Thin Ice (11 page)

“Murder,” Connolly said, looking to his father, then back at Smith. “I saw murder.”

Smith lay back in bed listening to the sounds of daybreak outside the open window. His hand caressed the blonde hair fanned out over his chest as Lisa slept next to him, her head resting on his chest and rising with his every breath. He didn't want to get up, ever, but there was something weighing on his conscience — something was wrong. He closed his eyes to escape the nagging fear, but was confronted by Curtis Ritchie's vacant stare as his waterlogged body was dragged from the canal. Ritchie's eyes kept their fixed gaze but his lips, blue from oxygen deprivation and the cold of the water, were moving, struggling to utter unintelligible words. Smith was back in his bed again, but Lisa was headed for the door, and no matter how he tried to catch up to her or make her listen, he couldn't reach her.

“We're getting ready to land,” the flight attendant said, her hand on the button that had jolted his seat-back upright again.

Smith rubbed his eyes as he adjusted to the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.

“Good snooze?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He registered Marshall sitting next to him, flipping through a magazine.

“You were having some kinda dream, by the sounds of it.”

“What?” Smith was suddenly wary of what his subconscious might have revealed in his sleep.

“You were jerking around like a piñata, and you were babbling about something.”

“What, were you taking notes?” He stretched his arms overhead. “I don't suppose I solved the case, did I?”

Marshall snorted. “Fat chance. You kept saying no, but that was about all I could understand.”

“Man, I needed that.” Smith looked out the window, glad to have slept through most of the early morning flight. He only wished he had stayed out for the landing. His stomach lurched as the plane bumped its way through a cloud and the ground came into view again, cars streaming down the freeway below like toys on a track. He looked at his watch. “We're gonna be early.”

“Not really. It's been a while since my last time in DC, but I think it's like forty minutes into town from Dulles.”

“I'm gonna need a coffee before we hit the —” Smith was interrupted by a loud thud from somewhere beneath them, followed by a mechanical whirr. “What the fuck was that?”

“Relax, will you? It's the landing gear.”

Smith laughed to conceal his racing heart. The plane was a little inter-city job with its best years behind it from what he could tell, and he didn't like the noises it was making, or its jerky descent. He pretended to look out the window and closed his eyes as Marshall chatted away, but Curtis Ritchie's vacant stare was waiting for him. Maybe it was better than the sight of Lisa leaving him behind for the last time.

They sat in the reception at Ashcroft, stunned into silence by the opulence of their surroundings. The vastness of the triple-height atrium was impressive in itself, and no expense had been spared in the decoration. An assortment of magazines lay in meticulous order on one of the enormous glass tables, cut flowers in a crystal vase on another. The muted air was punctuated by the distant clicking of heels on the marble floors and by the subtle tone of the receptionist's phone. Located on E Street, just around the corner from the Hoover building, the six-storey mix of glass and metal bore no indication of the identity of its occupant, other than a subtle etching of the name into the glass behind the reception desk. The sound of approaching footsteps alerted them to the arrival of their host, Chad McCleod, whose voice Smith instantly recognized from the brief phone call from the Canadian Embassy, an hour before.

“Welcome to Washington,” McCleod said, greeting them with a firm handshake. In his early forties and well over six feet, with prematurely grey hair that looked shellacked in place, McCleod was as immaculate as the décor, clad as he was in a blue pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and lavender tie. “I hope you had a good flight.”

They made small talk as McCleod led them past the reception desk, though Smith couldn't shake his irritation at all of the niceties when the only reason they were here was that Ashcroft had refused to even acknowledge Ritchie as a client over the phone. They arrived at a meeting room where another suit sat waiting.

“This is Dick Watkins,” McCleod said, as the other man got up to greet them, “from legal.”

“I guess this is for you, then,” Marshall said, handing over the subpoena. They had gone straight to the Canadian Embassy from the airport, where they had met with an RCMP liaison officer who had helped them through the process of having the warrant certified for service in DC.

McCleod seemed to sense the tension. “I want to say two things before we get started,” he said, glancing toward the lawyer, who scanned the document and gave a quick nod. “First, I want to apologize for having to be so formal, but in our business it really is unavoidable. The last thing I want to do is waste your time and I can assure you we will do everything in our power to assist you in your investigation. Second, of course, is to say how horrified I was to hear of what happened to Curtis, and to again offer you whatever help I can in your efforts to find his killer.”

“Well, we appreciate that, Mr. Mc —”

“Call me Chad, please.”

“Chad, right. Anyway, I'm glad everything's in order now,” Marshall said, looking to the lawyer, who tucked the subpoena into a buff folder and stood.

“It is, and we appreciate your understanding, gentlemen. With this on file, Chad can now provide full disclosure. I wish you the best of luck with your investigation. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

As Watkins left, McCleod pointed to a side table with a pair of silver decanters, and a selection of juices and waters in a large silver bowl filled with ice. “Please help yourself to coffee, or something else.”

“We're good, thanks.”

“So, where would you like me to start?”

“Maybe you could tell us what you do, exactly.”

“Sure. We're a public relations firm, so we look after the media and public relations of our clients. Given the breadth of our client base — Ashcroft's the largest PR firm in the world — that can mean a lot of things. We represent business and political leaders, TV and film celebrities, and, of course, pro athletes.”

“So what did you do for Curtis Ritchie?”

“With a client like Curtis, we start by developing a custom-made media strategy,” McCleod began, with an enthusiasm that made it clear he enjoyed hearing himself talk. “I worked with him on media messaging … that just means defining the kind of message you want to get out there on a consistent basis, and controlling the venue, like post-game press conferences, radio, television, and print interviews, that sort of thing.”

“Isn't that part of what the agent's supposed to do ?”

McCleod shook his head. “We're not agents. We're specialized consultants, though we do work hand in hand with agents on some aspects of the overall PR program.”

“So you know Dan Avery, then?”

“Yes, he's … he was Curtis's agent.”

“Would it surprise you if we told you he never mentioned you, or Ashcroft, when we spoke with him in connection with this investigation?”

McCleod adjusted the perfect knot in his tie. “Not really. Like I said, while there is some interaction between the services we each provide, we do operate independently. I don't know what questions you were asking him, but unless you specifically asked about PR, I don't see why he would have mentioned me, or Ashcroft.”

Smith had to hand it to McCleod — he was smooth. Marshall smiled. “You mentioned you look after media messaging and other services. Can you tell us a little more about those other services?”

“Sure. Apart from establishing an overall PR program, we also on occasion respond to particular situations as they arise.”

“You mean damage control?” Smith said.

McCleod gave him a thin smile. “That's one way of putting it, but it really just means further tailoring the messaging program to respond to specific situations.”

Beginning to tire of the double-speak, Smith decided to ask a more straightforward question and see what McCleod came back with. “Have you ever heard of Nancy Ridgeway?”

“Yes, she was the woman who claimed Curtis had fathered her child.”

“What about her brother, John?”

McCleod nodded.

“Is it true you paid John Ridgeway and another witness, Stephen Gravelle, fifty thousand dollars each, to keep quiet about the incident between John and Nancy Ridgeway and Curtis Ritchie, up in Peterborough?”

“Yes, those two individuals received co-operation payments. There's nothing illegal about that, as I'm sure you know.”

“That depends on what the money was for, as I'm sure
you
know, Mr. McCleod.”

“It's Chad. Look, detectives, it's not like we interfered with their evidence in any way. They both gave statements to the police before we spoke to them. The payments they received were related only to media inquiries, certainly not to any testimony they might be asked to give in a court of law, whether in connection with any criminal charge or a civil suit.”

“So you were aware of Nancy Ridgeway's paternity suit?”

“Of course, though my understanding is it was settled between the lawyers. We really weren't involved.” McCleod paused, perhaps sensing Marshall's growing irritation. “Look, I know this may seem unusual to you, but this is the norm these days, with the media the way it is, and everyone tweeting and posting real-time camera-phone pictures. Without people like us, none of our clients would be able to accomplish anything. They'd be too busy fighting off bogus claims, whether in print, on TV, or in the courts.”

“Like that golfer, you mean?” Smith said, watching McCleod's reaction to the reference to a year-long media frenzy surrounding a married pro golfer and a string of hookers and porn stars. “Sorry, you probably represent him, too.”

“I'm afraid I can't comment on that.”

“Let's get back to Curtis Ritchie,” Marshall said. “Were there other Nancy Ridgeways we should know about?”

“There were no other paternity allegations that I was aware of.”

“Let me rephrase the question,” Marshall said, leaning forward over the table. “You know why we're here. Curtis Ritchie was killed — we believe murdered — and we want to know who did it, and we're particularly interested in finding out about anyone who might have had an axe to grind with him. Given that information, were there any other ‘situations' you were asked to ‘manage' for Curtis?”

McCleod smiled, then stood. “Let me get my file.”

Smith sat in the rear of the church, scanning the crowd and slotting each of the people into Curtis Ritchie's life. It had been Marshall's idea to come to the funeral, and he had secured approval before they boarded the flight home from Washington the day before. At the time, the prospect of getting back in the car early on Wednesday morning had seemed unnecessarily cruel punishment, but he was glad they were here now.

As he scanned the front row opposite, he took in Ellen Ritchie in a black two-piece suit, complete with a hat and veil. Smith knew little about funeral fashion, but he sensed it was probably a choice, and expensive, outfit. She dabbed under the veil with a handkerchief from time to time, leaning against a sober-looking Tom Saunders. Apparently ill at ease in a dark suit, he kept pulling at his collar as though the starched fabric were choking him. Smith tried to imagine what was going through his mind as the crowd assembled behind him. Was this a moment of quiet relief, after which he was free to enjoy the fruits of Ritchie's labour — specifically, what was left of the signing bonus and the half-million insurance payout? Or was he saying goodbye to the golden goose, having only a cracked egg to hold onto? It still was far from clear, as were a lot of things about the case.

They had left Ashcroft's offices the day before, after three gruelling hours of collecting evidence that had floored them both. Smith had been under no illusions about the kind of trouble an eighteen-year-old jock with too much money could get into, but in his wildest dreams he never would have imagined the debauchery they had uncovered courtesy of the slick Chad McCleod. Apparently, the couple of hundred grand that Ritchie had sent Ashcroft's way had been money well spent. The files were filled with references to Ritchie's numerous interactions with strippers and prostitutes, mostly in Toronto and Miami, where Ritchie had spent part of the summer with a personal trainer. There were also some ill-advised barroom scuffles, not to mention a string of accusations of generally questionable conduct. Ashcroft had been concerned enough by the prospect of Ritchie being unleashed on thirty cities over the course of a season to recommend a personal PR escort to be assigned full time to keep him out of trouble.

So much for the clean-cut kid image that Ritchie had still managed to project — with the help of Ashcroft's expert media messaging advice, of course. The more important question, for Smith and Marshall, was whether there was someone among all of these encounters who felt aggrieved enough by their interaction with Ritchie to want to stick a knife in his chest. There were no obvious contenders, but the Ashcroft files were going to generate a lot of follow-up work. There was even someone in Toronto who claimed to be Ritchie's biological mother, but there was nothing to support her claim and her motives had become clearer once her addiction to heroin and crack became evident.

“There's Cormier,” Marshall whispered, as the Raftsmen's owner passed them in the aisle and made his way toward the front, with an attractive woman a couple of decades younger on his arm whom Smith recognized as his wife from newspaper pictures of her posing with her favourite charity.

“And McAdam,” Smith added, as they saw the GM turn to greet Cormier and his wife. Smith noticed a tall blonde woman at McAdam's side. Even from afar, she was striking. Smith saw her in profile as she moved along the pew to accommodate the new arrivals. As she swept the crowd behind her, she caught Smith staring and he thought he saw a demure smile before she turned back.

“Wow.” Marshall had obviously noticed her as well. “McAdam's taking the trophy wife thing to another level.”

Smith spotted most of the current roster of the Raftsmen in the crowd, along with another, younger group of athletic types that included Jordan Connolly and many of his other teammates from Peterborough. As the organ played its sombre notes and the last of the funeral-goers pressed into the remaining standing room at the back, Smith turned his attention to the front of the church, and a huge, framed picture of Curtis Ritchie to the right of a lectern, surrounded by flowers. Ritchie's impish grin, framed by his trademark unruly blonde locks, was how most people pictured the young star. No doubt this was the way Ellen Ritchie wanted him remembered, too, whether she knew about the troubled young man in the Ashcroft files or not. He hoped for her sake that she never found out.

Filing out of the church into the bright fall sunshine, Smith scanned the sea of media jostling at the security perimeter, television cameras and telephoto lenses trained on the church doors. James Cormier had arranged for the bulk of the Raftsmen's arena staff to attend the funeral, with strict instructions to prevent it turning into the media circus that everyone anticipated. For the most part, their efforts had been successful, though no one could prevent the shouts from behind the perimeter for a pose for a photo, or for a quotable sound bite. Smith spotted a familiar face standing at the foot of the steps, talking to one of the Raftsmen defencemen, recognizing him from the little black and white picture that always accompanied his bylines in the sports page of the main Ottawa paper. Obviously, he was on good enough terms with Cormier to have earned an exemption from his peers' banishment from the entrance. Smith was about to head over when he heard a distinctive voice behind him, and he turned to see McAdam standing by the railing.

“Afternoon, detectives.”

“Mr. McAdam …”

“Quinn, please. It was good of you to make the trip.”

“It was a moving service,” Marshall said.

“Yeah. I still have a hard time believing he's gone.”

Marshall nodded. “He was far too young, that's for sure.”

“How's your investigation going?”

“It's coming along,” Smith said.

“I guess you can't really say much,” the big GM added, pausing just in case they wanted to correct him before continuing. “But I wanted to repeat what I told you when we first met — that my door's always open. If there's anything I, or anyone on the team, can do to assist your investigation, please tell me.”

“We will, and thanks,” Marshall said, as Smith watched the striking blonde he had noticed inside walk up to McAdam.

“Oh, there you are. I believe you've already spoken to Detective Smith,” he said, as Smith's curiosity was piqued. “This is my daughter, Melissa.”

“Oh, right. You helped us out with Curtis's contract.” Smith shook her hand. Her grip was firmer than he had expected, and her emerald eyes were almost level with his as they took stock of each other. “Thanks for that.”

“My pleasure,” she said. A grin teased the corners of her mouth before she turned to Marshall and shook his hand.

“I was just asking how the investigation was going,” McAdam Senior continued.

“And?” His daughter seemed genuinely interested.

“It's making progress.”

“But you haven't arrested anyone yet?” This seemed to be her only measure of success.

“Not yet, no,” Smith said. In fact, after four full days, while they had uncovered a lot of leads, and identified Tom Saunders and, to a lesser extent, John Ridgeway Junior as persons of interest, he had the feeling this was going to be a complicated investigation.

“Isn't it true that the more time elapses after a murder, the harder it is to find a killer?”

“Sometimes, yes, but in this case I think it's more a question of the volume of information slowing things down. It'll take a while to sift through all the facts, but I'm confident we'll get our man soon enough.”

“So, you're sure it's a man?”

Smith paused before answering, eliciting a smile from Melissa McAdam.

“It's okay, Detective, I assume you've got evidence that leads you to your assumption, but I'm not going to ask what it is.”

“You could say that,” Smith said, noticing Marshall and McAdam Senior were deep in conversation about something.

“It must be fascinating,” she said, inching closer, “to be involved in a case like this, from your perspective. Criminal procedure was one of my favourite law school classes.”

“It never interested you as a career?”

“I'm afraid I took a different route — a shorter, more conventional one, with a bigger payoff.” She smiled. “I guess that makes me shallow.”

“I don't know about that. Working in the front office sounds like a pretty interesting career, with or without the money. Interesting work, interesting people. Speaking of which, did you know Curtis well?”

Melissa McAdam's eyebrows lifted slightly. “Are you going to interrogate me now?”

“Of course not, I just wondered….”

“So formal.” She was grinning again. “I was just kidding, Detect —”

“Call me Jack. There, you see? Not so formal.”

Quinn McAdam was patting his daughter on the shoulder.

“We'd better get going,” he said, as the lineup of cars heading for the interment formed in the parking lot.

“I take it you're not going ?” Melissa asked, as her father said his goodbyes and set off down the steps.

“No, we weren't planning on it. We've got some work to do before we head back.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Jack.”

“Pleasure was mine.”

She stopped halfway down the stairs. “I didn't get a chance to answer your question.”

“That's okay. I know where to find you.”

“Why don't you come out to the rink on Friday, it's the pre-season home opener.”

“I can't accept —”

“I'm not talking about giving you freebies to watch the game. I just thought I'd show you around backstage, so to speak, and answer whatever questions you might have.”

Smith hesitated as Marshall returned from chatting with James Cormier. “Sure. Why not.”

“See you Friday then.”

Smith watched her as she set off to join her father.

“Got a date?” Marshall whispered.

“We both do.”

Marshall looked at him with a sideways glance. “Oh yeah?”

“She's going to show us around the Raftsmen's front office, and tell us what she knows about Ritchie.”

“If you say so. I don't know about you, but I'm starving. What do you say we hit a greasy spoon?”

Smith nodded and they headed down the steps. Nearing the bottom, Smith saw the Ottawa sportswriter again.

“Steve Hunter, right?”

The other man nodded.

“I like your stuff, especially that series on rec leagues.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm Jack Smith, and this is my partner, David Marshall. We're with the Ottawa Police.”

“Are you guys investigating Ritchie's murder?”

“Care to comment?” Smith said, in his best impression of a reporter.

“Not here.” Hunter looked around and Smith could see him eyeing a cluster of Raftsmen players on the other side of the steps.

“We were going to grab a bite, if you want to join us.”

“Naw, I've got to work on my story.”

“Maybe we could meet another time?”

“Are you heading back to Ottawa today?”

Smith nodded.

“I could meet you for a beer, say around six?”

Smith looked at Marshall, who nodded.

“How about the Lieutenant's Pump? We'll see you there.”

After a greasy burger and fries, Smith and Marshall made their way to the Peterborough OPP detachment, where Mike Howard was waiting, with John Ridgeway and his girlfriend cooling their heels in the waiting area. They had decided to make use of the trip to re-interview Ridgeway in light of what they had discovered at Ashcroft, and on his Easypass account.

“They ready to go?” Smith asked, after they met with Howard and decided their strategy — they would interview the girlfriend first.

Howard nodded. “I told them the interview was going to be under oath, and warned them about perjury and obstruction. I think Ridgeway got the message.”

“What about her?”