Читать книгу Thin Ice - Nick Wilkshire - Страница 8

“That’s it? That’s all we’ve got?” Smith protested as he and Marshall sat in the briefing room of the identification lab on the ground floor of the Elgin Street station. The identification officer fiddled with a laptop and restarted the fifteen seconds of video as Smith walked up to the large screen hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room. The intersection of Somerset Street and the Driveway appeared on screen, followed by the grainy image of someone crossing the Driveway toward the Palestinian General Delegation. The time stamp, displayed in the bottom right hand corner of the frame, read 6:42 a.m., which was consistent with Jane Emond’s estimate of when she had noticed the ripple of water, and the man at the railing, from her condo balcony on the other side of Colonel By Drive.

“It’s a fixed view,” the identification officer explained with an irritated sigh. “It only covers that one spot.”

Smith pointed to the image onscreen. “Can’t you zoom in, or clear up the image?”

“Zooming in will only make the image fuzzier, but I can try. It’s not the best quality to work with.”

Marshall scoffed. “The amount of dough the city spends on surveillance, and this is the best we can come up with?”

“It’s not even our camera, so I guess we’re lucky we got anything.”

The initial excitement at hearing they had video of their suspect had largely evaporated by the time they had finished their first viewing. It was clear that the poor-quality image of a large man jogging across the street, with 90 percent of his head obscured by a hat and sunglasses, wasn’t going to do much to narrow their search.

“Didn’t Emond say he was wearing a hoodie?” Smith said, noticing that the man in the image appeared to be wearing a long-sleeve shirt made of thinner-looking material than the heavy cotton of a hoodie, and, more importantly, with no hood. “I suppose it would be too much to hope that he tossed it in the woods on his way back up to the street.”

“Is that it, around his waist?” Marshall pointed to a thickening around the man’s middle, which could easily have been the arms of a hoodie.

“Shit, yeah. He must have taken it off before he got to the top of the stairs. Maybe it had blood on it.”

“The size of that gash — it must have been covered.”

“And no prints from the knife,” Smith continued. The crime scene analysis had revealed very little so far in the way of physical evidence. No fingerprints, or any other obvious identifying marks, had been left by the attacker on either the knife or Ritchie’s clothing. The concrete surface of the trail hadn’t helped either — other than a disturbance of leaves and dirt in the area of the attack, and some marks on the railing that may or may not have resulted from the attack, there was nothing to go on. Yet, a one-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound man had been savagely attacked and pitched over a four-foot-high railing in a matter of seconds. There had to be something they were missing.

“There’s a Mr. Avery downstairs to see you.” They turned to see a young constable at the briefing room door.

“Ritchie’s agent,” Smith said, noticing Marshall’s expression.

“Right. Tell him we’ll be there in a sec.”

The identification officer pointed to the screen. “I’ll see if I can clean this up a bit, but it’s not gonna get that much better.”

Making their way down the hall toward the elevators, Smith stopped by a filing cabinet.

“How high’s that rail down by the canal, Marshy?”

“I don’t know. Maybe four feet.”

“And Ritchie’s six two?”

“If you say so.”

“Just stand here for a sec.” Smith arranged his partner a few feet away from the cabinet, then took a few steps back down the hall. “Now pretend you’re Ritchie.”

“I think I’d rather be the other guy.”

“Seriously. You’re out for your morning run. You’re only a click from your fancy pad, where you’re gonna have a nice breakfast — probably ordered in from some fancy place — then hop in your fancy car and head out to the rink for the day, playing the game you love, that you happen to be fucking great at, and which is guaranteed to pay you millions for years to come.”

“Can you throw in a couple of swimsuit models for that hot tub?”

“That’s the spirit. You’re on top of the world, and you’re relaxed. You’re the man . You see some guy jogging along the path toward you, just like the other couple of people you’ve seen in the last hour or so,” Smith said, starting to trot toward him. “The guy gives you a nod, maybe. You do the same…. Then …” he lunged at Marshall, grabbing his shoulder with his right hand, the palm of his left hand striking him gently over the heart as he pushed him back against the filing cabinet, stopping as Marshall’s lower back made contact.

“The fuck you doing ?” Marshall pushed him away, smoothing his shirt as Smith backed off.

“It was all in the momentum, and the surprise. Ritchie’s tall and pretty heavy, so once he’s going in the right direction and he hits that rail, he’s going over. You know the saying — the bigger they are, the harder they fall?”

“Look what you did to my shirt!” Marshall pointed to the loose button.

“Sorry, but it makes sense, right?”

“Showoff.” Marshall was still fussing over his shirt as they continued on toward the reception area. “Our guy’d have to be pretty powerful though, even with surprise on his side. Hockey players are strong in the legs, and not so easy to knock off balance.”

“Maybe our perp’s a player himself?”

Marshall considered that as they walked out into the waiting area and saw a man in his forties talking on a BlackBerry, his black hair slicked back. He saw them coming and signed off, sliding the phone into the pocket of his pinstripe suit.

“Mr. Avery?”

“Call me Dan,” he said, flashing a smile and shaking their hands with a confident grip.

“David Marshall, and this is Jack Smith. Thanks for coming in.”

“Normally, I’d say it’s my pleasure, but … well … I guess everyone’s still trying to take all of this in.”

Marshall led the way back through the secured entrance to a small meeting room. “We’ll try not to keep you too long. We know you must have a lot on your plate.”

“I appreciate that.”

They settled in around a rectangular table as Avery tinkered with the settings on his phone, then looked across the table. “Just putting it on vibrate.”

Marshall smiled. “So, how did you find out about Curtis?”

“I got a call from Ellen this morning. She was hysterical. Poor woman.”

“I can only imagine what she’s going through,” Marshall said, before continuing. “Part of what we’re trying to establish today, through various discussions, are the financial ramifications of Curtis’s death. We’ve talked to the team’s owner and GM, and we have the broad strokes of the contract, but we’d like to ask you for some details.”

“Sure. I mean, I’ll answer whatever I can.”

“We understand that Curtis’s beneficiary gets a one-time payment in the event of his death. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s right. The beneficiary is entitled to half of one year’s worth of salary.”

“And is that in addition to whatever Curtis already received under the contract?”

“Yeah. He’s already been paid a signing bonus of …” Avery paused and smiled awkwardly. “Technically, the details of the contract are confidential, between the parties and their advisers. That’s the team and Curtis — his estate, now, I guess. I’m assuming the team’s okay with me disclosing all of this to you?”

“The team is shipping us a copy of the contract later today, and I’d remind you that we have considerable leeway in a murder investigation. We can get a warrant if necessary, but we’d prefer your co-operation.”

Avery waved his hands. “I’m happy to co-operate, believe me. I just don’t want to get slapped with a lawsuit the minute I walk out of here, but it sounds like that’s not going to be an issue, so I’ll tell you he got a two-million-dollar signing bonus. On my reading of the contract, he’s … his estate’s entitled to another five hundred K.”

“Is that standard ?”

“That’s a good question. I remember the clause and thinking at the time it was something the lawyers dreamed up to justify their fees. I mean, this is an eighteen-year-old we’re talking about. Yet, here we are.” Avery sat back in his chair. “Bottom line is the family gets five hundred thousand, plus whatever’s left from the bonus.”

“Do you know if the team pays the five hundred thousand, or would it be the insurer?”

“You’d have to ask the team, but I would think they’re going to want the insurance company to pick up the tab.”

“Did Curtis have a business manager?”

“I looked after his affairs. I think he was pretty happy in that department.”

“I’m sure he was.” Marshall smiled. “Not too many eighteen-year-olds with a couple of mil sitting in their bank account.”

“It’s peanuts compared to what he would have got in a couple of years, once we were out from under the rookie cap.”

“Do you mind telling us what your cut was?”

“Five percent, but I assume you’ll keep that confidential.”

Marshall smiled. “Of course. So, as his business manager, you would be aware of his financial affairs, other sources of income, etcetera?”

“Sure.”

“So, what was the state of his affairs?”

“You mean did he blow it all on dope and hookers?” Avery gave a brief chuckle as he adjusted himself in the chair. “Not a chance. I’ve never seen a more level-headed eighteen-year-old. God knows there are some guys out there, a lot longer in the tooth, who would see that kind of cash and just lose it. Not Curtis. He was really grounded for a young man.”

“So he didn’t run out and buy a Lamborghini?”

Avery smiled and fiddled with a cufflink. “A Porsche — leased, I think — but that was really it in terms of making a splash. He didn’t want to rush into buying a house or a condo, so he was renting. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he was paying a bomb in rent, but it wasn’t out of whack with his sudden wealth. His biggest investment was in his mom’s house up around Peterborough. That says a lot about him.”

“Did he have any other significant income, from endorsements or stuff like that?” Smith asked.

Avery sighed. “You can’t begin to imagine what a tragedy this is, in every sense. We were this close …” he squeezed his thumb and index finger together in front of his face. “… to one of the biggest, if not the biggest, endorsement deals in Canadian history. I swear to God, we were less than a week away from signing. Now …”

Smith scribbled some notes, trying to determine whether Avery’s anguish was more over the loss of his commission than his young client, as Marshall asked the next question.

“You knew him pretty well, then?”

Avery nodded. “He was a great kid. Like I said, very grounded. Wise beyond his years, but he still had that youthful innocence, you know? That’s where I came in …”

“Do you know if he had a girlfriend?”

“Nothing serious, I don’t think. You can imagine he had girls throwing themselves at him, literally. But he was even level-headed in that department. I’m not saying he was a monk or anything — let’s face it, most eighteen-year-olds are walking bags of hormones. But he was very careful.”

“His mom mentioned a waitress in Peterborough….”

“That was such bullshit,” Avery scoffed. “Some local yokel got knocked up and tried to pin it on Curtis. She hired a lawyer but, like I said, it was BS and it never went anywhere.”

“Did she actually file a lawsuit?”

“No, it never got that far. She realized Curtis wasn’t just going to fold his tent, so she gave up.”

“What was her name?”

“Ridgeway. Mandy Ridge — No, Nancy Ridgeway.”

Smith scribbled the name in his notebook. “What about her lawyer?”

“Some small-town hack. I can’t remember his name, but I’ve got his letters if you want copies.”

“Copies would be great, thanks.”

“Apart from Ms. Ridgeway, did Curtis have any enemies?”

“I’m sure he had lots: goalies with blown goals-against averages, defencemen with minus ratings. Curtis had a tendency to wreak havoc with opposing teams.”

“I was thinking more of the off-the-ice variety,” Marshall said.

Avery shook his head. “No, he really was a pretty likeable kid.”

Smith noticed Avery had begun to fidget a bit. “What about on the ice, did he have any major run-ins?”

“Naw, nothing serious. Curtis wasn’t a scrapper, and anyway, he had plenty of protection on the ice. Anyone who tried to start something with him would find themselves squaring off with the team goon. You know what I’m saying?”

Marshall continued with some more questions before wrapping up the interview, but not before Avery had asked the question of the day.

“You guys have any idea who could have done this?”

“Not yet, but we’ll find him, don’t you worry.”

“I guess you’ll be under pressure from the moment the papers come out tomorrow. I don’t envy you. The media’ll have a field day with this. My phone’s been ringing off the hook all afternoon.”

“Well, thanks for your time, Mr. Avery.”

“You bet. I’ll get you those lawyer’s letters you mentioned ASAP. If there’s anything else, feel free to give me a buzz,” he said.

As he watched Avery strut out of the interview room, Smith thought he looked pretty chipper for a guy who had just lost his meal ticket.