Thin Ice (25 page)

“I hope your neighbours are heavy sleepers,” she whispered, between pants.

“What got into you?” he said, as her forearm flopped lazily across his thigh.

“I don't know. I must have a cop fetish or something,” she said, propping herself on one arm and letting her head rest on his stomach as it rose and fell in time with his breathing. “And when you didn't answer my texts, I thought maybe you weren't here. It made me …”

“What?”

“It made me want you even more.”

Smith laughed. “Well, I'll have to remember to ignore your texts more often.”

She gave him a playful slap on the stomach. “What were you doing, anyway?”

“I was working. I was only home five minutes before this sex bomb showed up at my door.”

“Did you like the outfit ?”

“What do you think?”

“Hmmm. I think it turned you on, too.”

They lay in silence for a while, as she rested her head back on his stomach and ran her hand up and down his thigh. His eyes were getting heavy as his breathing and heart rate returned to normal and a warm numbness spread through his body. He barely heard her when she broke the silence, her voice a lazy whisper.

“You're not seeing anyone else, are you?”

“Hmmm?”

“You heard me, Smith. Or should I say Smitty. Isn't that what your partner calls you?”

“No, I'm not seeing anyone,” he muttered, his head lolling to the side as she continued to caress his leg. “You?”

“You think I'm some kind of whore?”

He looked down at her, to see if she was joking. Her expression was serious, and he was about to respond when she broke into a wide grin.

“Just kidding. Still, I wouldn't want you to think I show up at people's doors dressed like that on a regular basis.”

“You weren't dressed at all, as I remember.”

She grinned. “How's the case going, anyway?”

He let his head fall back on the pillow.

“Anything come of the Kurtisov connection?”

“I meant to ask you when I might be able to talk to Tanner O'Neill again,” he said, avoiding the question. “The team's back in a couple of days, right?”

“Don't be coy, Jack. Everyone knows Kurtisov's a gangster.”

“Come on, Melissa, you know I can't discuss the case with you.”

“All right. I'm just saying …”

They were quiet again for a moment, then Smith rolled onto his side and slid down to face her. “How come you're not dating some hotshot lawyer, or a millionaire hockey player? What are you doing with a lowly cop ?”

“I've dated enough lawyers already. As for players,” she said, lifting herself onto one arm and reaching over him for the glass of water on the side table, “I don't fuck the help.”

“You must get hit on all the time though, or are they all afraid of your dad?”

“I can look out for myself.”

He chuckled. “I believe that.”

“You don't seem afraid of my father,” she said, taking a sip of water before setting the glass back on the night table.

“You're a grown woman, Melissa. I assume you can make your own choices.” He hadn't really thought much about what Quinn McAdam would make of his relationship with his daughter, probably because he was more concerned about Marshall, or Beaudoin. He didn't exactly relish the idea of being confronted by the Raftsmen's GM, though.

“What are you thinking?”

He brushed a strand of hair from in front of her eye, then ran a finger down her cheek to the nape of her neck, over the swell of a breast and down. He stopped at the silky smooth skin on the inside of her thigh.

“Oh,” she said, as she rolled onto her back and pulled him to her.

Smith heard the sound and knew something was wrong. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock — it was too early. He reached over Melissa's sleeping form for his cellphone, then realized he had left it in the living room. There it was again — the sound of the doorbell.

Disorientation giving way to annoyance, he muttered a curse and dragged himself up from the warm cocoon of the bed, replacing the covers over Melissa's naked skin as she stirred, rolled over, and resumed her deep sleep. He slipped into his jeans and hurried out of the bedroom, throwing a T-shirt over his head as he reached the door, just in time to pre-empt another ring. The door swung open to reveal Marshall standing there, two coffee cups in his hand.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

“What the fuck, Marsh, it's seven-thirty. I thought we said nine?”

“You don't answer your phone — you give me no choice. Here,” he said, handing over a large double-double as he waited for Smith to step aside. “The hair sample's a match with Saunders's DNA.”

Smith sighed, took the coffee, and stepped aside as Marshall walked past him and settled on the couch, noting the trench coat on the floor as Smith stooped to pick it up and drape it over the back of a chair.

“Company?”

“Just a sec.” Smith held a finger to his lips as he walked down the hallway and peeked into the bedroom. Melissa hadn't moved and her breathing was still heavy as he quietly pulled the bedroom door shut and tiptoed back to the living room.

“Who's the treat of the week?”

“You know I don't kiss and tell. When did you find out about the hair?”

“I got a call half an hour ago from one of the techs at the lab — an early riser. She said we could swing by and get the report ourselves if we wanted. I figured it would be good to have when we talk to the Crown later.”

Smith nodded and sipped his coffee. “Yeah, sure.” He was thinking he would have no choice but to wake Melissa and tell her he was going. “Just give me a minute to jump in the shower.”

Five minutes later, he stood over the bed, getting dressed and toweling his hair as Melissa opened her eyes.

“You're leaving?”

“I was just going to wake you. My partner dropped by … unannounced.”

She smiled and put a finger to her lips. “I'll wait until you're gone,” she whispered.

He leaned down and kissed her, grateful that she understood the situation. “I'll catch up with you later.”

“I'll arrange something with O'Neill for you.”

“Thanks.”

He came out to the living area, where Marshall was sitting, drinking his coffee and looking at the coat.

“Ready?”

Smith was putting on his shoes when the sound of a ringtone froze him momentarily. He looked toward the coat as the sound continued — a distinctive refrain from a well-known pop song that Smith couldn't place. But he had heard it before, and as he turned toward Marshall, he knew his partner had too — in Melissa McAdam's office, when they had first met her. Any hope that Marshall might have forgotten evaporated as their eyes met.

“I think Melissa's phone is ringing,” he said, as he opened the door and waited for Smith to follow. “Better let her get it.”

They had walked down to the car in silence, and it wasn't until they pulled away from the curb and started down toward Rideau Street that Smith spoke.

“It's not what you think.”

“No?”

“It's not like she's a material part of the investigation.”

“Maybe not,” Marshall said, as he pulled up to a red light and looked across at him. “But Beaudoin'll want your head on a platter if he finds out, I can assure you of that.”

Smith sighed. “It just kind of … happened.”

“It started in Toronto?”

“We went out for dinner after I interviewed Matt Jones, then one thing led to another.”

The light turned green and they turned onto Rideau. “Of all the women in Ottawa, Smitty … I don't know.”

“Maybe I should put it on hold until after the investi —”

Marshall blew out a gust of air in exasperation. “Ya think?”

“Come on, Marsh. What's the big deal?”

“Are you fucking kidding? Obviously, you're letting your little head do the thinking, or you wouldn't be saying stuff like that. Whether you want to admit it yourself or not, it's inappropriate. You need to put it on ice,
now
.”

Smith peered out the window.

“And I wouldn't want to be you if her dad finds out.”

“It's not like she's fifteen or something. She's a grown woman,” he heard himself say for the second time that morning, and realized how it sounded. “All right, I'll shut it down, for now anyway. But I really like her.”

Marshall looked across at him deliberately.

“I mean it,” he protested.

“Then you two lovebirds can pick up where you left off. Quietly, and after we've put Saunders behind bars.”

They drove in silence as they headed up Elgin, past Marshall's favourite breakfast spot. “You wanna get something to eat?”

“I thought we were in a rush for the report?”

“It won't be ready for another hour.”

Smith shook his head. “You sneaky fucker.”

“Sorry, partner, I was just playing a hunch. What's McAdam doing slumming it with you anyway, you don't mind me asking?”

“I asked her the same thing myself.”

“And?”

“She's got a thing for cops, I guess. She's had her fill of lawyers.”

“What about jocks ?”

“I asked her that, too. She said she doesn't fuck the help.”

Marshall's eyebrows shot up, then he laughed. “She's a spirited gal, then.”

“You could say that.” Smith could still see her standing in front of him, her trench coat open wide, and feel her hot breath in his ear as they fell on the bed.

“You believe her, about not screwing around with the players?”

“Sure,” he lied.

They sat back in the booth, sipping coffee as the waitress cleared away their breakfast plates.

“I've got to get back to the gym,” Smith said, patting his stomach. “Hanging out with you is gonna kill me.”

“Nonsense. A good breakfast is the key to longevity, my friend.”

“Depends on your definition of good, and I don't think that mound of grease qualifies.”

They shared a laugh as Smith looked out the window at the brilliant fall morning. The forecast called for a high near twenty degrees but the morning air had the unmistakable crispness of fall, and the leaves were beginning to turn already. This time of year always reminded him of back to school, that mixture of excitement and anticipation over the changes ahead.

“Don't look so glum,” Marshall said, misreading his expression. “We're one meeting away from solving this thing.”

“You really think the Crown's gonna go for it?”

“Why not? Saunders had opportunity, and more importantly, motive — the house and the contract payout,” Marshall said, ticking off the elements on his fingers. “Added to that, he's got a famous temper and a past history of violence.”

Smith raised an eyebrow.

“He's got two arrests for assault,” Marshall said.

“And no convictions, but don't let me stop your roll.”

“There's circumstantial evidence up the ying-yang, and he's got an alibi we could drive a truck through….”

“I thought you were gonna use Beaudoin's Russian trawler analogy — I kind of liked that.”

Marshall laughed. “And now, we've got his hair at the crime scene.”

“We think.”

“Well, we'll know for sure pretty soon.” Marshall looked at his watch. “And now that we can rule out the Russian connection, there's really no one else.”

Smith nodded. He had received an email from Dean McGregor to say that one of Anton Kurtz's associates had been picked up in a Toronto drug bust and Kurtz's name had come up in the course of questioning — more particularly that the dealer had spent the Friday night before Curtis Ritchie's murder on a bender with Anton Kurtz. They had been at a late-night strip club until five a.m., then gone to a diner for a lazy breakfast. One of McGregor's people had followed up with the diner staff and one of the waitresses had confirmed Kurtz's presence around six on the Saturday morning. They already knew Kurtisov himself had an alibi, which essentially crossed both of them off the list of potential suspects for the Ritchie murder.

Smith nodded. “When you put it like that, it does sound pretty convincing, and he fits the general physical specs of the guy in the video.”

“So what's your problem?”

“Nothing. I just find it a little … I don't know … anticlimactic, I guess.”

“That's a big word for a cop. You and Melissa been hitting the thesaurus together?”

“Keep laughing,” he said, as they got up from the table. “But you don't know what I'm giving up for the good of the investigation.”

“She's worth the flowers, I'll give you that. But I'm sure she can wait a little while.”

Smith waved at the waitress for their bill. “I hope so.”

“Not so cocky now, is he?” Beaudoin said, as Saunders was led off to be fingerprinted and processed. The confirmation of the matching hair sample, along with everything else, was enough to convince the Crown to start the formal process of charging Saunders by laying an information. The warrant had been issued and executed in a matter of hours. “Good work, guys,” he said, hustling off to coordinate a press release.

“I'm gonna take a run home for a couple of hours. You sticking around?” Marshall asked.

Smith looked at his watch. “Yeah, I'm gonna finish up some paperwork. I'll catch up with you later.”

Smith decided to fuel up on caffeine before returning to his desk and, preferring the joe from any of the nearby coffee shops to the crap in the station, he decided to step out. His phone went off just as he stepped outside. He recognized Melissa's number and considered letting it go to voicemail. Then he remembered the night before and answered it.

“Hi, Melissa.”

“Hey, Jack. Wondering if I could buy you dinner.”

“You think I can't pick up the tab myself?” he said, guessing her response.

“Oh, you'll pay all right, but in other ways. I think you know what kind of compensation I'm after, Jack.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Listen, where are you?”

“I'm in my car, just came off the Queensway.”

“I can't do dinner, but let's have a coffee instead. Pick me up outside the convenience store at Elgin and Gladstone.”

“See you in a sec.”

A minute later, a midnight blue 5-series BMW turned onto Gladstone and pulled over. Recognizing her behind the wheel, Smith jumped in the passenger side. She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek, her hand sliding up his leg.

“Let's find somewhere quiet where we won't be disturbed,” she whispered, biting his earlobe.

“I can't. I've gotta get back.”

“Come on,” she purred, her grip on his crotch tightening. He pushed her hand away.

“I'm serious. I really can't.”

“I see what you're doing. You want me to show up at your doorstep again.”

“Look, Melissa. I wanted to talk to you about this. I think we should take it easy for a bit.”

She recoiled as though she had been slapped.

“What are you talking about?”

“It's just that while this investigation is going on, it's not really appropriate for either of us to be … involved like this.”

“That's funny, you didn't mention that last night.”

“Look, I don't like it either, but …”

“You're serious, aren't you?” She was glaring at him, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Un-fucking believable.”

“I'm just saying we should take it easy for a bit, that's all.”

“You piece of shit. I thought you were different. I thought we had something special.”

He could see the emotion in her face. “Let's just hold off until Saunders goes to trial.”

“You arrested Saunders?” Her demeanour seemed to change instantly.

Smith immediately regretted the slip. He assumed she would already have heard, somehow. “That's not important.”

“Of course it's important. It could be months before he goes to trial, couldn't it?”

“I'm not saying we have to wait until then. Maybe we could just keep a lower profile.”

“Or maybe we don't,” she said, with a coldness he hadn't anticipated. The mix of surprise, hurt, and anger she had displayed just moments ago had vanished. “Get out,” she said, looking straight ahead and smoothing the sleeve of her jacket as she put her hand on the gear shifter.

“Melissa, it doesn't have to be like this.”

She stared ahead in silence as he tried to think of something to say.

“Are you going to get out or should I call 911?” she said in a bored tone.

“You think this is what I want?” he said, reaching for the door handle. She didn't respond, just revved up the engine and rammed it into first as he stood to get out. His feet were barely on the sidewalk when she popped the clutch and the car peeled away from the curb, the door slamming shut and leaving him standing there by the side of the road as the sleek blue car roared off down Gladstone.