer and threatened to sue, but it never went anywhere. Then she tried to get the cops involved — you can check it out for yourselves — but nothin’ ever came of that, either. Everyone knew exactly what she was.”

Smith nodded, making a note to follow up with the OPP in Peterborough, before continuing. “I’m sure his career prospects attracted all sorts of attention, both good and bad. Did Curtis ever mention any threats, or enemies, or anything like that?”

She shook her head. “No. There was lots of media, and people hounding him all the time for autographs or pictures, but mostly they just wanted to be near him. He was such a good kid. Everybody loved him,” she added, snuffling into a tissue. “He was building me a new house in Peterborough, and next year he was going to build me a cottage. He already had the land scoped out, up on Belmont Lake, near Havelock …” She broke down and started sobbing, her shoulders jerking up and down as the tears ran down her cheeks. “We were as close as any mother and son could be.”

As Ritchie blew her nose, Smith exchanged a glance with Marshall and leaned forward in his chair.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Ritchie?”

She stopped crying for a moment and looked up at Marshall, then Smith. “I wasn’t Curtis’s biological mother. He was adopted.”

“We weren’t aware of that,” Smith said, seeing her puzzlement.

“I figured everyone knew, ever since that article in Sports Illustrated .”

“When did you adopt him?” Marshall asked, as Smith scribbled notes.

“I didn’t.” She sighed and dabbed at her eyes. “Bob — my first husband — adopted him when Curtis was two.”

“That would be Bob … Ritchie?”

“Yes, he was married at the time, and his first wife died of breast cancer when Curtis was young — six or seven. I met Bob a few years later. I guess you could say he and Curtis adopted me.”

Smith was scribbling furiously, trying to keep track of the Ritchies’ complicated lineage. Marshall seemed just as perplexed.

“And Bob?” he said, not sure what to expect in the silence that followed.

“He died of a heart attack when Curtis was twelve. About six years ago. I thought I’d never get over it, until I met Tom.” She gave him a grim smile. “So you see, detectives, this family’s had more than its share of tragedy. But this …” She trailed off, looking down and blowing her nose.

“I really am sorry, Mrs. Ritchie,” Marshall said, as he glanced toward Smith and saw a look that confirmed the interview was over for now.

“Do you guys know how this all works?” Saunders asked suddenly, as he handed Ritchie another tissue. “With the insurance and all?” He seemed to recognize the bewilderment his question had caused and continued with his thought. “I mean, how’re we gonna finish the house now? It’s half built.”

Smith glanced at Marshall before answering, the same surprise mirrored in his partner’s normally inscrutable features. “Did Curtis have a lawyer, or a business manager?”

“He had an agent, in Toronto,” Ritchie said, perking up as Saunders frowned.

“You should probably take it up with him, then.”

“Well, those are all of our questions for now,” Marshall said, as they got up to leave. We can see ourselves out. We appreciate your time, and again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

Ritchie nodded and sniffled, and Saunders got up and followed them to the door to the suite.

“You guys are gonna catch this motherfucker, right?” he whispered as they stood in the doorway.

“We’re going to give it everything we’ve got, Mr. Saunders,” Marshall assured him as Smith took a step back, not from the sour whiff of liquor on Saunders’ breath, but the feral heat at the core of his red-tinged eyes that continued to burn after the door had closed.