Thin Ice (20 page)

Smith sat opposite Marshall in the corner of their favourite pub, listening as he described his interview with Tanner O'Neill's girlfriend, particularly the low-cut top she had chosen for the occasion, and the surgical enhancements it revealed.

“And what about Dunne?”

“Like I said, the biggest surprise was what he had to say about Hearst. The stuff about Ritchie referring to some kind of storm brewing was interesting, too, but I'm not really sure what to make of that. How about your Russian?”

“You mean Kurtisov?”

“No, the other guy. What was his name?”

“
Kurtz,
”
Smith said. “Anton Kurtz.
McGregor said he's going to track him down for a chat, but he doesn't expect a confession, if you know what I mean.”

Marshall crossed his arms and frowned. “All this is interesting stuff, but I'm not sure where it leaves us.”

Smith noticed an incoming text and resisted the urge to check it, tucking the phone into his pocket instead. “You think we should focus on Saunders?”

“Unless we get something concrete on this Kurtz guy, or Kurtisov, yeah.”

“All right, let's put him under the microscope and see what we find,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“Keeping you up?”

“Long day.”

“Did you track down one of your Newfie buddies last night and hit the bars?”

“Naw. I didn't do much,” he lied. He knew Marshall would rib him mercilessly if he found out he had slept with Melissa McAdam. Smith had debated the ethics of it as well, but he decided he had done nothing seriously wrong. She wasn't material to the investigation — other than arranging meetings with the players and giving them details of Ritchie's contract, which they could have gotten from Ritchie's agent, as well. He figured he was guilty of minor indiscretion, at worst. Certainly not a hanging offence.

“What do you say we spend an hour or so going over what we've got on Saunders.”

“What time's he coming in tomorrow?”

“Ten-thirty.”

“Sounds good,” Smith said, as they finished their beers and got up to leave. He put some money on the table. “My round.”

“If you insist.” Marshall led the way out, as Smith peeked at his texts and saw one from Melissa. He knew she had come back on an earlier flight, rather than follow the team to the next game. “Gotta go to Chicago tomorrow for a couple of days. Hoping we could pick up where we left off.” He looked at his watch, then texted her back: “C u around 11.”

“What are you smirking about?” Marshall said, holding the door open for him as he hit send.

“Nothing.” Smith looked up, thinking it was going to be hard to concentrate for the next hour.

“And watch where you're going, will you? You people drive me crazy, wandering around staring at your little screens.”

“Okay, gramps.”

Smith watched as McAdam got up from the bed and strode across the bedroom floor, apparently unconcerned by her nudity. She had no reason to be, Smith reflected, as her graceful form disappeared through the door. He heard the clinking of glass in the fridge and she returned a few seconds later, a disappointed look on her face as she slid back onto the bed next to him.

“I think a trip to the grocery store is in order,” she said, running a hand down his chest.

“What were you looking for?”

“Something to drink, actually. What kind of bachelor are you — you don't have a beer lying around in the back of the fridge?”

He laughed and looked at the clock radio on his night table. “There's a pub around the corner that's still open. I'll buy you a drink.”

“You're on,” she said. “But I'm not done with you yet, she added, as they stood to get dressed.

“It's just a refreshment break,” he said, as he slid on his jeans and a shirt and waited for her to finish dressing. Her hair was mussed, but with a couple of strokes of her fingers she was ready to go.
Low maintenance
, he thought.

They arrived at the pub with half an hour to go before last call and as they turned from the bar, drinks in hand, Smith barely avoided a collision with a passing patron.

“Jack?”

He looked up from the sloshing liquid to find himself face to face with Lisa White and a man he didn't recognize.

“Oh, hi,” he said, as she looked from him to McAdam and back.

“I guess I shouldn't be surprised to see you in this neck of the woods.” She looked at McAdam again and Smith could see there was no avoiding an introduction.

“This is an old friend,” he said, pointing to White as McAdam looked on.
“Lisa, meet Melissa.”

The two women shook hands, their bright smiles concealing a cold mutual appraisal. Smith was wondering whether it was obvious that they had crawled out of bed to come here. Lisa didn't miss much.

“Melissa McAdam. Nice to meet you.”

The other guy looked on with interest. If he was annoyed that his date seemed oblivious to his existence, he wasn't saying anything, but Smith found Lisa's demeanour curious.

“Oh, this is Brad,” she finally said, seeming embarrassed at having forgotten him completely. The two men exchanged wary nods as Melissa gestured to a nearby table.

“You're welcome to join us if you like,” she said, and Smith detected a distinctively mischievous undertone in her invitation.

“We were just leaving,” Lisa replied, a little too quickly. “Enjoy your evening.” Her smile had faded by the time she turned to leave.

“Old flame?” Melissa asked, as they sat at the table.

“That obvious?”

“That she's still into you? Yeah.” Melissa tapped her glass off his and they drank. “Didn't you see how she ignored the guy she was with? Poor Brad. What's the story, Jack? Did you break her heart?”

“We dated a few years back. It's ancient history,” he said, finding Melissa's assessment ironic. Oddly though, he had no desire to follow Lisa out the door. For once, he was quite content to stay exactly where he was.

Smith was sitting at his desk, reviewing his notes from the last interview with Tom Saunders, when Marshall appeared behind him.

“I think we might have caught a break. You remember we were waiting to hear back from that security guard at Ritchie's condo building?”

“Not really…. I thought someone had talked to the building security guards.”

“Most of them, yeah. But one of them went on holiday the night before Ritchie was murdered. Apparently we tracked him down and, get this, he says he saw Saunders on Friday night, just before he knocked off work.”

Smith flipped through his notebook and reread his notes. “Didn't Saunders tell us he hadn't been in contact with Ritchie since Wednesday?”

“Yup. And you remember he told us Curtis was scheduled to do a promotional photo shoot the week after he was killed?”

“Yeah, I talked to the receptionist at the studio. She confirmed the appointment for the Thursday.”

“I just got off the phone with the photographer.
He
says Saunders called Friday afternoon to say that the shoot was cancelled. He also said Saunders sounded pissed off.”

“You thinking what I'm thinking?”

“That we might have found our trigger — the spark that lit the fuse.”

“Solves the timing problem, doesn't it?” Smith was nodding.

“He's pissed off in March, but he gets over it, figuring he'll cash in on Ritchie another way — as a front man for this clothing line. Except maybe Ritchie had other ideas about that as well.”

“What was the name of this stuff again?” Smith turned to his computer.

“The clothing line? Coolwear, Cool ice …”

“Coolite, that's it,” Smith said, typing the name in and waiting as the search results popped up onscreen. He scrolled through the results and clicked on a link. He recognized the site from the brief search he had done a few days ago to confirm the existence of the business. Viewing it the second time, it occurred to him that the site looked homemade, and the clothing itself looked pretty cheesy, despite the claims about the fabric being lightweight and having space-age, moisture-wicking characteristics.

“I don't blame Ritchie for not wanting to front this crap,” Marshall said, looking over his partner's shoulder. “I think we really might be onto something. And Saunders has certainly got some explaining to do.”

“He'll be here in half an hour. We'll ask him then.”

Tom Saunders had appeared irritated the first time he had come in for an interview. He looked decidedly pissed off by the time Smith and Marshall entered the small interview room, where they had let him stew for twenty minutes while they discussed the approach they would take to the questioning.

“About time,” he said, apparently unconcerned with concealing his distaste.

“You in a hurry to get somewhere?” Marshall's smile was overdone, but Saunders didn't get the sarcasm.

“Now that you mention it …”

“Well, let's both try not to waste any more of each other's time, how about that?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Relax, Tom. We just want to ask you some questions, but before we do, I want to caution you again.” Marshall glanced toward the camera on the wall.

“I know, this interview is being recorded, and all that,” Saunders said, the irritation obvious in his voice. “I know my rights, okay?”

“I forgot, you were a paralegal,” Marshall said. “But we have to go through the motions anyway, as I'm sure you understand.”

Saunders frowned as Marshall cautioned him formally.

“Let's get on with it,” he said, as Marshall finished reading.

“Do you know anyone who lives at the Residences, on Sussex?”

“That's Curtis's building.”

“Apart from Curtis, that is.”

Saunders shook his head.

“And when was it, again, that you last saw Curtis?” Marshall tapped a finger on his top lip.

“I told you … Wednesday.”

“Well, that's really strange, because one of the security guards at the Residences says you were there on Friday night.”

Saunders looked back and forth between Smith and Marshall. “He must be mistaken.”

“No.” Marshall shook his head. “He seemed pretty sure. We asked twice, believe me. We asked twice because we know you told us the last time you saw Curtis was Wednesday, not Friday. Do you want to tell us what you were doing at Curtis's building on Friday?”

Saunders looked down at his hands, then sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I went to see him, but he wasn't there. It's not like I lied to you or anything.”

“But you didn't exactly tell us the truth, did you?”

“You asked when I saw him last, and I told you.”

“All right, fair enough. Why'd you go to see him on Friday?”

“I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I'd see if he wanted to grab a bite, that's all. He was out.”