Thin Ice (17 page)

Smith took his seat on the plane and sighed. It had only taken a fifteen-minute conversation with Beaudoin's task force contact to convince him that Dmitri Kurtisov was worth further attention. In addition to his active involvement with several organized crime-connected business interests in Toronto, the task force was working on trying to connect Kurtisov to three gang-related murders in the past twenty-four months. Also, contrary to Smith's assumption that he spent most of his time in Russia, Kurtisov had a house in Toronto and spent at least five months of the year there, including the past four. Smith also learned that Kurtisov was booked on a flight to Moscow in three days, so the window for pulling him in for a chat was narrowing quickly.

It had been late afternoon before Smith had gotten the chance to talk to Beaudoin again, at which point he had been ordered onto the next flight for Toronto, while Marshall followed up with Tanner O'Neill's girlfriend and Peter Dunne. By the time Smith had gotten his paperwork in place and spun by his apartment for an overnight bag, he had been stuck in gridlock all the way out to the airport, and he had barely made his flight. He looked at the empty seat next to him as they announced that boarding was complete and realized he would have some room to stretch out during the brief flight.

A last check of his messages revealed a confirmation from the Peterborough reporter of a meeting the next day. He had gotten Don Brooks's name from Steve Hunter, and when he had called earlier, he had discovered that Brooks would be in Toronto for the weekend to cover Peterborough's first road game. He was still waiting for a call back from the team's communications director about trying to set up a talk with someone in the front office. He called Marshall as a flight attendant roamed the aisle checking seatbelts and frowned at him.

“I'll just be a second,” he said, as Marshall picked up on the second ring.

“You about the leave?”

“Yeah, I just called to let you know I got a response from Brooks. Looks like I'll be able to lighten your load.”

“Good. Saves me a trip to Peterborough.”

“You talking to Tammy Crawford tonight?”

“All set up for an hour from now. I'm gonna meet Dunne on the way back.”

“Watch out she doesn't try to jump your old bones.”

“Very funny.”

“If you see Fitz, give him my regards,” Marshall said, as the flight attendant returned, her frown replaced with a glower.

“Will do.” He laughed, thinking of Marshall's former partner from his days in Toronto. “Listen, I gotta go. We're leaving.”

“Good luck.”

He closed the phone with an apologetic smile as the attendant returned.

“Can I get you a newspaper?” Apparently, she didn't hold a grudge.

“Sure,” he said, reopening the phone after she had gone. He had noticed a new text from Valerie. He read it quickly then shut down the device and tucked it into the seat back pocket.

“Well, that's over,” he muttered to himself, eliciting a puzzled look from the young man across the aisle. As the engines started up, the flight attendant returned with the newspaper. He scanned the front page and quickly lost interest, tossing the paper onto the empty seat and stretching out his legs.

As the plane backed up and headed out to the runway, he turned his mind to the case, and the possibility that Dmitri Kurtisov might turn into a legitimate suspect. He had a breakfast meeting with Brooks at nine, after which he would spend the day with the task force, and hopefully interview Kurtisov personally, if they had managed to set it up. His mind drifted as they taxied into take-off position, but as the engines revved up and his heart began to flutter with pre-flight anxiety, he had only one thing on his mind, and she had nothing to do with the case.

Smith sat in the hotel restaurant with Dan Brooks, sipping his coffee as Brooks finished off what had begun as an enormous platter of bacon, eggs, hash browns, and toast. Brooks himself was large in scale, as was the amiable laugh that emerged between bites, as he told stories about his years covering the Peterborough junior team.

“The best one was when the cops hauled over the team bus just outside London, after a Saturday night win. Turned out one of the players had called in a tip that one of the trainers was involved in a robbery earlier that night. A couple of us press guys were around when the coach found out — boy did he hit the roof. I think they traded the poor prankster a few weeks later. Can't remember his name. I wonder if he ever made it to the show.” Brooks wiped his mouth with his napkin and took a sip of coffee before leaning back in his chair. “But listen to me going on with my tall tales. That's not what you wanted to talk to me about, is it?”

“Actually, it is, in a way,” Smith said. “I didn't realize you travelled so closely with the team.”

“Well, we don't anymore, but in the old days we'd sometimes end up on the team bus. Now, things are different, what with all this email and tweets and shit. You can't blame them for not wanting us anywhere near them, for fear their every word will end up floating around the planet thirty seconds later.”

Smith laughed. He liked Brooks's old-school manner and could sense he was part of a dying breed, as Brooks himself seemed to recognize. “What can you tell me about Curtis Ritchie?”

“Best natural goal scorer I ever saw. And I've seen some beauties in my day, I'll tell you. He didn't hit much, and backchecking wasn't part of his repertoire, but get him the puck anywhere inside the blue line and he was lights out.”

“Quick release, huh?”

Brooks nodded. “Like greased lightning, and he got all of it — I mean
all
. The goalies all said the same thing — they just never saw it until it was too late. He was a good playmaker too — he had most assists last season, but it was nothing compared to his scoring ability. It really is a damn shame.”

“What about Curtis the person. How did he get along with his team, and you guys in the press, the fans?”

Brooks frowned. “He was an eighteen-year-old with the world at his feet, and he knew it. At the start of the season last year, the only question was who was going to take him, not whether he'd go first. And everyone knew eventually he'd get huge money.”

“I've heard he could be cocky.”

“Sure. Wouldn't you be ?”

“Probably.” Smith chuckled.

“He never gave me any trouble personally, though some of my colleagues complained about his availability, and his attitude. I think he was pretty good with the fans. He sure signed his fair share of programs, sticks, and hats. That much I saw first-hand.”

“And the other players?”

Brooks sighed and sipped his coffee. “There were rumblings about some squabbling — some verbal sparring in the room or on the bus, maybe after a loss or whatever.”

“What about over women?”

Brooks nodded. “There were rumours about that too, yeah. I guess you heard about the Ridgeway girl, with the paternity suit?”

“Yeah, we talked to her. I was more interested in conflict with his teammates, over girls.”

Brooks finished his coffee and nodded as the waitress pointed to his plate. He waited for her to clear the table before speaking. “Apparently Ritchie and Quesnel — that's Paul Quesnel, a defenceman — had a scrap at the beginning of the year over a girl. Quesnel was traded a couple of weeks later. Not that he was any good — I think he was a minus five when they dealt him — but the timing was odd.”

“So, if you played with Ritchie, your girlfriend was fair game?”

“As if that's not the reality anyway. Most of these girls know what they're getting themselves into, and what they're after. Who can blame them for wanting to get their hooks into a young stud who's gonna be pulling down a few mil a year in the very near future?”

“Puck Bunnies,” Smith said, thinking of Melissa McAdam's comment, and scribbling Quesnel's name into his notebook. “What about Tom Saunders?”

“The stepdad?” Brooks's eyes widened a bit.

“You know him, then?”

“Kinda hard not to notice him, he was a permanent fixture, a few rows up behind the bench, screaming his head off every game like a good ole bleacher creature.”

“Screaming at who?”

“The refs, the other team, his own team, the coaches … you name it. He'd lay into Curtis every once in a while, too, just to be even-handed with it, I guess.”

“That must have made him popular.”

Brooks gave a grim chuckle. “The coach couldn't stand him, and I can't blame him. I guess he was part of the package you got with Curtis.”

“Apparently, Curtis didn't think so,” Smith said, watching Brooks's reaction.

“What do you mean?”

“I understand Saunders expected to be Ritchie's agent, and wasn't too happy when Curtis cut him loose last winter.”

Brooks shrugged his shoulders. “I'm sure he got over it. You should see the house Curtis was building for him and Ellen in Peterborough.” Brooks whistled. “I'm sure that smoothed out any ruffled feathers. Besides, it's not like he wasn't gonna be taken care of, as Ellen Ritchie's boyfriend, or whatever.”

Smith thought of the remainder of the signing bonus, as well as the insurance payout that would go to Ellen Ritchie. He couldn't help thinking it seemed like small change compared to even a tiny percentage of a fifty-million-dollar contract.

“I can't say I blame Curtis, though,” Brooks continued. “He spent five years listening to Saunders in the stands, and his old man was just the same, even back in pee wee.”

“Ritchie's father, you mean?”

“Adoptive father. Yeah.”

“Right, he was adopted.”

“Bob Ritchie made Saunders look like a pussy cat by comparison. That guy was something else.”

“You knew him?”

“I went to high school with him.” Brooks patted his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “He played for Peterborough himself — he was pretty good, but he didn't have Curtis's scoring touch. He spent a couple of seasons in the Toronto farm system, but he never made the big team.”

“What did you mean by Saunders being a pussy cat compared to him?”

“He was the ultimate extreme hockey parent. He coached for a few years, but he got thrown out of so many games, for screaming at the kids or the refs, the minor hockey association gave him the boot. They had no choice, really. It got so bad, Bob's teams couldn't find a tournament he wasn't banned from.”

Smith could imagine how it had played out. The minor leaguer who never made it sees his adopted son as his chance to make things right. It was a common theme in a lot of sports, but especially hockey, where it seemed to take on a particularly ominous character.

“What did he die of?”

“Heart attack. All that screaming must have got to him.”

“And Curtis ends up with Saunders as a substitute a couple of years later. Now I know why he went out and got his own agent.”

As the waitress delivered the bills to the table, Brooks looked at his watch. “Well, is there anything else I can do for you? I've got a few things to do before I head to the rink.”

“When's the game?”

“It's a two o'clock start. Then back to Peterborough for another afternoon game tomorrow.”

“Well, I really appreciate your time. I'm glad we were able to meet — it was good luck that we ended up at the same hotel.”

“If there's anything else I can do, let me know.” Brooks handed over his card.

Smith thanked him again and watched as he lumbered off toward the lobby. He was reaching for his phone to confirm his meeting with his task force contact when the ringer went off. He didn't recognize the number, but answered the call anyway.

“It's Melissa … McAdam.”

“Oh, hi Melissa.”

“I was calling to see if you still wanted to meet with Matt Jones. I understand you're in Toronto?”

Smith assumed she had talked to Marshall already. It also occurred to him that the first game of the Raftsmen's road trip was tonight in Toronto. “Yes. I do want to talk to him.”

“Well, tonight's game would be a good opportunity. Jones made the trip but he's not in the lineup tonight. If you want to swing by the arena, I'll leave your name at the gate. He'll be there from about four on.”

“That should work. I'm not sure how my day's going to turn out, but I should be available this evening for sure. Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

He hung up the phone and checked his watch again as he headed out into the lobby. He noticed a couple with two young kids, obviously weekend tourists. The kids were playing tug of war with a teddy bear while the parents looked at a map, no doubt planning out the most efficient way to get to the CN Tower, the ROM, or wherever they were headed for a day of sightseeing. He envied their obvious happiness and smiled as the little boy won the battle for the bear and ran off across the lobby toward him, his sister in hot pursuit. He found himself instinctively checking his phone for text messages, and finding none, he set out for the taxi stand.