Thin Ice (22 page)

“Why didn't you tell us this last time?”

“Come on, guys, you can understand why. Besides, I didn't think it made any difference.”

“What did you say to him, about Mandy?”

“I told him … I don't know … stay the fuck away or something like that, I guess.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“Probably. Wouldn't you?”

“So it's fair to say you were more concerned about Mandy than Tammy Crawford?”

“I was more pissed off at him disrespecting Mandy, and me, yes. But I was more concerned that things might escalate with Tammy, if you know what I mean?”

Smith hadn't met Tammy, but from what Marshall, and even O'Neill himself had told him, Hearst's comment made sense. Also, although he had only met Mandy Hearst for about thirty seconds, he already had difficulty thinking she was the type to jump into bed with some eighteen-year-old flavour of the month. From what he had read about Dennis and Mandy Hearst, apart from their numerous Ottawa charities, they kept a very low profile. They had three kids and seemed the perfect couple. She had come from money herself, and Hearst had done pretty well over the years.

“Curtis was pretty reckless, then, wasn't he?” Smith said, as Hearst adjusted his foot again.

“He was young and stupid. He needed some direction, that's all. We would have given it to him.”

“But he seemed to have an almost destructive streak, when it came to women, in particular, wouldn't you say ?”

Hearst gave a grim smile. “He made some bad choices, yeah.”

“Like what, Dennis?” Smith leaned forward.

“I think you know.”

“Like the waitress in Peterborough?”

Hearst grinned. “There were probably a few like her. No, I'm talking about really ill-advised stuff, like fishing off the company wharf.”

Smith looked to Marshall, and it was clear neither knew what he was talking about. Hearst sighed.

“Come on, Detective Smith. I warned you about her the other night, in Toronto.”

Marshall looked on, perplexed, as Smith tried to maintain his composure despite a shock that hit him like a punch in the gut. “You mean Melissa McAdam?”

“I'm pretty sure, yeah.”

“How so?”

“You can usually tell, can't you? I mean, you're the detectives.”

“So you think Curtis was sleeping with Melissa McAdam?” Marshall asked, as Smith's mind swam in murky waters.

“I got the sense it was over, like maybe they had a fling over the summer. They would have met shortly after the draft, and over the contract. Listen, I'm telling you this because you already think I held out on you, but I don't want this getting back to Quinn, okay?”

“He didn't know?”

Hearst shook his head and let out a loud whistle. “Fuck, no.”

“Why are you so sure?”

Hearst was about to say something, then seemed to reconsider. He looked at his hands, then back at Marshall. “You just know, that's all.”

Marshall pulled into the lot at the station and put the car in park.

“Drink?”

Smith looked at his watch. “Sure, a quick one.”

“You got a hot date?”

“Maybe.” Smith grinned, concealing the discomfort he felt inside. He was still shocked by Hearst's revelation, even if he was unconvinced of its truth. They crossed the street and walked to a bar and grill just down the street from the Elgin Street station.

“So, what did you think?” Marshall said, after they had taken a seat at the bar and ordered a couple of beers.

Smith shook his head. “I can't see Hearst being our guy.”

“Me neither. We should follow it through, though. He did have a run-in with Ritchie a few days before the murder, and he acknowledged knowing Ritchie's running route before.”

“Agreed. We're probably not going to be able to cross him off our list altogether. It's tough for anyone to have an iron-clad alibi for six-thirty on a Saturday morning.” They had spoken to Mandy Hearst before they left, and she had confirmed her husband's location on the morning in question: at home until nine-thirty, when he had left for the rink.

“She really is something else, isn't she?” Marshall whistled.

“She's beautiful, all right, and it isn't difficult to believe that he'd rather be lying in bed with her than out jogging at the crack of dawn.”

“What'd you make of what he said about McAdam's daughter?”

“I suppose he's got no reason to lie,” Smith said, sipping his beer.

Marshall nodded, took a sip of his own beer, and looked back at his partner. “No. I'm just wondering whether Quinn knew. I'm not sure he would have been all that happy.”

“Except, out of everyone, he probably has the most to lose from Ritchie's death. His team's got a gaping hole and the trades he made to get the future of the team now look like shit. Did you see the sports page this morning?”

Marshall shook his head.

“I guess the period of mourning is over,” Smith said. “Now they're calling for McAdam's head on a block. The odds are about ten to one against him making it to Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, I certainly wouldn't want to be in his shoes.” Marshall picked at the label on his bottle. “I didn't know the daughter was in Toronto. I thought she said she wasn't making the trip.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought, too.” Smith was debating how much of his evening with her he was going to disclose when his phone went off. He had a brief conversation and then closed the phone.

“News?” Marshall looked on.

“That was Dean McGregor. Turns out Anton Kurtz smokes Marlboros like a chimney.

“I guess we'd better talk to forensics in the morning about that cigarette butt, then.”

Smith nodded, taking a long pull of his beer. “We've got Ellen Ritchie at ten, right?”

“Uh-huh. By the way, she confirmed that she's lawyered up for the interview.”

“Which means Saunders has told her we're looking at him. Should be an interesting meeting.” Smith looked at his watch. “I'm bagged.”

“Me too. You want me to drop you off?”

“Sure.”

They chatted on the ride over to Smith's apartment, and Marshall was his jovial self, but they were both aware of a silent wedge between them. Smith knew he was going to have to tell him about Melissa sooner or later. But he needed to find out a few things for himself first.

“Here, try this,” she said, handing him a glass of red wine as he sat on her sofa. Melissa had answered her door in a red silk kimono, and by the way it moved it was clear she had nothing on underneath. She curled up on the couch next to him and adjusted the silky fabric over her knees. “It's from a wine-tasting tour I went on this summer, up in Niagara. It won some awards, I think.”

“It's great,” he said, after taking a sip. He wasn't much of a connoisseur, but he could tell it was better than the house red he was used to, on the rare occasions he drank wine. “So why are you back, anyway? I thought you'd be on the road for a few days.”

“I missed you,” she said, running a hand over his chest as she pressed herself against him, the soft flesh of her breast against his arm. “That,” she added, sitting back to take a sip of wine, “combined with Dad wanting me to do some research back here.”

“Research?”

“Contractual ramifications of possible trades — I'm afraid I'd have to kill you if I told you,” she said, with a mischievous grin.

“I guess it's all pretty sensitive information. You must have to be really careful about potential leaks.”

“That's why you won't get anything out of me, Jack, no matter what you do to me.” She slid her thigh over his, the silk slipping over the wool of his pants. Smith tried to maintain his focus.

“Speaking of sensitive information,” he said. “Your dad told me about Kurtisov — about him leaving that coffin in Curtis's hotel room.”

“Pretty creepy, huh?”

“You knew, then.”

“I knew there was RHL interest in Curtis, but I didn't know about specific talks,” she said, sipping her wine. “Dad didn't mention the coffin incident, or the fact that Kurtisov had threatened him as well, until the other day.”

Smith nodded and took a sip of the full-bodied wine.

“I'm sure he didn't want to worry me,” she continued. “Or, God forbid, get me involved in any way with those Russian gangsters. I'm sure you've heard all about what they do to their own players when they try to leave to play over here.”

“You mean threatening their family members back home?”

“I think they do more than just threaten, and from what I've heard of this Kurtisov character, he's one of the worst. But I'm sure you know that already.”

Smith felt suddenly dizzy, whether from the heavy red wine or fatigue he didn't know, but he leaned forward to set the glass on the table. He should really go home and get a good sleep before tomorrow's interview with Ellen Ritchie. But when he turned back toward Melissa, she had undone the belt of her kimono and was reaching for him.

“That's enough talk for now,” she said, crushing her lips against his as they fell back onto the sofa.

Smith stood over the kitchen sink, drinking the cold water in the grey-blue light of Melissa's ultra-modern kitchen. The blue light of the range clock read three-fifteen. He should have left earlier, he knew, as he downed the rest of the water. Now, he would have to wake her so she could lock up after him. He tiptoed back to the bedroom and peeked around the door to find her sleeping soundly, unmoved from when he had gotten up. The soft light from the doorway fell across the foot of the bed, while her bare shoulders, layered with wisps of her blonde hair, were visible in the half-light of the room. He stood watching her sleep for a moment, envying her slumber as he headed back out into the hallway in search of food.

He was on his way back to the kitchen when he passed by a small room that had been set up as an office. He went in and sat at the desk. The motion triggered the blue light of her screen saver — a background of azure water around a school of vibrantly coloured fish. To the left was a bookshelf that held various legal texts, dictionaries, and a few fiction titles. On the desk, to the left of the monitor, was an unruly pile of paper. He slid open a desk drawer to reveal an assortment of pens, paperclips, and Post-it Notes of all different shapes, sizes, and colours. Sliding it back in silently, he opened the deeper, lower drawer and saw a series of colour-coordinated folders in a hanging file system. He pulled one out and read the label: 2012 Contracts — General. He dropped it back and plucked the next one: HR Matters. He looked over his shoulder and paused, waiting for any sign that Melissa was awake, but there was utter silence. He shouldn't even be here, he thought, let alone rifling through her work files. He wondered what Marshall would think if he knew where Smith was now, or what he was doing. Beaudoin would have a shit-fit, he knew for a fact. He turned back around and was about to slide the lower drawer shut when another label caught his eye: Ritchie — Misc.

He plucked the folder out and set it on the desktop. The first document was a copy of Ritchie's contract with the Raftsmen, which Smith had already seen. Next was a series of letters between James Cormier and Ritchie's agent, Dan Avery, and a law firm in Toronto that Smith recognized from reviewing Avery's file. The other papers were an assortment of articles on Ritchie from the major hockey publications, about the draft and his signing with Ottawa. Smith recognized Steve Hunter's one-by-one black and white photo from the sports page of the Ottawa paper, and even remembered reading parts of the article, which had been written in early August and predicted a banner year for the Raftsmen as a result of their new acquisition. He flipped through some notes and stopped at a sheet of yellow paper with a date in the top right-hand corner of the page: August 25, 2012. Ritchie's name was written in the middle of the page and was circled, with a line connecting the circle to two more, above and to the left that contained two more names — Bob Ritchie and Joan Ritchie. Smith puzzled at the name in the fourth circle, above that of Ritchie's adoptive parents, unable to make it out clearly. The surname looked like Riggs, but the first was scribbled to the point of being illegible. He guessed at Michelle. The only other writing on the page was set apart, further down, just inside the left margin, it appeared to read “Speelay.”

Smith started at the sound of the bed creaking in the next room and he quickly slid the papers back into the file, put it back in the hanging folder, and slid the drawer shut quietly. He got up, adjusted the swivel chair back to the way he had found it, and padded back to the bedroom. Melissa was still asleep, having turned over onto her back. Her hair obscured the left side of her face and one arm was curled up above her head. He slid under the covers next to her as she rolled over and draped her free arm over his chest, her soft breathing sounding in his ear as he tried to go back to sleep.

“You almost ready? They're here,” Marshall said, as Smith drank the last of his coffee.

“Be there in a sec,” he said, sliding the printout into a file folder before Marshall could spot it. He had been staring at Ritchie's cellphone records from late July and early August, and noticed a cluster of calls from the same number. He had gotten the confirmation five minutes earlier that the number belonged to a phone registered to Melissa McAdam — a different number than the one she was currently using. The coffee swirled in his stomach and caused a gurgle as he gathered his notes for Ellen Ritchie's interview. There would have been all sorts of reasons for Melissa and Ritchie to be in regular phone contact in the days and weeks following his signing. Melissa's job, after all, was to look after legal issues for the front office, including contracts. He assured himself of this as he made his way to the interview room, unconvinced that it really explained the late-night, even early-morning calls, or why she had later changed her cell number. Suddenly, despite Melissa's apparent aversion to the concept of puck bunnies, he had no choice but to consider Hearst's allegation of something more than just business between her and Ritchie.

Beaudoin was standing next to Marshall outside the interview room.

“Just thought I'd let you know,” Beaudoin whispered. “She's already planning to sue.” He grunted as he gestured through the open door to where Ellen Ritchie sat, accompanied by a grey-haired man in a charcoal grey suit.

“Who's the mouthpiece?” Marshall asked.

“Don't recognize him.” Beaudoin shook his head. “Must be from out of town.”

“So, are you saying take it easy on her?”

“Fuck, no. You ask what you gotta ask. Just be aware of the consequences,” he said, before loosening his tie and heading back to his office.

“Well, that was helpful,” Smith remarked, as Marshall started toward the door.

Ellen Ritchie's expression was a mix of annoyance and contempt. Her lawyer stood to greet them, then laid out the ground rules for the interview, after which they all took their seats and Marshall got started.

“Perhaps we could talk about Mr. Saunders' business dealings with Curtis, Ms. Ritchie.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “That was between him and Curtis, for the most part.”

“You were aware of Mister. … can I refer to him as Tom?”

She nodded.

“You were aware of Tom's line of clothing? I believe it was … it
is
… called Coolite ?”

“Yes. Tom's very excited about it.”

“Must be a tough market to get your foot in the door,” Marshall said. “I've got a kid in minor hockey, and every year the team orders hats and coats and warm-up suits, and there seems to be a different supplier every year.”

“No different than any other business, I suppose,” Ritchie said. “It all boils down to the quality of the product.”

“And you think Tom's got a winner?” Smith was amazed that Marshall could deliver the line with a straight face. They had both seen Saunders' bush-league website, and the clothing hadn't looked much better. Fifty bucks for a grey hoodie with a cheesy logo, when you could get a brand name one on sale at the mall for half the price.

“He worked really hard to find the right supplier, I know that much. He was even on the phone to China at one point a couple of weeks ago. He's been going on about price points and distribution lines and all that.”

Marshall nodded. “Sounds like he was really into the idea. He must have invested some money into it as well. I'm thinking calls to China can't be cheap.”

Ritchie's gaze was stone cold in response to Marshall's jovial smile. “Not really. A couple of thousand in seed money, he made a couple of trips to trade shows in Toronto over the summer.”

“Did Curtis go on any of these trips?”

She shook her head. “God no, he seemed to be so busy over the summer.”

“Did Curtis ever talk to you about Coolite?”

“Like I said, that was mostly between the two of them, but he did seem supportive.”

“How so? You mentioned he didn't go along to any of the trade shows. We know from Curtis's agent and business manager that they didn't have anything in writing. Did he actually tell you he liked the product, or was it just your sense?”

Ellen Ritchie crossed her arms, glanced off to the side, and then looked at Marshall, letting out a small sigh. “Curtis was over for dinner once, and Tom was showing him the material he had chosen for the warm-up suits. He seemed interested.”

Smith pretended to take some notes in the silence that followed her account of Curtis Ritchie's less-than-enthusiastic response to Saunders' efforts.

“All right. Let's go back a bit,” Marshall said, changing tack. “You and Tom have been together for how many years now?”

“About five.”

“So Curtis was in his early teens when Tom came onto the scene.”

“Yeah.”

“And I understand he was quite involved in Curtis's hockey — driving him to practices and games, I mean.”

Ritchie laughed. “I sure as hell wasn't getting up at six a.m. on a Sunday morning to stand in a freezing rink.”

“What about road trips and such? There must have been a lot of them, at Curtis's level.”

“He was on the ice every day, and there was an out-of-town tournament at least every second weekend. Then there was spring hockey, and summer hockey camp. It was year-round, basically.”