Thin Ice (13 page)

“There were a couple of on-ice incidents that had us wondering. One was a scuffle between Ritchie and O'Neill.”

“O'Neill?” Smith's eyebrows shot up. “What'd Ritchie have a death wish?” Tanner O'Neill, or ‘TKO' as he was affectionately referred to by Raftsmen faithful, though Smith couldn't remember whether his middle initial really was K, was the team's longstanding goon, and a fan favourite of the past five years. He was one of a handful of tough guys who inspired fear among other enforcers, not to mention the regular players. He rarely lost a fight, other than to his arch-enemy in Toronto, with whom the decision could go either way from one game to the next. Smith had only ever seen him from the nosebleed seats, and even from there he was an imposing man at six-five and two-thirty. He could only imagine what he might do if someone tried to challenge his manhood, on or off the ice.

“In Ritchie's defence, O'Neill's girlfriend is a bit of a flirt — and you didn't hear that from me. I don't want to be the next one found floating in the canal.” He paused. “That was in bad taste.”

Smith responded with a grim chuckle. “I know what you mean. Did you ever get any confirmation that Ritchie was fooling around with … what's her name?”

“Tammy something. They're not married.”

“I'm thinking big hair and big tits. Am I warm?”

“She's a former dancer, and I'm not talking about the kind of ballet you wear a tux to, you know?” Hunter grinned. “None of the players said so for sure, but they didn't deny it either. These guys are like the mafia when it comes to team unity — they have their own code of silence.”

“So what was the rumour?”

“They were at some team barbeque at Dennis Hearst's place and Ritchie and O'Neill's girlfriend were getting a little too cozy, to the point that Hearst and Ritchie had words.” The mention of the Raftsmen's captain caught Smith's attention.

“What about O'Neill?” he asked, after a pause.

“I'm not sure he was there, or maybe he showed up late or something.”

“Were there other incidents?”

Hunter shook his head. “Not that I know of, directly.”

“So you say this barbeque was during training camp? That's a hell of a way to introduce yourself to your teammates.” Smith whistled. “Though I can't say I'm surprised from everything else we've found out about Ritchie in the last few days.”

“I think we're gonna hear more as time goes on. There was an awful lot of out of town press at the funeral — some of them less reputable than others. The respect for the dead thing only lasts for so long.”

“Like how long?”

“I'd give it about a day.”

They drank in silence for a moment while Smith collected his thoughts.

“What about this on-ice incident? I assume you weren't the only guy in the stands.”

“No, there were a dozen media people watching practice that day. If you wanted to ask O'Neill about it you wouldn't be putting me at risk.”

They chatted generally about Ritchie's performance at camp, and what moves the Raftsmen might make to try to replace him, then Hunter looked at his watch.

“Listen, I'm trying to get home to tuck my kids in, if you're done with me,” he said, pulling out his wallet.

“Of course. And put that away. You can get the next one.”

“All right. I'll see you around, and good luck with the investigation.”

Smith waved him off, then pulled out his notebook and scribbled Tanner O'Neill's name onto his little diagram, connecting the circle around it with a dotted line to Curtis Ritchie. He picked up his phone to call Marshall and noticed he had a text. His breath caught as he recognized Lisa's number. He clicked it open and read the short note.
Jack. Let's not make the same mistake again, and pretend we aren't better off apart. Your friend, Lisa
.

Smith read it over a few times, set the phone down on the bar, and ordered another beer. Catching sight of Valerie, seated in the corner with a couple of girlfriends, he leaned toward the bartender.

“See the brunette over at the table in the corner?”

“Yeah.”

“I'd like to buy her one of whatever she's drinking.”

Smith stood on the balcony in the cool night air, enjoying a few seconds of total silence before a distant siren ruined it. Even at three in the morning, silence was a relative concept in his neighbourhood. In a few hours, the sun would rise over yet another day without any hard evidence to a suspect in the Ritchie murder. The pressure would start to build from here on in, Smith was sure of it. Beaudoin would do his best to shield his investigators from its brunt, but it was only a matter of time before they would feel it themselves.

Going over his diagram in his head, Smith crossed John Ridgeway off and replaced him with Tanner O'Neill. Maybe he should add Dennis Hearst, as well, given what Hunter had said about the Raftsmen's captain confronting him at the barbeque, but he was reluctant to add the name to his chart. Was it the handful of Lady Byng trophies he had accumulated over the years — for most gentlemanly player — as opposed to the record number of penalty minutes accumulated by O'Neill? Did a player's conduct on the ice necessarily dictate how they behaved away from the rink? He had scribbled in a few unnamed circles for the people mentioned in the Ashcroft files, but he didn't really think they would amount to much. A few of them had already been ruled out for one reason or another. Then there was Tom Saunders. The interview later today would be interesting, for sure, but Smith still couldn't see him doing it, which left no one else at the top of the list of suspects. He felt disappointed by their progress so far, as he was sure a lot of others were, from Beaudoin to Ritchie's family. They all deserved better.

But there was another reason for the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stood alone on his balcony in the pre-dawn stillness, wishing he still smoked, as another stranger lay sleeping in his bed.

Marshall had already prepped Tom Saunders for the interview, advising him that it was being recorded and confirming that Saunders had already spoken to a lawyer beforehand, and had no further need to consult.

“I got nothing to hide,” Saunders said, sitting with his arms crossed, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and looking like he would rather be somewhere else. Smith had spent a couple of hours going over the various statements and other information collected on Saunders to date, and it made for interesting reading. After spending fifteen years in construction in the Toronto area, he had put himself through a college paralegal program and moved to Peterborough to hang out his shingle, challenging parking tickets and scrapping it out in small claims court. Smith admired anyone who was able to put themselves through school in midlife, and apparently Saunders had done well for himself. But there was something very unpleasant about the man — in the way he carried himself and spoke — that betrayed an underlying anger at the world. Perhaps it was bitterness over what might have been. Smith imagined that paralegal work could get pretty draining after a while, especially when the lawyers he rubbed shoulders with were making three times what he was able to bill. Saunders had also tried his hand at politics ten years ago, but had abandoned any further political aspirations after a failed bid for a seat on municipal council.

Then he had met Ellen Ritchie and apparently found a new outlet for his energy: her son's budding hockey career. With the interview of Ritchie's Peterborough teammate, Jordan Connolly, fresh in his mind, the idea of Saunders as the ultimate extreme hockey parent was a natural progression. As Curtis's career progressed through minor hockey into junior and the stakes became higher, Smith could picture Saunders reading up on sports contracts and putting himself in position for the ultimate prize when young Curtis turned pro. It didn't take much imagination to see the anger and disappointment that Curtis's decision to hire a super agent just weeks before signing on with the Raftsmen must have caused after all those invested years.

“That was a really nice funeral service,” Marshall said, to open the interview.

“Yeah, thanks for coming out.”

“I understand you're in Ottawa for some meetings with the Raftsmen?”

“The Raftsmen, Curtis's agent, the lawyer, you name it. Quinn McAdam invited Ellen and me to the home opener, but she can't bear to go….”

“I'm sure it's a very difficult time for her. For you all.”

Saunders nodded.

“Well, we won't take too much of your time this morning, but we did want to ask you some follow-up questions. I understand you spent most of last week in Ottawa, is that right?”

“Yeah. I told one of the other detectives,” he said, nodding toward the door. “I was setting up a new line of sportswear with an Ottawa-based company. Curtis was going to do some promotional stuff for us.”

“So you were here all last week?”

“Yeah, from Monday until … well, I was in a meeting on Saturday when I got the call about Curtis.”

“That was from Ellen?”

“Yeah.”

“And where were you staying while you were here?”

“My sister's place. Her and her husband live here.”

“Downtown?”

Saunders sniffed in disapproval. “I don't know why they don't move out to the suburbs. They got a big old house that's falling apart, a boarding house on one side and some kind of shelter across the street. It's like livin' in the Bronx or something.”

“Where's that?”

“Gloucester Street.”

Marshall nodded. He could picture the area. There were nice pockets, but plenty of seedy parts as well.

“Is that where you were meeting, when you got the call?”

“No, I was out in Kanata.”

“So had you seen Curtis during the week?”

He shook his head. “Not much — he was busy with camp. I talked to him on Monday, just to line up some promotional photo shoots for later in the month, and we went out for dinner on Wednesday night, but that was the last time I saw him.”

“When were the photo shoots going to happen ?”

“I don't know … it was gonna be sometime this week. Thursday, I think.”

“So you stayed at your sister's place Friday night?”

“Yeah.”

“And when were you headed back to Peterborough?”

“I was supposed to go after the Saturday meeting. ‘Course I never did, cause Ellen ended up coming here.”

“And what time was your meeting on Saturday?”

“Ten-thir —” Saunders looked at Marshall, then Smith. “Why are you guys so interested in my meeting on Saturday, or where I stayed…?” He stopped, answering his own question. Despite his proximity to the courts over the years, he obviously hadn't learned much about criminal investigations, because he seemed genuinely shocked at the realization. “You guys aren't thinking
I
had something to do with Curtis's death, are you?”

“We're just getting the record straight, Tom.”

“He was like a son to me. How could you even think …?”

“Look, we have to follow standard procedure, as I'm sure you know. You were one of many people who was in contact with Curtis in the last couple of days of his life. We need to know as much as we can about that contact.”

“So you can rule me out, like?”

“Yeah,” Marshall said, as Smith watched the tension in Saunders' neck muscles subside. “Why don't you tell us about your relationship with Curtis. It must have been tough at first, as the new man around the house. Curtis would have been, how old?”

“Twelve or thirteen, I guess.”

“So, how did you guys get along ?”

“It wasn't really that big of a deal. His dad — well, adoptive dad — had been dead a couple of years.”

“Bob Ritchie.”

“Right. And I didn't try to replace him or anything. I knew that wouldn't be a good idea, so I just sort of gradually got more involved in his life. Hockey was good for that.”

Marshall nodded. “You took him to hockey, and all that?”

“Yeah. I tried to give him a few pointers, but he didn't need much, even then. It was obvious he had something special.”

“So hockey was good for bonding, then?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

“I understand you worked as a paralegal up in Peterborough,” Marshall said, looked down at his notes.

“Up until about a year ago, that's right.”

“What happened a year ago?”

“I sold my business.”

“This was your paralegal business?”

“PCS, yeah — Peterborough Court Services. I took on a partner a few years back, and he bought me out.”

“Business was good, then?”

Saunders shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, I'd just had enough. I wanted to do something different.”

“What did you want to do?”

“I had a few ideas for businesses. I'm doing the clothing line now.”

“Even without Curtis?”

“His endorsement would have been great, but it's still a good product. It's a line of breathable warm-up gear, good for hockey coaches and team wear.”

“Did you have any other plans, with Curtis?”

“Nothing formal,” Saunders said, adjusting himself in the chair.

“Did you ever think about maybe helping Curtis out with his career? You having some business savvy and all that,” Marshall asked.

“Well, we had some discussions about that, but Curtis wanted to use a high profile agent for his contract talks.”

“You didn't agree with him hiring Dan Avery?”

“I didn't say that.” Saunders gave a bitter smile. “Let's just say I'm not sure Avery earned his hefty fee.”

“You mean you could have done as well for less?”

“Probably, but I can understand why Curtis thought he needed someone like Avery. He was young, and pretty green about the business side of hockey.”

“Did his hiring Avery cause any kind of rift between you and Curtis?”

“Naw.” Saunders crossed his arms again. “I was mad at first, but like I said, I couldn't really blame him. Avery's got a silver tongue, and looks the part. That was enough for Curtis, I guess.”

“We understand you had an altercation with Curtis, in a Toronto hotel.”

Saunders looked at Marshall for a moment, his features clouding as his glance diverted downward for a moment. “Who told you that?”

“Do you want to tell us what happened?”

Saunders stared hard at the table for a few seconds before speaking again. “Look, it's not something I'm proud of, you know? I was in town for business, and I was staying near Curtis's hotel, so I decided, with a few drinks aboard, that it would be good idea to go see him. It was stupid, and I said some things I didn't mean, but it was just the booze talking.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I don't know. Stupid stuff. I told him he was making a mistake with Avery.”

“Anything else?”

“You must have been talking to Connolly,” Saunders said, looking up at Marshall, whose expression remained inscrutable.

“Did you tell him you'd kill him?”

“I don't know. I think I might have shoved him. I was drunk and it was the day after he told me he'd hired Avery. I honestly don't know what I said. Whatever it was though, I didn't mean it.”

Smith could see the emotion in his face, but he wasn't sure if it was embarrassment at whatever drunken vitriol he had spewed, or discomfort at the incident coming to light now. Either way, one thing was clear to Smith as he sat there assessing him — Saunders had a temper.