Читать книгу Thin Ice - Nick Wilkshire - Страница 7

Smith stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the locks below leading down to the Ottawa River. The view across to Gatineau, and the rolling hills of Chelsea beyond, was spectacular enough and would only improve as the leaves completed their transition through every shade of brown, red, and gold as fall gave way to winter. He looked back at the sound of Marshall’s voice from the far end of the hall that led to the bedrooms. It echoed across the vast hardwood, furnished only with a leather sectional and a massive projection screen television, connected to what looked like a state of the art sound system and a sleek gaming console.

“You gotta see this.”

Marshall had appeared at the end of the hallway, beckoning him over.

“What?”

“Look at the size of the friggin’ bed,” he said, as they arrived in the doorway of the master bedroom. “And that’s a 3D flat screen. It’s gotta be a sixty-inch.”

“Looks like a cellphone screen next to the one in the living room,” Smith remarked, noticing a different gaming system connected to the enormous television and a wireless controller sitting on the bedside table. He glanced at the open case sitting on the floor in front of the television. “Hey, that’s the newest hockey game. I’ve seen the commercials for it. It looks awesome.”

“This is the life, all right,” Marshall said, looking out at the same view Smith had been admiring from the living room.

“You sure you wanna trade places with him, Marshy?” Smith said, stepping through a door and switching on a light, finding himself in the largest walk-in closet he had ever seen. He whistled and ran a gloved hand through a long rack of clothes. Apart from a few suits and dress shoes, it was mostly casual stuff, but it was all high-end, far beyond the means of the average investigator. The assortment of sport shoes alone, piled in a corner of the closet, was worth a fortune. Marshall seemed more interested in the oversized swimsuit calendar that hung next to a massive mirror at the far end of the dressing area.

“September was always my favourite month,” he said, walking through to the en suite, with its marble Jacuzzi tub, double sinks, and pewter hardware. “How many girls you figure he could fit in there at once?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Smith said, as a member of the identification team appeared at the door behind them.

“You might be interested in these.”

Marshall took the key ring she held out, as Smith looked on, recognizing the familiar Porsche logo.

“It just gets better and better.”

Smith picked at the last of his fries before giving up and sitting back in the booth as Marshall wrapped up his call. He had eaten too fast, and the greasy burger platter was already swinging its way through his stomach like a wrecking ball. It was only mid-afternoon, but he felt exhausted. They were only seven hours into the investigation, and there was no obvious resolution in sight. But an attack like the one that had killed Curtis Ritchie, especially in broad daylight, always left clues. Smith remained confident that they would have a meaningful lead before much longer.

“That was Sauvé,” Marshall said, tucking his phone into his pocket and nodding to the waitress for more coffee. “They just finished interviewing a jogger who was on the lower path around six fifteen. Says he passed someone in the area of the scene — a big guy in a hoodie wearing a hat and sunglasses. He says he remembers because it wasn’t sunny.” Marshall paused to take a sip of coffee before continuing. “He also says he first noticed the big guy on the other side of the Somerset Bridge, where he was stretching. The guy crossed the footbridge and got on the lower path and started heading toward the witness.”

“But he didn’t attack?”

“No, but he did say the other guy seemed to move toward the middle of the path as they got closer, not like he was going to block the way or anything, but it was noticeable. Then at the last minute, he backed off and they passed each other. Witness says he gave him a nod and got nothing back.”

“Anything else?”

“The guy’s hands were in the pouch of his hoodie, in front there.” Marshall pointed to his belly.

“Concealing the knife.”

“Could be.”

“And how does this witness compare to Curtis Ritchie, in terms of height, build, hair colour, or whatever?”

“I don’t know, but we’re definitely going to want to re-interview him.”

Smith nodded, then plucked a fresh napkin from the holder and began sketching as Marshall looked on.

“So, the perp’s waiting here,” he said, pointing to his rendition of the bridge, on the opposite side of the canal from the path where Ritchie was murdered. “He’s pretending to stretch or whatever, but really he’s watching the lower path on the other side. The path from the south is, what, half a click dead straight?”

“About that, yeah.”

“He sees the witness coming down the path. Let’s assume he’s close to Ritchie’s height and weight, plus there aren’t that many people around that early, so the killer figures it’s him.”

Marshall was nodding and sipping his coffee.

“So he trots across the bridge, down the steps to the path, and then heads south. He’s got his hands in the pouch, concealing the knife. He’s getting ready to pounce, but then he realizes it’s not Ritchie, so he just trots on by.”

“Then he turns around and goes back to the bridge to set up again.” Marshall pointed at his partner’s sketch. “A few minutes later, another runner comes down the path, only this time it really is Ritchie, and when they meet up on the lower path, it’s lights out.”

“Bottom line is, this wasn’t some random attack. He was waiting for Ritchie.”

“It sure looks that way.” Marshall nodded. The two sat staring at the sketch for a while before Smith spoke.

“Guess you didn’t read the Sports Illustrated article either, huh ?”

“I had no idea he was adopted,” Marshall said, shaking his head. “That’s some family history. Talk about bad luck.”

“More like cursed. What did you make of Saunders?”

“Pretty clear what his main concern is,” Marshall said with a frown. “Who’s gonna finish his house.”

“So I wasn’t the only one with that impression then.”

“Pretty rich for him to talk about gold diggers. I mean, come on.”

Smith nodded. “But Ritchie must have been worth more to him alive than dead.”

“I guess we’ll find out when we talk to the agent. He’s on a four o’clock flight from Toronto, so he should be downtown at five thirty or six.” Marshall checked his watch. They were due out at the Raftsmen’s home rink in thirty-five minutes.

“Can you imagine what’s going through their heads in the front office right now?”

Smith sat back and glanced out the window. The clouds had dispersed and it looked like the height of summer again, making the prospect of a drawn-out investigation even less appealing.

“Well,” he said, returning his focus to Marshall. “On the bright side, they won’t have to worry about coughing up a huge salary a couple of years from now.”

“Yeah, but look at who they traded to get him. Lamer, Cotterill, and Wlodek,” Marshall said, reciting the names responsible for 75 percent of the Raftsmen’s offence in the past three years.

“Don’t forget that young goalie, what’s his name?” Smith snapped his fingers in frustration.

“Lepage. He’s going to be great in a few years. Somewhere else, of course.”

“McAdam’s not looking like such a genius all of a sudden,” Smith said, thinking of all the headlines since the brash GM had arrived in Ottawa, just after the Raftsmen had missed the playoffs for the first time in five years. If the team’s owner had been looking for a shake-up, he had picked the right guy. But no one could have predicted the events of the past eighteen months. Quinn McAdam had brought a broom into town with him and, within weeks, the entire coaching staff was gone. It had taken him a year to turn his attention to the roster, but when he did, he had been no less ruthless. The first victims were the free agents, who’d been shopped without a second thought, their bloated salaries spent on younger, developing players. The general consensus was that those moves were long overdue, but a yard sale like that was based on the assumption that the core of the team would remain intact. No one had expected that two of the team’s top three point-getters, and their highly coveted rushing defenceman, would be dealt for an eighteen-year-old — first overall pick or not.

Then again, there was no shortage of buzz about Curtis Ritchie, even before anyone ever mentioned his name in the same sentence with Ottawa. He had ripped through major junior like a tornado, racking up goals, points, and records along the way. A natural goal-scorer with a head for the game, Ritchie was being heralded as the best prospect the League had seen in a decade. Added to his youthful good looks, his unruly blond curls, and an impish grin, he was quite a package. Now no one would ever know if he would have delivered on the promise, and Ottawa’s roster had a gaping hole in it. The fact that an eighteen-year-old life had been snuffed out seemed almost an afterthought.

“Come on, let’s see how McAdam’s doing in person,” Marshall said, as they got up to leave. “And don’t look so glum, Smitty. It’s not every day you get to meet a League GM and former playing great in the flesh.”

Smith and Marshall stood in the reception area looking at the wall of posters, photos, and other Raftsmen memorabilia. Marshall, a diehard fan since the team’s arrival in the nineties, was particularly interested in the photos and framed newspaper headlines from the early days, especially the signing of the team’s longtime captain, Dennis Hearst, twelve years earlier. As for Smith, the Raftsmen had grown on him the longer he stayed in Ottawa, but he had grown up a Montreal fan, so he always found his allegiances strained whenever the two teams went head to head. He glanced at a series of newspaper headlines at the near end of the long wall, announcing the blockbuster Ritchie deal. One was a cover from the Hockey News that Smith remembered from the summer. The caption, “Ottawa’s Saviour,” topped a picture of Curtis Ritchie in a Raftsmen jersey and cap, flanked by McAdam on one side and the team’s owner, James Cormier, on the other. All three wore broad smiles, Smith noticed.

Marshall wandered over to join him. Both men heard a sound behind them and turned to see Cormier standing there. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, extending his hand. “Jim Cormier.”

Smith thought he looked shorter in person, but no less impressive. In fact, he seemed to radiate a general aura of confidence as he chit-chatted about the photo they had been looking at. He was dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt, but despite the relaxed attire and easy smile, the distress of the morning’s events was evident in his tanned features.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said, staring at the photo. “It’s such a waste. Come on, let’s go back to my office.”

They followed him into a large office with more memorabilia on the walls and took a seat as Cormier retreated behind an oversized desk.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee or a soda?”

“No, thanks,” Marshall said, as he noticed a picture hanging on the wall of Cormier and the current prime minister, who was sporting a Raftsmen jersey. “We appreciate you making time for us. This can’t be an easy day for you.”

“I’m meeting with Curtis’s mom in an hour. My problems are nothing compared to hers.”

Marshall nodded. “We spoke to her earlier. Did you know Curtis well?”

“I wouldn’t say well, but I met with him over the summer a few times. We had him and his family over for dinner a couple of times, and I talked to him about his future.” Cormier paused and glanced out the window. “I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of people, and Curtis was a winner. That much was clear.”

“Do you know if Curtis had any enemies?”

“Enemies ?” Cormier paused again. “No. But I’m sure he had a lot of people jealous of him. He had a lot to be jealous of — youth, good looks, talent — not to mention his career prospects.”

“About his contract,” Smith said. “We understand it was just under a million. Is that right?” Everyone who hadn’t spent the summer under a rock knew the amount, but the mechanics of the payments in the age of salary caps was a mystery to most, including Smith.

Cormier nodded. “Actually, it’s a little over a million — we gave him the most we could for a rookie contract, but I as much as told him he could have the keys to the place three years from now if things went well.” He paused, seeing Smith’s raised eyebrows. “That might not seem like a good strategy to you, Detective, but I don’t believe in beating around the bush — not with the guy you plan on building your future with, and that’s what I had in mind for Curtis. I wanted him to know it.”

“Was there any bonus, or any other type of payment, in addition to his base rate?” Smith asked. He had done a bit of research and discovered that whereas signing bonuses had been in and out of previous collective agreements, the most recent one had reinstated them, in limited circumstances.

Cormier nodded. “We had to go the league’s exemptions committee and make a special case, but we managed to get him a two-million-dollar signing bonus.”

Smith scribbled the numbers in his notebook. “What about death benefits?”

“My understanding is that there’s a one-time payment to his beneficiary of six months’ salary, but I’d ask you to check with Quinn on the details. I confess I never paid much attention to those parts of the contract. In a million years, I never thought they would come into play, especially with an eighteen-year-old kid. It’s just so … tragic.”

“We’re probably going to want to get a copy of the contract. With your permission, of course,” Marshall added.

“Quinn’ll probably want to run it by media relations, not to mention legal, but I’m sure we can get you a copy. He’s on his way back from the Westin with Mrs. Ritchie. When we’re done here, you can meet with him too, if you like.”

“So,” Smith continued, looking up from his notes. “Is the team on the hook for the five hundred thousand — roughly — or is there insurance for that?”

“It should be insurance, but that’s one of the things we’re still trying to figure out. Like I said, no one ever thought this type of thing would happen. I’ve been an owner for ten years and I’ve never had an active player die under contract. I mean, hockey’s a dangerous game and all, and you certainly have to be concerned about injuries, but something like this?” Cormier shook his head.

“And I assume none of the trades the team made to get Curtis are impacted by his death?”

“You mean, can I get my top three back? Are you asking as a detective, or a fan?” Cormier gave a grim chuckle. “I think the short answer’s no, but you can bet we’ll be checking. Again, Quinn would know more about the technical details. You’ll probably want to talk to his daughter Melissa as well — she’s the legal beagle.”

Smith made a note. He didn’t even know McAdam had a daughter, much less that she worked in the front office.

“So the team’s not in great shape then?”

Marshall elicited another pained smile from Cormier.

“That’s an understatement. We’ve got a gaping hole to fill, and less than two weeks before the season starts. Everyone’s already made their big deals, so there’s not a lot of movement out there. From the team’s point of view, it’s a disaster. And the vultures are already hovering, looking for Quinn’s head.”

“What do you mean?”

“The press has been calling our PR shop all day, asking for statements. U.S. and Toronto-based reporters, mostly. At least the local guys have a bit of class,” Cormier added, with a sigh. “But these other guys, they start off with niceties, but it isn’t long before they get to the point. How do I feel about the Ritchie deal now? Do I think we should have traded our top three for him? Do I think it was wise to put all of our eggs in one basket? That kind of shit.” He paused and let out a sigh. “I feel bad for Quinn too, because this is going to be especially hard on him. With all the scrutiny of the trades over the summer, can you imagine what they’re going to be saying now? They’re gonna crucify him. I’ve already had two people ask me why I haven’t fired him yet.”

“I assume you don’t intend to, then?”

“Hell, no. Quinn’s a visionary, and as such he’s always going to be on the hot seat. But I’m the owner, and none of the deals he brokered could have gone through without my approval, and I have no regrets. We’ll pick up the pieces and move on.” He stopped and looked at his hands. “Listen to me, complaining about the press and the team, when we’re talking about the murder of a young man in his prime. I assume you’re treating this as a murder?”

“It’s suspected foul play at this point,” Marshall said. “But I think that’s kind of academic in this case.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“You think it could have been some crazed fan?”

“We really don’t know. That’s why we’re trying to talk to as many people as we can, as soon as we can. We want to catch this guy as quickly as possible.”

Cormier nodded and looked down at his BlackBerry.

“That’s Quinn. He’s back with Mrs. Ritchie. If there’s nothing else, you can go over to his office.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“If there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation — and I mean anything — I want you to let me know. Here’s my card.” He handed them each a business card. “You can call me anytime, day or night. I’ll tell media relations to give you direct access, given the circumstances.”

“We appreciate that,” Marshall said as an assistant appeared at the door to escort them to the GM’s office, just down the hall.

They rounded a corner and spotted McAdam standing at the door of his office, talking to a young woman seated at a desk outside. As they approached, he extended a massive hand toward Marshall.

“You’re with the Ottawa Police?”

“David Marshall and Jack Smith,” Marshall said, and they all shook hands. Smith noticed McAdam’s grip was strong and cool.

“Come on in, have a seat.”

McAdam arranged his large frame into a chair as the two investigators sat opposite. They had both seen plenty of him in the papers since he had come up from Florida last spring, but he was much more impressive in person. He had been a defenceman back in his playing days, with a reputation for hard hitting and the ability to drop the gloves with the best of them. Looking at him across the desk, Smith could imagine him being an imposing figure at the blue line. He noticed the scarring around the right eye and remembered hearing that McAdam’s career had been cut short by an injury in his early thirties, but not before he had won a Stanley Cup with Boston.

“Thanks for seeing us. I know this has got to be a tough day,” Marshall opened with his now-familiar refrain.

“I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, gentlemen.” McAdam sighed and leaned forward in his chair. “Before we get started, can I ask if you have any leads?”

“We’re still in the information gathering stage, but there are a few things that we need to follow up on, and I’m sure there will be more.”

“You probably can’t discuss it anyway. Ongoing investigation, that sort of thing. It’s gotta be a murder investigation though, right? I just met with Mrs. Ritchie and she saw the body. I mean, Jesus….”

“We were at the scene when he was pulled from the canal,” Marshall said.

McAdam shook his head. “It’s just such a … shock, and such a goddamn waste.”

“Maybe if we can ask you some questions about Curtis and his relationship with the team we can get to work, and let you get on with yours,” Smith offered.

McAdam nodded. “Of course.”

“How well did you know Curtis?”

“I can’t say I knew him all that well, personally. In my position, you have to look at the player first, and the person second. Personality’s important, don’t get me wrong, but you can be the nicest guy in the world, and that’s not gonna get you noticed in this league.”

“So when did you become familiar with Curtis, the player?”

McAdam paused. “I started hearing about him a couple of years back, when he first broke into the OHL. I was down in Florida at the time, but all the teams have their scouts out there. It was well-known that he was someone to watch for — someone special.”

“And you were instrumental in bringing him here?”

The GM gave him a bleak grin. “I can’t really blame you for wanting my head on a platter, as a fan.”

“I guess his death leaves you with a bit of a gap to fill.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. And that’s what’s so damn ironic,” he continued. “A kid like that, you can see him going to L.A. or the Big Apple and getting himself into trouble, in over his head with a lot of money and the wrong people around him. Maybe he gets into drugs, or even it’s just random crime — that’s the reality of big city life in the States. But here? I would have thought Ottawa was the safest place he could possibly be. And then this happens. I still find it unbelievable.”

“You mentioned the money,” Smith interjected. “What happens now, with his death? I assume the team doesn’t have to pay out the full contract.”

“No, there’s a one-time benefit of … I assume we’re talking confidentially here, right? I can’t have any of this getting into the press. Mrs. Ritchie’s got enough on her mind.”

“The press isn’t going to hear it from us.”

McAdam leaned forward in his chair. “Curtis named his mother as the beneficiary, so she’s entitled to a half a year’s salary. You may want to talk to Curtis’s agent as well. He was working on some endorsement deals. I don’t know if they had gotten to terms yet.”

“We’re due to speak to him later this afternoon.”

“And the salary payout,” Smith asked. “Does that come from the team, or an insurer?”

“That’s a good question. In twenty years of hockey operations, I’ve never been in a situation like this. We’re kind of in uncharted waters.”

“I guess that’s why you’ve got lawyers.”

“We’ve got the best,” McAdam said, with a genuine smile. “My daughter, Melissa, did a lot of the legal work on Curtis’s contract. She’ll be following up on the payouts.”

“We’ll probably want to talk to her as well,” Marshall said.

“Sure. I can arrange that.”

Marshall glanced at a picture on the wall behind McAdam, and realized the team in it was arranged around the Stanley Cup.

McAdam followed his gaze and turned to take in the picture. “What a battle that was, and what a great bunch of guys. It was a real team effort — something I’ll never forget.”

Marshall nodded. “How about Curtis? How did he fit in with the guys here? Did the other players get along with him, and vice versa?”

“Yeah, sure. Like any rookie, it takes a while to integrate yourself into a team, and it’s even harder when you come with the kind of hype he generated. But Curtis was doing a great job. He’s a … he was a likeable young man.”

“The other players didn’t resent his instant star status, or the trades it took to get him here?”

“There’s always a period of adjustment. Some of the guys I traded were here for a long time. You have to understand, these guys go to war out there every night, and going through something like that forms bonds that go deep — they don’t end just because players move on. But everyone understands hockey’s a business as well as a game. Don’t forget, Curtis had only been through half a training camp, he was still finding his place.”

“What about off the ice? Did Curtis ever mention any trouble he was having, with other players, or fans, or in general?”

“Not to me. But our relationship really boiled down to a business one. I didn’t have enough time to get to know him that well. That would have come, in time.”

They were interrupted by Marshall’s phone. “Excuse me.”

“Do you know if Curtis had a girlfriend?” Smith asked as Marshall took the call.

McAdam shook his head. “Don’t know. You should ask Peter Dunne. He was rooming with him for part of camp, and probably knew him the best among the players.”

“Can you arrange for us to talk with him?”

“Of course. Let me know when you want to see him and it’s done. Just so you know, we go on the road next week, for pre-season.”

“Yeah, we’ll want to talk with him before then.”

Marshall closed his phone and glanced at Smith.

“We’re going to have to cut this short, but thanks for your time. Can we get your contact info for follow-up?”

McAdam fished out two cards and handed them across the desk.

“Call anytime. My cell’s on there.”

“Thanks.”

“And detectives,” he called out, as they neared the door. “Good luck catching this guy.”

Once outside, Marshall took the steps down two at a time.

“What’s the rush, Marshy?”

“That was the station. Turns out the Palestinian General Delegation is in the building at the end of Somerset Street.”

“Someone saw the perp up close?”

“Better. They’ve got a video camera outside.”